Disclaimer: Do not own Marvel or The 100
Warnings for talk of sexual assault, child abandonment and PTSD
Thieves in the night
Clarke had been in the sex working business for a few years now.
Even so? She would prefer not to have to serve the "Kingpin" of crime.
Still, it was good money, so, she'd be out of her mind to complain.
Which was why she did as all sex workers did, and followed out the fantasy that was requested of her.
That fantasy being, her crawling across the Kingpin's desk, closer to him, almost entirely naked, her lower region very much bare.
And as she pulled herself across the desk, getting closer to Kingpin, she could see his eyes traveling down the length of her body, to her cunt.
That was when he moved his right hand up and pushed it between her legs.
Clarke gasped, eyes closing and hands gripping the edge of the desk, as Wilson Fisk's fingers entered her.
Clarke Griffin had been a sex worker for up to four years now.
She had begun at the age of nineteen. She was twenty-three now.
She liked to think that she was an efficient and desirable worker.
She did what she needed to do. She found something exciting about being able to control peoples' desires.
So, she threw herself into her work, happy to let people fuck her, as long as they shelled out a lot from their fat wallets.
The Kingpin, Wilson Fisk, scared her. Fisk showed a façade of civility, which Clarke strongly suspected concealed a sea of savage anger, waiting to be unleashed.
But you weren't supposed to judge a client.
And the Kingpin paid very well.
As Fisk pulled her closer, hooking his fingers inside her cunt, Clarke whimpered and clenched her eyes closed shut more tightly.
She saw fireworks in her eyes as Fisk's thumb rubbed her clit and she gasped as she heard Fisk say, "Next time, I'm going to bring Vanessa here, watch her take you with a strap, until you can't walk."
Clarke screamed as she came around his fingers.
Clarke was glad she kept her shirt on. She preferred to keep her shirt on at all times. If a client requested she be naked, then of course, she accommodated that client.
But she preferred keeping her shirt on when having sex.
Because she didn't want anyone seeing any of her soulmate marks.
Better no one know just how many she had or what their names were.
Fisk fucked Clarke with his fingers a second time, then he pulled her on his lap, unzipped himself, put a condom on and had her ride him.
Clarke groaned clenching around Fisk easily and Fisk came into the condom.
When Fisk finished, he placed two stacks of dollar bills, all the dollar bills being hundreds. Fisk always paid her in cash, and always gave her up to five thousand bills.
A way of most likely displaying just how rich he was to any sex worker he employed, most likely.
Clarke knew what she was supposed to do. As soon as Fisk left the room, Clarke pulled herself off of the desk, got dressed, grabbed the money, stuffed it into her bag and carried everything out.
She tried not to think too much about what Fisk had said. About his wife, Vanessa.
She tried not to think about Vanessa coming here. Fisk scared her enough as it was. She didn't need his wife scaring the crap out of her too.
Still, Clarke put it into the back of her mind and carried her well-earned money out of the building.
A few days later, she received an email, requesting her presence at a ball themed party. And that she was to wear an elegant but skimpy black, slim gown and a black feathered mask.
And at the amount of money offered to her? She of course, couldn't not do as the email instructed of her.
She arrived with the getup which was demanded of her, on the date of the ball themed party.
She had asked her coworkers if they had been given the same email. They hadn't. Whoever had sent that email? They asked for Clarke's presence, specifically.
Clarke tried not to feel too unsettled at that piece of information. It was true that all of the sex workers names more or less were known if you inquired enough with the owners of the club where Clarke worked at.
Still, her being the one that they requested? She wasn't going to lie and pretend that she hadn't become suspicious.
Still, the money that was offered? She couldn't resist going to that party.
She arrived close to the beginning, around nearly ten o'clock at night, but everyone had begun dancing and people were eating at various tables.
Clarke entered the more or less mediocre appearing building, at least mediocre on the outside, and when she entered, she was met with a most elaborately designed interior.
