Sally

Part 13

Not for those under 18 (or whatever the legal age for this sort of stuff is in your area). If you’re not that old, Boo! Go away now. If you are offended by graphic descriptions of sexual activities, especially non-consensual ones, then don’t read this. All characters and situations are fictional.

Copyright 2024 greyscribbler@yahoo.com

Archived on the Read Only Mind web site by permission of the author. This story may be downloaded for personal archiving as long as this notice is retained.

Charlotte was frozen in place. On that chair, naked. Two fingers buried deep inside her centre.

Sally was a whore.

Her world shattered around that thought. She couldn’t make sense of it. Yet the evidence had been before her own eyes. Sally was a whore. And this was no home, however elegant and respectable it might look. It was a whorehouse. She was in a whorehouse.

Miss Charlotte Rothermere was in a whorehouse. Naked.

Charlotte’s mind whirled faster and faster. She had to get out of here. If she was found she’d never survive the scandal.

“So, I can see that you were enjoying yourself.”

Charlotte’s brain froze. Whatever thoughts of escape she might have had, she’d done nothing. Simply sat there. Naked. One hand groping her breast, the other still fingering herself.

And now Sally was looking at her, leaning against the door frame. In such an elegant dress. Even if it was half-undone and the cut went beyond daring.

“I, I.” Charlotte wanted to deny her servant’s words. But any denial would be so obviously false as to be laughable. She didn’t know what to do.

“You take your fingers out now,” Sally smirked.

Charlotte did so, melting in a puddle of embarrassment and shame.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” her servant whispered, her hands resting lightly on Charlotte’s shoulders. “So you had some fun? Where’s the harm in that?”

Couldn’t Sally see? This was too much. A disaster. But something about Sally’s voice calmed her, soothed her.

She could trust Sally.

“But I don’t think you had as much fun as me.”

Charlotte’s head snapped around. “How could… You don’t... You’re just...” She couldn’t complete any of the sentences, the thoughts fighting for possession of her voice. Nothing made sense.

But Sally seemed to know. “How could I do it? Why not? Fucking’s fun. I love getting fucked. And I don’t know them? What does that matter. And for some of them, maybe I know them better than anyone else. And I’m just what? A whore? A strumpet? So what? I’m getting fucked. And you’re…”

And just as there were words that Charlotte said that Sally had somehow known, so Charlotte knew what her servant had left unsaid. “And I’m not.”

“Exactly,” Sally beamed. “You want to, don’t you? You wanted it to be you, not me. As you were watching us. You wanted it to be you getting fucked. You want to be stretched, filled, so God-damned full. You want to feel him entering you, feel him inside you.”

Heat, liquid and alive, rose in Charlotte. “Can we go home? Maybe...”

“Maybe one of the servants?” Sally filled in the words, laughing. “Why do that? When there are so many cocks here, just waiting.”

Charlotte froze again. Sally couldn’t possibly mean that she?

There was a brush in Charlotte’s hair. She hadn’t noticed, but her servant must have had it all the time.

“What do you do when I brush your hair?” Sally crooned as she pulled that brush so slowly and gently through Charlotte’s hair.

“I go down and down and down,” Charlotte replied, her voice little more than a whisper.

“Yes, you do,” her servant whispered back, in that voice so like Charlotte’s. “All those pesky thoughts, just drifting away.”

Brush after brush after brush, Charlotte staring at the wall. Imagining a mirror there. Showing her, naked, Sally behind her, dressed in such finery. If she could have thought, she might have wondered who was the mistress and who was the servant.

Sally leant around, peered into Charlotte’s empty eyes. “I could just tell you to do it,” the servant mused. “Tell you to run into the next room and wait for Margaret to send up some lucky gent. He wouldn’t know it, but he’d be the first one Miss Charlotte Rothermere would whore herself out to. The first one fucking Miss Charlotte Rothermere the paid-for little strumpet. I could do that. But I don’t, do I? Instead, you’re going to be calm. At least, as calm as you can be when you want to get fucked as much as you do. And then it’s going to be your choice. So forget our little conversation, in the way you know that you’re supposed to forget.” Gently, she laid a kiss on the top of Charlotte’s head. “Now wake up.”

Charlotte blinked, swallowed. “I, I should put some clothes on,” she muttered, rising from her seat.

“True,” Sally shrugged. “Whatever you do you probably should have some clothes. At least to start with.”

Charlotte’s lips thinned at the smirk from her servant. “What do you mean by ‘whatever you do’? I couldn’t possibly do what you’re suggesting!”

