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For most people, a time comes, sometime along the way, where they find themselves in an economic jam. Something happens, something comes up, something goes amiss, and extra money is needed to fix it. Things like this can happen to even the most careful and responsible planners. Like Tara Smith.

Miss Smith was in her late twenties when she for the first time in her life found herself in a bad economic jam. She needed money badly. It does not matter what she needed it for, except to say that she was desperate. This is the story of how she earned that money, not the story of where they went.

The bank wouldn’t lend her what she needed, and neither would anyone else. Tara Smith, an honest, law-abiding, young woman, increasingly found herself contemplating crime, and possible ways to earn money that way. Convincing herself that she had neither nerve nor heart to become a robber, and neither cunning nor contacts to become a burglar, Miss Smith turned her thoughts to prostitution.

Her looks were suitable for that profession. She pleased the eye naked as well as clothed.

When thinking of engaging in sex with strangers for money. Tara was convinced it would be unpleasant, but was also convinced she could learn to handle it, that she could keep a smile on her face and service the clients. Prostitution as a means to earn money did, however, present practical problems. It wasn’t a legal means of income where she lived, how would she avoid the legal system? Also, where would she find clients? And, where should she service those clients?

Tara seriously considered prostitution. But, before taking that last step she decided to try what she called: the last step before it. Miss Tara Smith decided to look into stripping and nude modelling.

–Tacky nude modelling, amateurs welcome. Well paid.–

Not an advert a professional model would ever give a second glance. For Tara, however, it was the right time for the wrong words. She answered the ad. Over the phone she was questioned about addictions and prior experience, as well as weight, height, bra-size and other such standard measures. She wasn’t surprised by those questions, but she was surprised to get the job simply from a phone call.

“I like your voice,” said the man on the other end. “I’ll hire you for at least one session.”

The house was too large and magnificent to be a studio belonging to a tacky artist. It could better be called a mansion than a house. After thrice checking that the address she had written down matched the address she was at, Tara was convinced she was the victim of a cruel practical joke. She almost turned round to leave without pressing the bell button at the gate, but decided against it at the last moment.

“Who is there?” asked a metallic distorted voice.

“Tara Smith,” she spoke to the intercom.

“Come to the front door,” said the voice.

The metal gates opened fully. She could have driven in if she had come by car. At the front door waited a well dressed elderly man.

‘That could be the man I spoke to,’ thought Tara. The man on the phone had sounded old.

“Welcome, Miss Smith,” said the elderly man, with a clear British accent.

“Hi,” said Tara. ‘No, it isn’t him.’

The man on the phone had had an undefinable accent, absolutely not British.

“Mr. Jeffries has been expecting you,” continued the elderly man. “Please follow me, Miss Smith.” He led her through the house to a well lit high ceilinged room and left her there.

‘This isn’t a tacky studio,’ thought Tara, tracing the exquisite play between shadow and light on the white curves of walls and ceiling.

“Miss Smith?”

The voice pulled her out of thoughts of a tasteful wealthy artist with a strange taste in model adverts. Tara was surprised that the voice she knew from the phone belonged to an old man in a wheelchair. An old man with wrinkles and those broad brown spots age endows on so many. His legs were covered by a thick tweed blanket, in spite of the room being hot enough for comfortable nudity. His white hair was thin and sparse.

Part of her was relieved that the man who had hired her was so physically harmless, yet a small part of her was concerned that it would feel unnatural to show her naked young body to a man so far past his prime.

“Yes, I’m Tara Smith,” said Tara, and took a step forward, intending to go to the man and offer him her hand in greeting.

“Move over to that corner,” said Mr. Jeffries, and pointed.

Obediently, Tara changed direction.

“The timer begins as soon as you are naked.”

“All-right,” said Tara and nodded. She undressed swiftly, the sooner the timer began, the sooner it would be over.

The first half hour, Mr. Jeffries directed her through classic nude poses, making a few sketches at each. Tara came to the conclusion that maybe for someone at his age the tasteful classics seemed tacky.

“Take a one minute break,” said Mr Jeffries and took out a wallet.

Tara watched him as he took out bills and placed them on a small table next to his wheelchair. On the other side of his wheelchair stood his easel.