Several sets of thin, white marble stone columns were all over the place in various corridors, there were scarlet tablecloth wreathed tables with silver platters from one end to the next on the tables, those platters each filled with rich looking foods of all sorts.
Large silver, metal and large blue porcelain vases were decked out along pedestals jutting out from the walls, each of those vases stuffed with bright red, orange and yellow tropical looking flowers.
There were naturally, large chandeliers dangling from the ceiling, and not just one, but multiple, all around the room, all of the bulbs on those chandeliers, lit brightly.
There was a staircase that led up to the next floor, and of course, it had a long, lush, dark blue carpet all along the steps.
The walls were covered in old appearing paintings with figures in the paintings that could only be called "stately."
Clearly, this place had been designed specifically to scream, "14th, 15th or 16th century."
Clarke entered the room, and was startled when a very stereotypical appearing butler stopped her, his short, gray hair giving him a dignified look, even without the bushy, gray mustache and the elaborate, tailed black coat.
"Do you have a reservation, young lady?" The man asked.
Clarke glimpsed at the thin, rectangular, bronze colored name tag on the man's breast pocket. It said, "Jarvis."
Clark looked back at him, wondering how he perceived her. A woman with pale blonde hair tied into a high ponytail and wearing a black feathered mask.
Then again, if she was supposed to be here?
Going off of that assumption, Clarke said her name. Clarke Griffin. And waited.
Hearing her name, Jarvis's eyes widened and he backed away, nodding to her. "Ah," he said, "Welcome to the party then, Ms. Griffin. I hope you enjoy your time here."
Clarke tried not to look too much into that sentence, or into him recognizing her name.
Clearly, someone wanted her here.
She nodded to him, thanked him quietly, and went deeper into the building, beginning to wander around, curious who it was that was expecting her.
The email had also mentioned that there was more than one client, though the email hadn't informed her of just how many clients there were.
That was fine. As long as Clarke got paid. She didn't give a damn how many sordid fantasies she would need to play out.
There was some commotion on the upper level, so she began to ascend up the stairs in the direction of the noise she heard.
She found several young men and women alike, at tables, drinking from delicate looking wine glasses.
There were several opened bottles of red wine and of white wine.
Clarke trailed along the long table where those wine glasses and wine bottles were.
As soon as she walked to the end of that table, she stiffened, feeling several sets of eyes on her body.
She slowly turned and searched the room.
She saw no one looking directly at her. A few people glanced at her, but no one staring.
She frowned, unable to help but feel unnerved.
Was she just being paranoid? Or was there someone actually looking at her?
Still, as the band playing-yes, there was an actual classical band playing; violins, violas and flutes, people began to go to the floor, twirling around each other and waltzing about very much in the same stereotypical fashion as you'd expect of ballroom dancing, Clarke, when she saw no one approaching her, shrugged and joined the people on the dance floor, clutching her purse as she did.
A group of well-dressed guests or not, you didn't want to see if someone might take the belongings you had in your possession.
As Clarke danced, that watched feeling she was getting, increased.
Then a hand reached out and took her left hand, and twirled her around, till she came to a stop, her back hitting someone's chest and she felt breasts press up against her back, as a voice whispered seductively into her ear, "Upstairs, furthest to the right, malen'kiy," Clarke shivered at the word that was just spoken. She had no idea what that word meant, but she had a feeling it was some sort of endearment.
The woman's voice continued, "There's a painting of a blue vase with azaleas in it. Go there, and we'll have our fun. In return, you'll get your money, devushka."
There was movement, and Clarke saw a flash of a wolf mask, and a flash of red hair and then the woman was gone in a throng of people.
Clarke gasped, moving out of that mass of people and looking around, but she saw no sign of that woman.
Nor a sign of anyone else who was looking at her.
Still, she had a tip.
The furthest right side of the next floor up, with a painting near the door that had a blue vase with azaleas in that vase.
Against her better judgment? Clarke began to walk to the stairs and ascended up them.