“Oh, couldn’t you?” Sally laughed, tilting Charlotte’s chin up after the heiress shrugged back into her shift. “It’s not that hard. Of course, it’s better if it is,” the servant snorting at her own joke. “All you have to do is lie there and spread your legs. Although they like it better if you do a bit more than that. It’s nothing you haven’t done before. And don’t you want to get fucked?”

The room was spinning again. She couldn’t deny the truth of her servant’s words.

“It’s so easy. Getting fucked. Just that. Nothing else. So many cocks.”

Charlotte was practically salivating at the thought.

“But it’s up to you.”

Her body was screaming out in need. Her breasts, wanting to be touched, mauled, someone’s lips locked around her nipple, aching with need. She was so empty, the void between her legs begging to be filled. It would be so easy to say yes.

“What do you want?”

Charlotte knew the answer to that. She wanted to be fucked.

“You could stay in here.” Charlotte couldn’t believe the words tumbling from her mouth. “They’d think I was you.” Just like the servants. The men, Margaret, they wouldn’t know. They’d think it was Sally.

Not the Honourable Miss Charlotte Rothermere, heiress, respectable young lady.

Getting fucked like a common whore.

She couldn’t.

“What do you want?”

Charlotte wasn’t sure if it was Sally’s voice or her own thoughts. How could she know, when Sally’s voice sounded so like hers? But whosever voice it was, they had it wrong. It wasn’t what she wanted.

It was what she needed.

“That dress won’t do,” she said, indicating the garment Sally had given her. She couldn’t believe what she was saying. What she was thinking.

Except she could.

“Don’t worry about that,” Sally smiled, patting down Charlotte’s shift. “I’ll go downstairs while you wait in my room. I’ll find someone. Never takes long.” there was a hint of pride in Sally’s smile now. Could a whore have pride? Maybe it was like anyone else, taking pride in their skill. Charlotte didn’t know. “I’ll find out what he wants, get him to wait. Then we’ll get you all good and ready, just how he wants. Then maybe you can take a turn in the sitting room.”

“No, I,” Charlotte’s voice was a strangled whisper. What was she agreeing to?

“Really?” Sally laughed. “Maybe he’s down there right now. There’s a cock down there. right now. Waiting to fuck you.”

It was too much. Something snapped inside Charlotte. Or maybe something hardened, forged in the fire inside her. “Yes,” she said. “Yes. Show me what to do.”

“That’s my girl,” Sally laughed, leading her by the hand into the other room. “Now help me fix up this dress.”

Charlotte paced nervously after Sally left her alone. Now that she was in the room, she could see that it was much larger than the one with the chair. A huge bed, the sheets changed. Were there servants in the house for that? Did they take their turns at servicing the clients? A large wardrobe, Charlotte’s eye’s widening in amazement at the array of clothes it held. She knew what they were for. And how well they’d fit her.

She couldn’t believe that she was doing this. Could want to do this. She’d be ruined if it came out. Just like Sally had played at with the first man. But not a game. It would be real.

She stopped, stared at the door. It would be so easy. That dress Sally had given her was next door, on the floor. She could throw it on. Flee.

That would mean she wouldn’t get fucked.

She couldn’t leave.

Charlotte didn’t know how long she waited. It could only have been minutes, but it felt like hours before Sally returned, slipping in the door.

“Got a good one for you,” her servant smiled. “Nothing too fancy. He just wants someone eager. You can do that. But we need a little more than just the shift.” Charlotte retrieved an expensive corset from the wardrobe, slipping it over Charlotte’s head, pulling it tight, the heiress feeling her waist narrowing, her breasts pushing up. It’s what a servant did, wasn’t it? Helped their mistress get ready Like she’d done with Sally’s dress.

She gasped as Sally pulled the cords tight.

“There,” her servant declared. “That should be exactly what he wants. I’ll just be next door.”

“You’ll be watching?”

“Why not?’ Sally shrugged. “Watching can be fun. When you can’t do it yourself.”

Charlotte didn’t bother arguing with that, as Sally slipped away. All she could think about was what was going to happen. She was going to get fucked it, her body crying out for it.

Just for a moment, as the door opened again, she froze, that tiny portion of time stretching out to infinity. When she still had a choice. When she could do something. When she hadn’t done something. When she wasn’t. When she wasn’t what she about to become.

She did nothing.

Except smile, and wallow in the need that consumed her.

The man smiled back. She didn’t take in what he looked like. He was a man, and he had a cock. And Charlotte knew what she wanted that cock to do.

She pranced over to him, absurdly light-hearted. Kissed him, helped him out of his clothes. Turned around, offering the cords of her corset to him. Offering so much more.