“Half an hour has passed,” he said, when done pulling out bills. “In another hour and a half this money is yours.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jeffries.” She felt it was a stupid thing to say, but hadn’t been able to come up with a better remark. Tara knew how much she was getting paid, but seeing the money in a tangible pile like that, still had an effect on her. ‘So much, for so little.’

“How far can you spread your legs?”

“I…” Tara had absolutely no clue how to reply to that.

“Show me.”

So she did. The time had come for tacky poses. Tara had never felt as naked as she did while Mr. Jeffries had her twist her body in one degrading pose after another. Without complaining even once Tara waved her butt in the air, and performed yoga-like poses absolutely not suited for nudity, and spread her labia with her fingers at command.

She kept her mind on the money.

When finally Mr. Jeffries announced, “The time is up,” Tara got on her feet and walked straight to the table where her money lay. She had come to the conclusion that if she hadn’t needed the money so badly, this wasn’t a profession for her.

Mr. Jeffries watched her silently while she dressed. Tara didn’t make a show of it, she just pulled every garment on as swiftly as possible. ‘Why does he bother with this final sneak-peak,’ she wondered. ‘He already saw every part of me from every possible angle.’

Once dressed, Tara turned to him. Keeping her voice polite, she said, “You have my number if you want to hire me again. Don’t you, Mr. Jeffries?”

“Would you like me to hire you again?”

“Yes,” said Tara, again wishing she could have thought up a better reply. ‘I need your money,’ she didn’t want to add.

“Same wage for a two hour session?”


“How about half the wage for a two hour session?”

Tara hesitated a second. The wage had been far more than twice the rate for amateur nude modelling, even she knew that. But, the thought of doing the same thing for less was displeasing. She looked at the man, trying to muster the confidence needed to negotiate.

“I’d prefer the same wage I got today.”

“How about a quarter of the wage you earned just now?” asked Mr. Jeffries, with a smile that revealed teeth so perfect they had to be fake. Tara would never believe a man at his age could have such good teeth.

“I’ll take the half wage,” said Tara.

“That offer is off the table, it’s a quarter of the wage or nothing.”

“I’ll take it,” said Tara, swallowing all pride and anger. “When should I come back for the next session?”

“The timer begins when you are naked.” Mr. Jeffries’s smile widened when Tara hesitantly swallowed before undressing again.

“You are cute when you are angry,” said Mr. Jeffries, once Tara was undressed and in a proper degrading butt waving pose. “I’ll let you have the full wage.”

“Thank you,” said Tara, though it was difficult to feel grateful in her current stance.

“Take a two minute break.”

Again Tara watched, as he counted out bills and put them on the table. ‘Keep your mind on the money.’

For the next pose, he made her lie on her back, bend her legs and spread them to the side, as at the gynaecologist. Compared to other poses he had put her through this was relaxing.

“Would you like to earn some extra money?”


Mr. Jeffries held up a large bill. “I’ll add this to the pile if you do an insertion with a condomed banana.”

“Which hole?” asked Tara.

“The orifice in question would be your pussy.”

“I’ll do it.”

A few minutes later Tara struggled to insert the banana, the condom was dry and so was she.

“Drier than Sahara,” commented Mr. Jeffries. “The constant humiliation of being ordered around hasn’t turned you on.”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Jeffries.” The dry insertion was unpleasant bordering painful, but, in spite of her word choice, Tara preferred that over being aroused in front of him.

“You seemed the type, though,” he said.

“Did I?” On the inside Tara laughed a little. ‘Goes to show what you know, you old pervert.’ She remained polite though, keeping her mind on the money.

“So what type are you really?” asked Mr. Jeffries, once Tara leaned back, banana inserted halfway as instructed.

‘As if I would tell you,’ thought Tara, and started talking about candlelight dinners and walks on the beach.

Mr. Jeffries smiled and drafted her form on paper while she narrated about importance of romantic evenings for later intimacy. Basically Tara was reviewing advice from standard ladies magazines perused in the waiting room at her dentist.

“Quite frankly, Miss Smith. You don’t seem like that type either.”

“Things aren’t always what they seem, Mr. Jeffries.”

“I’m not worried. If you are an interesting type, I’ll figure out which one it is.”

‘Good for you,’ thought Tara. She didn’t even want to know which types he found interesting.