Clarke cautiously held her thin, black purse closer, which not only contained condoms and a packet of birth control pills and a container of lube, but also her wallet, keys, cell phone, her cell phone charger, a can of pepper spray and a taser.
She was a sex worker. But she wasn't stupid.
She made a right and made her way to the end of the hall, where she saw a painting that had a large blue vase in it, a blue vase that was stuffed full of brightly colored azaleas.
Clarke's eyes widened. It seemed that she had found the location.
And there was a door right there, next to the painting.
Clarke sucked in a breath, held her small purse close and walked forward, to the door, and tried the gold-colored handle.
It wasn't locked.
She went into the room.
The lights in the room all appeared to be on, thankfully.
Clarke searched the room.
Even with the limited eyesight Clarke was allowed with the eyeholes in the mask? Clarke could tell that there was no one else in the large room before her.
Was she supposed to wait here till her clients arrived?
The large room consisted of a black and gold carpet on the floor, two large, dark brown leatherbound sofa chairs, a long, black, fabric sofa up against the wall opposite of the entrance to the room, a few bookshelves that were almost empty, and a rather sizable, comfortable looking bed, with black blankets and sheets all over it. Clarke noted the headboard and bedposts.
She suspected that someone was to be tied to that bed at some point.
However, that would require more than just one person in this room. And she was seeing no one else present.
Was this perhaps a joke?
Someone pulling her leg to see if she'd get all dressed up just to arrive at a party where there was no client and what was more, no money awaiting her?
Clarke decided not to assume it was some joke pulled by some asshole, just yet. For now, she'd sit down and wait.
She went to one of the closer leatherbound sofa chairs and sat down onto it, waiting for whoever was supposed to show up-if anyone.
She decided to wait for about an hour at the most.
She had drank a lot of water and eaten a couple of small things before arriving here. So, she was not going to pass out any time soon.
So, she stayed alert, and would wait an hour, at the most.
She looked to the bookshelves and inspected the titles along the spines of the few tomes available.
She smiled, recognizing one of her favorite books, which her father had read to her a great deal before he had died in a car crash when she'd been eight.
The book was Jules Verne's "Journey to the center of the earth."
She got up and went over to it almost instantly, reaching out and taking it off of the shelf and putting it onto her lap as she sat back down, beginning to read it happily.
She absentmindedly took her mask off to be able to read more easily.
As she read, she almost forgot where she was.
But she far from had to wait for an hour.
Only five minutes into reading the book, she heard the door before her beginning to open up again.
Clarke closed the book up fast, getting up to put it away, struggling to put her mask back on.
She jammed her mask on, and stumbled to get the book back onto the shelf, and so, when the door opened up, her back was to the person or people entering the room.
When she put the book back onto the shelf, a male voice said to her, sounding amused, "The books giving you trouble, beautiful?"
Clarke stiffened. It sounded like an older man.
She was about to turn around when another voice said, voice sounding as commanding as steel, a woman's voice, "Don't turn around. Keep facing the bookshelf."
Clarke dropped her hand from the bookshelf, but did as the woman instructed, and faced the bookshelf only.
"What were you reading, Clarke?" Another man asked and he sounded younger than the first man that had talked.
"Um," Clarke started, swallowing, "Journey to the center of the earth. By Jules Verne."
"I see," the same man said, "Have you read it before?"
"Yes," Clarke said, finding this conversation strange, "Many times. It's my favorite book."
"That's good to know," another man said, and like the first man, he sounded older.
Another woman said, and Clarke detected a heavy accent, which Clarke had no idea of the origin of, "Why that one, might we ask?"
Clarke hesitated. She didn't want clients to know anything too personal about her life. Certainly not about her father.
So, she lied. She said, "It just always intrigued me when I was young. I know it's fanciful, but the idea of dinosaurs still existing somewhere, I just thought was an amazing idea."
"We see," another woman said, her voice sounding cynical, "A dreamer. Sorry, but we didn't expect that in a woman of your…profession."
Clarke snorted, not surprised by that comment.