“No,” he said. “Leave it on. Fuck.” The word seemed strange, dropping from lips that seemed so cultured, Charlotte taking him in now. Older than her, but not much. Definitely wealthy, from the clothes he’d shed. Did she know him? Maybe she did. What did it matter? He didn’t seem to recognise her.

“God, those corsets,” the man muttered. “They all wear them, Under those fine dresses. Teases, the lot of them. What they do to me.” He was groping her chest through the corset, roughly, hungry kisses laid on the exposed portions of her breasts, teeth grazing her skin.

He pushed her onto the bed, none too gently, but what did Charlotte care?

“This what you want?’ she grinned, pulling her shift up around her hips, exposing herself, her legs lewdly spread.

“Yes!” he grinned, eyes fixed on her centre.

Just for a moment, Charlotte froze again. This was happening. This was real. He’d paid money for her. Or would pay. It didn’t matter. Money would change hands. For her. For fucking. Even if she never saw any of it, it wouldn’t matter.

She’d be…

He was on the bed with her, between her legs, looking down at her.

“God, corsets. They act so proper, but they’re all just teases. Because I can fuck them with their corsets on. And they know it.”

Charlotte didn’t care what he was saying, her eyes fixed on his cock, erect and waiting. She just wanted it inside her.

He was lowering himself to her. Entering her. The world was exploding; aching, sinful, pleasure, lighting up every nerve. He had one hand on her chest and her hips were meeting his thrusts and he was inside her and she was crying out and moaning, just as eager as he was.

She was a whore.

The Honourable Charlotte Rothermere was a whore.

Right then, she didn’t care at all.

She was still basking in that pleasure when Sally re-entered the room. “Oh, very good. I loved it when you wrapped your legs around him. Was that the best? Or was it when he took you from behind?”

“Wha-?” Charlotte managed. The enormity of what she’d done threatened to overwhelm her. This was impossible. She’d never live it down. Her heart was racing and she couldn’t breathe.

Sally kissed her on the top of the head. “Everything will be all right.”

Charlotte calmed immediately. If Sally said everything would be all right then it would be. She trusted Sally.

“Now I think it’s time for you to go downstairs.”

Charlotte simply looked at her servant in confusion.

“Everyone has to learn sometimes,” Sally muttered, half to herself. “Downstairs. Where you sit so the ‘gentlemen’ can make their choice. It’s a sitting room. So you sit. Don’t stand up. Until a gentleman makes his choice. Or asks for a dance. That’s rare, so I doubt you’ll need to worry. Actually, it’s not that much different to a ball. Gentlemen filling up your card.” Sally laughed again at one of her own jokes. “And like a ball, you use your fan to tease and you flirt and bat your eyelashes. You need to work out when to make eye contact and when not. Huh. Maybe society balls are just temporary whorehouses. Young ladies looking for which gentleman they’ll sell themselves to for life. At least here we’re more honest. And it’s not for life. Now get up and we’ll clean you up, get you a dress and you’ll be set.”

Charlotte couldn’t think. Didn’t want to think. She just let Sally see to her. That’s what a servant did, wasn’t it? Clean her up, dress her. Her makeup. Just like she was going to a ball. And, of course, do her hair. Sally brushed her hair. And Charlotte’s thoughts melted away. Sally was telling her things. Telling her what she’d feel. What she’d want.

“I suppose I should help you out,” Sally mused as Charlotte simply stared, her head empty of thoughts. “We already know that you love getting fucked. Getting fucked is fun. And it doesn’t matter how. So getting fucked for money is fun. It’s just another way to get what you want. It makes you feel all hot and bothered. Wet and needy. Just thinking about it arouses you so. Tell me that getting fucked for money is fun.”

The words dropped into the empty blank space that was Charlotte’s mind. “G-getting f-fucked for m-money is fun.”

“Again.”

“G-getting fucked for m-money is fun.”

“Again.”

Getting fucked for m-money is fun.”

“Again.”

There was nothing in Charlotte’s mind but Sally’s words. “Getting fucked for money is fun.”

“How about this one?” Sally grinned. “I love getting fucked for money.”

“I love getting fucked for money.” It was so easy to say, when there was nothing else in her head. When she trusted Sally.

“There’s my girl,” Sally smiled, kissing the top of Charlotte’s head as the heiress’ head. “Going to take a little while, isn’t it? Can’t do everything now. But we’ll have other times. Every time I do your hair. So let’s just go over that again. And one or two other things. You’ll remember in the way you are supposed to. And do what you have to do.”

Charlotte simply sat there, her eyes as empty as her mind. Except for the thoughts Sally placed there.

Before Charlotte knew it Sally was shoving a fan in her hand.