After the insertion draft, he had her sit on her heels and hold her hands behind her back.

“Press your wrists against each other, as if they were bound. Yes, like that. Now, close your eyes, and keep them closed. Good. You need to hold that pose a good while. I want a thorough draft of this. I am going to make a painting with this theme eventually. With a young woman sitting like that, her hands tied behind her back. Blindfolded. Helpless.”

Tara heard his pen moving swiftly against the paper while he narrated, seemingly to himself.

“Sitting in a clearing in a forest, she awaits an unsure destiny. She hasn’t realised it yet, but a man stands there too. Just a few paces from her.”

With her eyes closed, Tara couldn’t help but picture it. The man looking at his helpless prey. With her eyes closed she also couldn’t see Mr. Jeffries’s smile which grew as her nipples hardened visibly.

“She doesn’t know it, but that man is going to ravish her. He is going to push her back on the grass. Out there in the forest no one will come and help her if she calls for help. He is going to touch her in ways she would never allow a stranger to touch her. With her hands bound she will be unable to stop him. She may beg him to stop, but he won’t. He will touch her, he will taste her, and finally he will take her.”

Tara herself didn’t notice her breathing getting heavier, didn’t even notice the tingling growing within.

“Out there in the forest, he will move in and out of her. She will try to push him off with her legs, but he will laugh and keep pumping.”

Tara imagined it all, while Mr. Jeffries continued his narration, adding more and more detail to the perils awaiting the bound woman in the forest. She considered it a dirty story, and considered the narrator to be an old pervert. But thinking about something other than her own situation was still a relief.

The story ended suddenly, with the words: “You can open your eyes now, this sketch is done.” Mr. Jeffries took his block off the easel and turned a page before putting it back. “Lay down on your back now, feet pointing my way. Good. Now spread ’em wide. Now spread your labia with your fingers.”

Tara moved her hand down to do as told, she was getting used to that it by now, it didn’t even bother her anymore. Except this time her fingers found wetness when moving between her labia to spread them. So much so that her labia kept slipping under her fingers.

‘Shit,’ thought Tara, and moved her other hand down to use two fingers for each side.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she lied, and stared at the ceiling. ‘It doesn’t bother me one bit to show him my wet pussy.’

“Would you say I found out what type you are?” he asked.

Tara would say nothing of the sort, so she remained quiet. Staring at the ceiling, listening to the movements of the pen.

“Have you ever considered prostitution, Miss Smith?” he asked, a while later.

Tara closed her eyes. ‘Keep your mind on the money.’


“You already know how much I pay for two hours nude posing. I’ll pay you five times as much for two hours of prostitution.”

“I’ll do it,” said Tara.

“Don’t you want to know what I want you to do before you agree?”

“If it doesn’t kill me or send me to the hospital I’ll do it.” Tara felt like biting her tongue. It was true, but she shouldn’t have said it. ‘I’ll never get another customer who throws about money like this guy though. A professional street-girl has to do a lot more than two hours to get that amount. And I don’t even know how to get customers like a pro.’

“You must really need the money,” commented Mr. Jeffries.


“Tomorrow evening,” said Mr. Jeffries. “Two hours. A roleplaying game starring you and a male prostitute. Bondage, force and humiliation will be involved. Possibly some spanking too, I haven’t decided yet.”

“For five times the wage?”


“I’ll do it,” said Tara.

The next day’s evening, the elderly butler again greeted Miss Tara Smith at the front door, but this time he lead her to an elevator.

“Press ‘B’ for basement, Miss Smith. Mr. Jeffries is awaiting you down there.”

Tara did as instructed. ‘Of course a man in a wheelchair needs an elevator in his home,’ she thought.

When she stepped out of the elevator she almost changed her mind. The basement looked like a sadist’s dream come true. Bondage instruments, whips, rope, chains, levers. The room was pleasantly warm, but Tara felt cold. The male prostitute was already there. His costume was as intimidating as the room.

Tara’s eyes travelled from the man-whore to Mr. Jeffries, who looked exactly as he had in the luxurious studio, right down to the tweed blanket covering his legs.

“You can still change your mind,” he offered.

Her eyes moved back to the hired man. He was tall and muscular. Very masculine and intimidating. His head and shoulders were covered by an executioner’s mask of a medieval style depicted in countless movies. His chest and feet were bare, and his pants were black and loose-hanging.