"No, I guess you wouldn't have," Clarke said, "But we sex workers can read, just like anyone else."
She wondered if she was coming off rude, but to her surprise, another woman spoke up, and her voice sounded soft, "We're sorry, Clarke. We're not trying to offend you. We're just curious."
Clarke wasn't sure what there was to be curious about. Sex was sex. Why ask about what books she was interested in, unless this was some sort of odd foreplay?
Another man said, "Do you know why we asked you to be here?"
"I presume," Clarke said dryly, "You asked me to be here, for the same reason all sex workers are asked to be at a certain place of a client's requesting."
Another woman chortled, and Clarke recognized the voice of the red haired woman with the wolf mask, "That's a smart assumption. But we'd like to ask another question before we start anything. Have you eaten anything yet? Or drank any water?"
Clarke nodded, "Some before I got here," she said.
"Alright then," the first man that had spoken said, "We're bringing in some food and water."
Clarke almost turned around, startled, but remembered her instructions, so remained, facing the bookshelf that she'd been facing for a while now.
She heard someone walk into the room, the footsteps barely concealed by the thick carpeting under the feet of the person walking in.
Clarke heard the clinking of porcelain plates and some glasses rattling together.
She then heard something being set down and knew that there must have been a tray or something full of food and glasses of water brought in and put down.
"Here is some water and food for you, baby girl," the first man that had talked said, and moved out of the room.
Clarke half thought of making a joke about them accommodating her like this, but decided against it.
She went over to the small table where the tray was, not facing any of her new clients and sat down on the other sofa chair, and grabbed the cup of water, supposing that there would be no reason for them to drug her, since she was already going to be sleeping with them, and drank the water.
She then reached down for some of the food, finding a few slices of bread, some grapes and some raspberries. She ate those, then ate some of the small pastries filled with cashews.
She was startled to find how hungry she'd actually been.
After eating almost everything that had been on the tray, Clarke took a breath and gulped down some water and said quietly, "Thank you."
It occurred to her with an eerie realization, that her new clients had just stood there in the doorway, watching her eat. She could still feel their presence, even if she hadn't looked at them yet.
"You are welcome, Clarke," the woman with thick accent said.
"So," Clarke began, getting up from the sofa chair, "Are we going to start now?"
"If you'd like," another man said, surprising Clarke by his wording, "If you want to start? Go over to the bed, put the purse down onto the table next to it, kick your heels off, and lie down on the bed, on your stomach. And drag your dress up so that we can see your ass and pussy."
Clarke almost burst out laughing.
At last, they were approaching the subject that this whole visit was about.
Asses and cunts. That was it. That was all this was about. Should she have a cock and her clients had an inclination to cocks, the way they seemed to have an inclination to her pussy, then it would be all about asses and cocks.
Clarke withheld her laugh, though and walked to the bed and did exactly as she was told to do.
She kicked her heels off onto the floor, put the purse down on the table next to the bed, making sure that it was within her reach, laid down on the bed on her chest and stomach, reached down, grabbed her dress and began to raise it, so that her ass would be revealed and her pussy too, most likely.
As she did, she heard footsteps walk into the room and heard the door close shut.
She shivered when she heard a few clicks on the door, telling her it was locked.
"Good girl," she heard one of the women say and she heard the footsteps approach the bed.
She heard one of the women then say, "You're familiar with safewords, right?"
Clarke paused.
She hadn't expected that. Usually, clients didn't expect some safety measure. They just wanted their pleasure and that was it.
Sometimes the pleasure involved getting oral sex-often that was the case, sometimes the pleasure involved her getting double penetrated, sometimes it involved her clients just receiving the soft and sweet attentions of what they saw as a "pretty young woman."
She had yet to meet a client before now, who was concerned with safewords.
Then again, she had yet to meet a client before now, who had wasted time with masked balls.
"Yes," Clarke said hesitantly, "Why, do you have any in mind?"