“Where?” was all she could manage.

“Out the door,” Sally grinned. “Left. Down the stairs, first on the right. Can’t miss it.”

Charlotte’ servant patted her arse to send her on her way, Charlotte on her way and Sally back to the little room.

Charlotte could barely breathe as she followed her servant’s directions, her heart in her mouth. She knew what she was doing, where she was going. Once could was just an accident, wasn’t it? Charlotte didn’t believe that, but the thought was comforting. If she did it a second time, well. She knew what that meant.

With every step, her need grew, the heat between her legs, the ache in her breasts. She knew that she should turn around, flee. Pretend this had never happened. She couldn’t do this, could she? It might be fun. Like some jape of Amelia’s. But that didn’t mean that she should do it.

But if she did run then she wouldn’t get what she wanted. A man’s hands on her aching breasts. A man’s fingers in that wet, needy place between her legs. A man’s cock thrusting so deep into her.

She froze as she heard laughter from up ahead.

I trust Sally. She did. Sally wanted her to do this. So she had to. She didn’t have a choice.

No choice at all.

A couple passed by her, a girl, blonde as Amelia, leading a man by the hand.

She’s a whore. It didn’t matter how finely the girl was dressed. That she could have passed muster at one of the balls. If one ignored the cut of the dress. Charlotte knew what she was. What they were going to do.

The girl was going to get fucked. For money.

Just like Charlotte

The girl was a whore.

Just like Charlotte.

I trust Sally.

It was the only clear thought in her head. The thought that was making her move. Making her breathe.

She entered the room and sat down. Waved herself with the fan.

Two other girls were already there. They didn’t say anything to her but they didn’t look surprised either.

They must be whores as well, Charlotte thought.

As well.

She was including herself.

They think I’m Sally. They think I’m a whore.

About the last, at least, Charlotte couldn’t argue.

Getting fucked for money is fun. She didn’t know where that thought had come from. But she couldn’t deny it. Something about it made her squirm in her seat, the feeling wickedly delicious. She didn’t have to do this, at least that’s what Charlotte told herself. But she could. A naughty secret that no-one would know. Like sneaking into the cook’s pantry and stealing a sweet. Something sugary and wrong but it tasted oh-so-good.

She wanted to rub her thighs together, her centre so ready. She was sitting there, in a fancy dress like the other girls. When she stood up it showed her ankles and the neckline cut scandalously low, shoulders bare to the world. It didn’t matter. It felt right.

It didn’t take long for a man to arrive. Charlotte preened but he ignored her, going straight to one of the other girls, a redhead.

Something in her was angry about that. She wanted that cock. Wanted it in her. All thoughts of propriety were gone. She was a harlot. Waiting to be bought. Wanting it.

Another man entered. Charlotte smiled at him from behind her fan, batted her eyelids. Need swept through her as he approached.

“Miss?” he asked.

Charlotte froze, just for a moment. She couldn’t give her name. Couldn’t give Sally’s.

“Emily,” she replied, remembering the name her servant had used. It didn’t matter. She just wanted to be taken. Used. Filled.

Paid for.

He offered her his hand, Charlotte taking it, ignoring the sour look from one of the other girls. This was hers. That cock was going to be fucking her. A giggle escaped her at the thought and that seemed to please him, so she batted her eyelids and fluttered her fan and giggled again.

Before Charlotte could think any more, they were back in the room.

“You almost look like…”

Charlotte froze. He couldn’t recognise her. He couldn’t.

“But of course you’re not.”

Charlotte almost laughed at that. Now that she took a moment, she recognised the man. She couldn’t remember his name. But they’d danced together, at a society ball. So proper, so respectable. Not like now. He didn’t recognise her. Because, of course, Miss Charlotte Rothermere wouldn’t be here, whoring herself out. That was impossible.

Getting fucked for money is fun.

That was true. So she smiled, and curtsied. He seemed to like that.

He liked it better when he fucked her. So did she.

And then, too soon, Sally was back in the room because the man had left.

“Oh God,” her servant laughed. “I almost lost it when he thought he recognised you. I’ve had a couple the same. Almost thinking I’m you. Don’t worry, they’ll never work it out. They can’t conceive that a proper lady would do this. So it couldn’t possibly be you. Idiots.”

“Are you certain?” Charlotte asked nervously. If she tried very hard, she probably could remember the last man’s name. What would she do if she saw him at the next ball? If he asked her to dance? “I mean, what if he…”

“Won’t happen.”

Charlotte’s fears washed away. She trusted Sally.

“So,” her servant smiled. “You ready for some more?”

Of course she was.

Getting fucked for money was fun.

(To be continued)