From him, Tara’s eyes moved to rope, chains and whips, hanging on the walls, to a body-sized X against another wall, back to the tall muscular prostitute, and on to the table next to him were several lengths of rope lay at the ready. She had expected bondage, but in this room that notion was more frightening than it had seemed before.

“Were you planning to tie me up?” asked Tara.

“I had planned for him to tie you up. Yes,” said Mr. Jeffries.

“I can’t agree to that. It’s too dangerous. I won’t do it.”

“Ok,” said Mr. Jeffries. “Take the elevator back up. I will call a cab for you.”

Tara nodded and stepped back into the elevator. The butler wasn’t there when she got up. So, she found her own way out. The image of the male prostitute kept pushing itself on her.

‘That strong a man. He could probably break my back over his knee.’ She shivered. ‘If a man like that attacked me, I would be completely helpless. I just wouldn’t stand a chance. There would be nothing I could…’

Tara stopped in her tracks. “Just how stupid am I?”

‘If they wanted to hurt me they wouldn’t have needed my permission. That guy could simply have grabbed hold of me, and there wouldn’t have been a thing I could do about it. If they were planning to torture me to death after tying me up, they wouldn’t have stood around and asked my permission first would they?’

Tara turned and looked back toward the front door. ‘I really, really need that money.’

The male prostitute had been paid and had left the room to change by the time Tara came back. Without blinking Mr. Jeffries called his butler from his cell-phone and told him to hire the man again, for same rate as last.

“I’m sorry,” said Tara, and then felt stupid for it. Whatever Mr. Jeffries paid the other prostitute, she was sure it was a fortune for the hired aid and pennies for Mr. Jeffries.

“Maybe I should have explained what game I want you to play before hiring him again,” said Mr. Jeffries. “In case you chicken out on me again.”

“I won’t change my mind again,” promised Tara. “I need the money.”

“Get naked then.”

Shortly thereafter the oversized gigolo entered the room, fully costumed.

“I’ve already explained to him what I want him to do,” said Mr. Jeffries. “Are you ready to hear what I want you to do, Miss Smitth?”


“Let him take hold of one of your wrists.”

Tara held out a hand, and the large man grabbed her wrist.

“Do you see that door behind me?” asked Mr. Jeffries.


“If you get to that door, any time before the two hours has passed, you will get your money and be free to go, no matter how much time is left. If you never get to the door, you will have to endure the two hours to get your money. Unless, of course, I decide to let you go sooner, or you decide to chicken out on us again.”

“So if I ran to that door right now, you would let me go with all the money?” asked Tara.


Immediately, Tara tried to pull her wrist loose, to run for the door. She needed the money, but getting the money for nothing would be far better than getting the money after two hours of sexual abuse.

The giant grabbed hold of her upper arm and pulled her onto the table, stomach down, next to the rope, with her legs dangling down the side. He pushed his scrotum against her butt, and pulled her arm behind her back. Tara’s other arm flailed about, as she tried to wrestle out of the tight hold. With professional habit, the executioner clad man rolled rope around the arm he held onto, ignoring her free arm. As he expected, Tara didn’t find a way to put her free arm to good use before he was done with the first. He loosely tied her first arm to the corresponding ankle before grabbing her other arm and fitting that with rope.

Few moments later her ankle was free again, but her arms were tied together behind her back in an intricate assembly of rope, which she couldn’t escape if given hours to try. Yet, she kept struggling, thinking about the door and feeling utterly helpless.

Tara didn’t scream, she wasn’t afraid. Panting for breath to fuel her exercises she wiggled like a trapped fish. Against the bondage already on her, and against the further bondage still being applied.

Now that her arms were under full control, the man moved on to her legs. With excessive use of rope he tied each leg to itself, lower leg to upper leg, so she couldn’t stretch them. Once both her legs were like that, Tara had to admit to herself she couldn’t escape, and ceased her fighting. She still panted for breath when the large man lifted her off the table and carefully put her on the floor. She had never before had that much exercise without actually moving.

He tied more rope around her body in strange patterns.