"As a matter of fact, yes," one of the men said, "The safeword we're going to use is 'bear claw,' does that work for you?"
Clarke nodded against the bed. "Yeah," she said, "That works. Are we gonna use a traffic color system too?"
She had half meant it as a joke, but she wasn't entirely surprised when she heard one of the women said, "Yes, we are. Let us know when you're ready. And if you are, say 'green.' Say 'yellow' if you want to slow down and say 'red' if you want to stop completely."
Clarke honestly was startled.
She had never met a client or someone she had actually been dating, who were so focused on the "consent" aspect of sex.
Of course, consent was absolutely one hundred percent important, no matter who the client or prospective romantic partner was.
But Clarke knew that there were many people who she had dated, unfortunately, and unfortunately, a lot of people who she had spent time with as a sex worker, who didn't see it that way.
There were many who thought consent meant that as long as a partner was interested in that person, or was just alone with that person, that it was consent.
But consent didn't mean, "oh, we're talking alone in a room and automatically that means this person wants to have sex." No, consent meant, this person flat out told you and told you enthusiastically, if they want to have sex or not.
And if they say "no," then that meant "no."
The point of consent, was to respect if a person said enthusiastically "yes," but also to respect someone saying "no," as well.
And often? Clarke unfortunately had met more than a few people who didn't get that.
Or who didn't care about consent.
That was why she had come to carry around her taser and can of pepper spray.
No, she had never been sexually assaulted before.
But she had heard about a good share of women in her profession having encounters like that. So, she took precautions.
Clarke announced her feelings, "I'm surprised any of you care so much about consent."
She heard several snorts in reaction.
"Consent isn't sexy, like the saying goes," one of the men said, "Consent is ESSENTIAL."
Clarke's eyebrows were lifted, but said nothing else on that matter.
"Alright," she said instead, "The safeword is 'bear claw.' Alright. Well, I say 'green.' I'm ready."
"That's good to know," one of the women said, dropping something onto the table next to Clarke's purse.
Clarke glanced at what had been placed down, and saw that it was a long packet of condoms.
She half thought of mentioning she had brought her own, but considering how many voices she was hearing? She doubted she brought enough condoms.
She had already popped a birth control pill this morning, just in case, and would do so again tomorrow.
So, hopefully she was covered in that regard.
"Do you need any birth control pills?" Another woman asked and Clarke almost laughed, wondering if these people were mind readers.
"No," she said, "I took one this morning and will take another tomorrow morning."
"Alright," that same woman that had spoken, said.
"Now," one of the other women said, her voice sounding husky, "If we're all set and all ready, then?"
There seemed to be a unanimous quiet agreement, as the footsteps came closer to the bed, and weight was applied to the bed, telling Clarke that several of the people in the unseen group, were getting up onto the bed.
She felt hands begin to peel off her dress and felt other hands grabbing her buttocks and squeezing them.
Clarke shivered at the feeling.
She gasped when she felt mouths begin to kiss up along her calves and lick all along them, occasionally bite them softly.
She felt two mouths on her left calf and three on her right.
She felt her legs being spread and her ankles being grabbed.
And while she saw no one's face, she felt hands grab her wrists as well, and begin to raise them to the headboard.
Clarke shivered.
She had an idea of what was about to happen.
So, she wasn't surprised, when she heard what she was positive were some type of ropes being pulled out and dragged along the bed, and secured around her ankles, tying her ankles to the bed, then she saw the types of ropes they had that they were binding around her wrists, securing her wrists to the headboard.
A type of very soft ropes, with velvet all over them.
Or something like that.
When she was tied to the bed, her dress off of her, the dress under her, she felt a hand come down onto her right ass cheek and she gasped.
"If you want to stop when I stick my cock in your mouth," one man's voice said, voice harsh, "Slap your hands against the headboard."
Clarke heard a zipper being pulled down, and saw the packet of condoms being opened and one being pulled out.
She was grateful for that.
Sure, oral sex didn't lead to pregnancy, but it most certainly could lead to a potential sexually transmitted infection, depending on who a person's bed partner was and what their experiences were, and whether or not they used protection.
Clarke always used protection, always. And had regular checkups at her local gynecologist's.
So, she was very appreciative of these people using condoms during any sort of sex, including oral sex.
She heard the condom being put on and a figure stepped forward, next to the bed, and a hand reached out, grabbing Clarke by her hair, and lifted her head and pushed their cock forward.
The man's condom wrapped cock slipped into Clarke's mouth and Clarke sucked and licked all along the length.
The cock was long, not all that thick, and she could feel the man in her mouth being careful, trying to make sure that he didn't accidentally make her gag.
As Clarke sucked on the man's cock in her mouth, she felt hands grab her hips and lift her up on her knees. She shivered when she felt fingers probing at her cunt and another set of fingers probing at her asshole.
Uh-oh.
She thought for a moment that the people at her ass and cunt were going to finger those areas or someone was going to stick their cock in, but instead, she tensed for just a moment, when she felt something lubed up and plastic rub against her asshole.
"Ever have a butt plug in your ass, baby?" One of the men asked, his voice filthy, "Unless you smack that headboard, you're about to."
Clarke moaned against the cock in her mouth, which gave the man speaking the answer he needed.
He pushed the plug slowly into Clarke's asshole, all the way up to the hilt and pushed it, lodged it right in.
Clarke grunted against the length in her mouth as the man whose dick was in her mouth moved back and forth.
"Good," one of the women said, "While my husband is fucking your ass with that plug…,"
Clarke didn't have time to think about what the woman that had talked, meant. She had been with married couples before.
She tried to avoid a married person who was looking to cheat on their spouse.
But a married couple? She was fine with having sex with them, as long as both parties agreed on it.
Usually, she ran into men who wanted to have sex with her, even if those men were married.
Occasionally, it would be a woman.
But sometimes, more often than people thought, she'd encounter married couples that wanted to have sex with her together.
There was a married set of three soulmates that she'd met up with who paid her well, who had happily fucked the hell out of her, a few months ago at their home.
It had been three women who were married; their names were Peggy Carter, Jane Foster and Sif Foster-Sif had taken her wife, Jane's last name but not her wife Peggy's.
Clarke decided not to look too deeply into Sif's reasoning for that.
In any case, the three women had made Clarke into their fuck toy that night.
Clarke had a hard time walking the next morning, after all the fucking in her pussy with a strap-on she had experienced from those three women.
So, she knew what it was like to be involved with married people. But she wouldn't help someone cheat.
She supposed she shouldn't be surprised that she heard from one of the women that one of the men was her husband and likely soulmate.
This number of people together, it was likely that at least two of them or more were married.
Clarke felt her ass being stretched out. The plug felt big inside her.
She felt the cock in her mouth thrust in and out faster and knew the man in front of her was getting close.
She could hear his escalating grunts, which signaled that as well.
She then grunted around the cock in her mouth, when she felt two fingers enter her cunt from behind, pushing knuckles deep into her vaginal entrance.
She shuddered, feeling those fingers stroke along her clit as they moved back and forth in her.
She felt hands reach under her, and cup her breasts, squeezing them.
It didn't take long. Soon after the man in her mouth yelled loudly and came into the condom he had on, Clarke came too, clenching around the toy in her ass and around the fingers in her cunt.
She heard several chuckles and the cock in her mouth was pulled out.
She heard the condom being taken off of the cock of the man that had been in her mouth and felt the fingers being pulled out of her cunt.
The butt plug, however, stayed where it was.
Clarke gasped, when she felt someone give an open-handed slap against her cunt, making her shiver and buck her hips.
"Like that, slut?" One of the men asked, and Clarke heard an accent in his voice that sounded similar to the accent of one of the women's.
She suddenly realized that the accent of both the man and of the woman's, was Russian.
"I think she does," one of the women that had spoken before, said, her voice teasing and filthy, and there was another open-handed slap against Clarke's cunt again, making Clarke cry out.