‘What’s the point?’ wondered Tara. ‘I’m already not going anywhere.’ She understood soon enough though, as he lowered a hoisting arrangement from the ceiling and tied her ropes to it. The extra rope was there to make sure her weight was carried by both her arms and her legs when he raised her, and to keep her body upright, and to keep her legs spread.

Still breathing heavily, Tara looked straight at Mr. Jeffries as her body left the floor. A slight smile played around his lips as he studied her.

“Looks like you’ll get your money’s worth this time,” she said.

“Looks like it,” replied Mr. Jeffries, and slowly rolled his wheelchair to her, and under her.

‘The man-whore only raised me to wheelchair height,’ realised Tara. Her most private parts were at Mr. Jeffries’s mouth level.

The old man stopped before his mouth collided with her privates though, half an arm’s length before. Still panting, Tara stared down at his face, and he smiled up at her with those unnaturally perfect teeth.

“Thank you, Bob,” he said, not taking his eyes of Tara’s. “I won’t need you further tonight.”

Bob nodded and left, he hadn’t spoken in front of Tara at all.

Mr. Jeffries raised a hand and ran it along one of Tara’s inner thighs. His skin was wrinkled, dry, and softened by age. The sensation made Tara gasp – from surprise, she guessed. He tickled her gently and intimately like that, running his hand back and forth over each her inner thighs in turn.

Instinctively she tried to close her legs, but the ropes wouldn’t budge. ‘He is an old, crippled man in a wheelchair, and I can’t stop him.’ Tara’s breathing became heavier instead of lighter, she would have thought she would have regained her breath by now. ‘A wrinkled, old, weak man in a wheelchair, but I am the helpless one.’

His hand was trailing one of her inner thighs again. He smiled while watching her face as her eyes trailed the hand. Ever so slowly it moved closer and closer to her body. This time it didn’t stop at the last moment, it kept going straight to an even more sensitive place. Her whole body jerked against the ropes when without hesitation one of his fingers sought out her hooded clit. Her swollen hooded clit.

With a maddening softness he caressed it with a circling movement.

Tara’s breath became heavier yet, this time on purpose, to keep her from moaning. ‘Keep your mind on the money.’ Tara raised her eyes to the door, which she had no chance of reaching while hovering in her bondage.

“It hasn’t even been half an hour yet,” said Mr. Jeffries. “But, I can cut an hour off your time if you answer two questions truthfully.”

“Please,” said Tara. “Yes, please.”

Mr. Jeffries kept caressing her clit, softly and so slowly, so irresistibly slowly, as if he planned to keep going forever, as if he knew how close she already was.

“The first question is very simple.” He went quiet for a moment, but kept moving his finger in that insane circle. “Are you horny?”

“Yes.” There was no point in denying it, she couldn’t hide the juices.

“The second question might be more difficult.”

“What is it?” asked Tara, needing a distraction from the sensations his finger kept waking with that slow, soft, gentle, circling torture.

“Do you want me to make you come?”

“No. No, I don’t.” She really didn’t, not that perverted old man in the wheelchair. She really didn’t want to writher helplessly on his hand. Didn’t want to moan out her ecstasy for him. Not him.

Mr. Jeffries’s smile widened.

“It really is a shame that the only way to stop me is to chicken out and say good-bye to your money then, isn’t it?”

“I won’t chicken out.” Tara gasped, and tried to move away from his finger, she couldn’t, the bondage was too tight. Gravity demanded she hang where she hung. “I… I need the money.”

He moved his finger from her clit, and Tara drew a deep breath with relief. Then exhaled as his finger entered her. It moved slowly, searching along the top of her tunnel. As easily as he had found her clitoris before, he found that sensitive spot within her that only one of her lovers had ever found.

Tara made a low whining sound when he started stroking that spot with an unbelievable soft motion. Within seconds she started making pelvic motions against the ropes, she couldn’t control it.

“Please stop.”

He stopped.

“Are you chickening out on me?”

“No. I need the money. I’m not chickening out.”

“Look at me.”

She did.

“If you tell me to stop again, I will have you untied and send you away without the money. Is that understood.” His voice was stern.

Tara nodded, and closed her mouth.

He started again. Insane softness, a maddening caress on that secret spot.

Tara closed her eyes, and leaned her head back, but that only made it worse.

That relentless stimulation. She couldn’t get enough air through her nose, and opened her mouth to gasp for breath.

‘Old man, very old man, how many women has he done this to?’ Tara shook her head. ‘I don’t want to come on his hand.’

Her pelvis rotated against the ropes. The ropes controlled it now, she couldn’t.

“Please,” she said. She wanted to say: please stop. But forced herself not to. ‘I have to take it. I have to.’

“Please!” Tension was building within her, slowly, as slowly as that unstoppable movement within her. That tender movement against that spot other men had so much trouble finding.

“Please, please, please.” She shook her head to stop talking before she lost control of which words came out. She couldn’t afford to say ‘stop’. And then it was too late to say stop, she moaned unable to form any words and her whole body fought against the ropes, or with them, as the wave came and blasted every thought away.

Tara screamed for Mr. Jeffries, in ecstasy, as she had only ever screamed for one other man, again and again, while it swept through her.

Afterwards she flopped like a fish in a net, gasping for air, while her pussy clamped on Mr. Jeffries’s finger, milking it. He held it still and gave her time to calm. When her breathing was normal, and her pussy no longer clamped down on his finger. Tara opened her eyes and looked down at Mr. Jeffries.

He smiled up at her face. “Would you say I have figured out what type you are?”

Tara closed her eyes and turned her face to the side. ‘I screamed for him.’ It was embarrassing, the old pervert had made her scream. She might have cried if she hadn’t been so exhausted.

Mr. Jeffries started moving his finger again, against that very same spot.

‘Oh no,’ thought Tara. ‘Not again.’ The build had already begun. ‘Not again. Not again!’

“Do you know how many times I can make you come by doing this?” he asked.

Tara shook her head. She didn’t know. The only guy who had ever made her come that way had never even attempted to do it twice in a row.

“Many times, Tara,” he said.

She moved her eyes down to him, it was the first time he had called her by her first name.

“Please don…” Tara stopped herself. “I need the money, please don’t force me to tell you to… that word.”

The soft maddening movements continued.

“Is it hard to handle because it is too intense?” he asked. “Or is it hard to handle because it is me?”

Tara craned her neck back and moaned toward the ceiling. Being pushed towards a second through her hidden spot felt completely different than when someone tried to give her a second clitoral orgasm. If an attractive young man was doing this to her, she would be in heaven. Orgasm heaven, and would never want to come down.

‘It’s because it’s him.’ And it wasn’t just because he was old and crippled. It played a part, it made it worse, but what made it bad, really bad, was all those humiliating poses he had made her do in the studio. The condomed banana. The butt wriggling. He wasn’t merely an old man, he was an old pig.

Yet he had complete control over her body. The tension built higher.

‘I won’t scream for him this time, I won’t. I won’t.’ Through clenched teeth she groaned, trying to stop the wave before it came. Staring towards the ceiling she tried to fight it. ‘I can stop it, I won’t let it come.’

Mr. Jeffries put his other hand to use. While a finger on his first hand kept rubbing that secret spot, his other hand sought out her clit.

Tara’s eyes widened. She now felt two different orgasms building at once and realised she had no control of either of them.

She didn’t scream for him this time round, she had no air for screams as both orgasms hit her at once, but her body rewarded him with shakes, and clamping, and juices, as it yet again demonstrated that he was in control.

He withdrew his hands and gave her time to come to her senses.

Tara let her head hang down, even after she had regained her breath. ‘How much time is left?’

“Would you say I have figured out what type you are?”

Tara didn’t raise her head, but didn’t reply.

“What do you fantasise about when you play with yourself?” he asked.

She didn’t reply.

“If you don’t feel like talking, I can entertain myself by making you come again,” said Mr. Jeffries.

Tara bit her lower lip, but didn’t talk. ‘How much longer?’

His hand returned, his finger entered her again.

“Tall, strong men. I think about tall strong men,” admitted Tara.

He pulled his finger out of her, kept it at her entrance instead, stroking her there like a constant reminder.

“And what do they do, these tall strong men?”

“They hold me down, or tie me up, and take me by force.”

“Do they touch you and make you come against your will?”

“Yes,” admitted Tara.

“I thought so,” said Mr. Jeffries.

He let her go after that, with the money, even though there had still been more than fifteen minutes left of the first hour.

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