The hands on her breasts, kept groping.
"Answer us, slut," the man with the Russian accent commanded again, "Answer daddy."
Clarke moaned when she heard that, before she could help herself.
The woman who had just spoken beforehand, the woman who Clarke recognized as the redheaded, wolf-masked woman, laughed. "Like the idea of 'daddy,' suka? Good. That's what you're going to call several of us. And the rest of us you'll call 'mommy.'"
Clarke tried not to whimper at the "mommy," comment, and she had no idea what "suka" meant, but the way the wolf-masked woman said it, excited her.
"Except me," the man that Clarke presumed had stuck the plug into her ass, said, "You call me 'master,'" he slapped her ass in emphasis, making Clarke whimper.
"And me 'mistress,'" said the voice of the woman who claimed "butt plug man" to be her husband.
"Right, okay," Clarke groaned, "But how do I know who is to be called 'daddy,' 'mommy,' or 'master' or 'mistress,' if I can't even see your faces?"
"Don't be a smartass," the man with the Russian accent said, his hand going to Clarke's left ass cheek and squeezing it hard.
"You can hear our voices," one of the women said, and while it wasn't the same voice of the woman with the Russian accent before, Clarke still could hear a Russian accent in this woman's voice, too.
"And you probably know some of our voices well by now," one of the men said and Clarke had to mentally confess that he was right. Because she recognized his voice. He was one of the men who had been the first to speak. Not the first of them, but the second male voice she had heard.
And she had heard his voice a few times by now.
"So," the man that just spoke continued, "You will call me 'daddy.'"
"You'll call me that, as well," the first man that had spoken, said, his voice snarky as ever.
"Me as well," the man with the Russian accent said and Clarke could practically hear the snicker in his voice.
"You'll call me 'daddy,' too," the woman who had first brought the whole 'daddy' thing up, said.
"And me," another man said, his voice deep and low, and possessing a British accent.
His voice made Clarke shiver when she felt the heat shoot down to her groin anew.
There were several more men and a few more women that insisted on Clarke calling them 'daddy.'
Clarke recognized their voices, matching them up with the voices she'd heard so far.
She already knew the voice of the man that wanted to be called 'master,' and the voice of the woman who wanted to be called, 'mistress.'
She then heard the voices of the women who wanted to be called, "mommy." And she felt the desire burning through her increasing.
It was rare when she met someone who wanted to be called "mommy."
If anyone had that particular kink? It was usually "daddy."
The few times she'd run into someone who had a "mommy" kink, it was when there were a few men that would desperately suck on her tits and call her "mommy" the whole time.
That was already sort of a turn on, but she was the one that wanted to be crying out "mommy."
She supposed she had that in common with some of her more pathetic clients.
She always mentally blamed it on her mother having abandoned her when she was really young.
As soon as her daddy had died in that car accident? Abby Griffin, Clarke's biological mother, had thrown Clarke out and had dumped her at an orphanage.
Why? Clarke never understood, but she always recalled that that her mother had never been that close with her as her father had been.
And Abby had always looked at Clarke, as if she considered the girl a burden.
So, Clarke couldn't help but assume the reason why she wanted a "mommy" in bed so much, was because of what her biological mother had done.
Just her own theory on it.
"Now, then," one of the women who wanted to be called, "mommy" said, "Are you ready to start again, slut?"
Clarke whimpered, and nodded.
"Yes, mommy," she said, her clit throbbing and she could feel herself getting wetter by the second.
"Good slut," the same woman said, and Clarke gasped when she felt the lubed up rubber head of a thick strap-on press against her vaginal opening, "Now, time to take mommy's big, fat cock."
Clarke felt hands go to her hips and felt the strap be aimed closer, then felt the strap penetrate all the way into Clarke.
Clarke's eyes instantly squeezed shut, as she screamed out, feeling twisted ecstasy stretch her out as her mind practically howled in pleasure, "mommy!"
