[Tantalism] 🕶️ Jobs

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Mrs Moffat's Daughter's Shirt 17-20

She undid the buttons on her shirt, and continued to stand in the doorway. He wondered if he was dreaming. “I need to feel your hands on me father. I know you want that too.”	Before he could protest, she slid onto bed on top of him, her body cold, but her skin soft. The shirt rode up, revealing the curve of her buttocks, straddling him so her crutch pressed against his penis. She stroked his chest, her touch feather-light, and took the shirt right off. “No Sarah…” he whispered, his voice ragged. “Ssh,” she murmured, her hand trailing down his stomach, her fingers caressing his cock. “Do you want to put it inside me, Father? Do you?” “Oh God...” His voice was a groan, a prayer, a plea. "Do whatever you want Father. Suck my titties, spank my bottom, fuck me like there's no tomorrow. There's nothing you can do to me that hasn't already been done..."
She guided his cock to her entrance, her body trembling with need. Played with it. Teased herself with the tip of it on her clit. "You like that Father? You like driving me mad like that? You're beautiful cock so full of cum. Come on, Father. Slip it deep inside me. Let's put you out of your misery.”	“Fuck me, Father,” she begged. “Fuck me hard. Please, I need to feel you come inside me.” He lost himself in her, his body moving on instinct, his cock swelling, his balls tightening. With a roar, he came, his seed pumping into her, his body shuddering with the force of his release. She cried out, her body convulsing around him, her pussy squeezing his cock.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Mrs Moffat's Daughter's Shirt 21, 22, 23, 24 & 25

Father...please go down on me, then fuck me. Please!

I'm getting a glass of water Father. Would you like one?

"Father...I'm not proud of my career choices on the mainland. But I made a bit of money my six months of...sex work." I remember doing a porn shoot with a horrible bloke in a wheelchair. But then he paid me a fortune to wait tables at a business associate's fiftieth birthday. I wore a really brief bikini all night. Sat on his knee and kissed him. Like really tongue kissed him.

"The guy in this photo had been trailing me for days, and had figured out that I was basically homeless. He bought me a bikini and we drove around for a while, him showing me off to his mates. Some of them took pictures. Then he paid me 500 bucks to drive around naked. Sure I said. Later on he paid me another two grand to come back to his place."

“My childhood was a nightmare, Father,” she whispered, the words raw. He didn’t speak, just pulled her closer, his arms tightening around her like he could shield her from the past. His lips brushed the top of her head, but his mind was a storm—was this love? Or just pity for this broken girl who had found her way into his confessional, his bed, his life? “I ran away at sixteen.” She said it simply, like it was nothing, her cheek pressed against his chest. “My stepfather.” She didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t need to. “My mother knew. She just—” A short exhale through her nose. “I went to the mainland. Refuges. Lied about my age to get work in hospo.” She was quiet for a moment. “There were always men who’d offer a warm bed. I took some of them up on it.”

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Mrs Moffat's Daughter's Shirt 26-29

“When I turned eighteen, I started escorting.” Her voice was flat, a recitation of facts. “The money was incredible. More than I’d ever seen. I did a few porn scenes too. Let them film me. It was cold. The lights were too bright.”	“Six months ago, my mother called. I don’t know how she got the number. I let it ring out—five, six times. But she kept calling. So I answered.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “She said she loved me. Said it was safe. That he was gone. That the house was quiet. I wanted to believe it so badly my chest ached.” Her voice dropped to a raw whisper. “He was never going to leave.” “And he hadn’t, had he?” Father McGuire said. It wasn’t a question. She shook her head, and he felt a tear on her cheek. “He kept me in a room with no light. Him and his friends.” Her voice had gone very still. “He’d seen the films. He wanted his own copies.”
“Your mother—” “Knew.” The word landed like a door slamming. “She knew every single day.” Sarah pulled back just enough to look at him, and he saw something in her face that was past crying. “She told the priest - the one before you - that I was troubled. That I’d always been difficult.” A short, ugly sound escaped her. He was the worst offender."	He woke late the next morning. It was daylight, about ten o’clock. The storm had abated, and the sun was shining. Evidence of the night’s sexual adventures - the damp patches on the sheets - were disgraces needing to be shielded from the housekeeper. He threw on a dressing gown, and wondered where the girl was. No sign of her anywhere. Fortunately, given Mrs Moffat was due to arrive at any moment, she was no longer in his bed. He stripped the sheets off the bed, bundling them under his arm. He moved through the rectory calling Sarah's name once, quietly. Mrs Moffat arrived. "You're up and about late this morning Father," she commented. "Had a late night last night Mrs Moffat," he answered. "Tell me," he hesitatingly asked "do you know a young woman called Sarah Rice?" Mrs Moffat froze. "What do you want to know about her for?" "Just something I heard around town, Mrs Moffat. That's all. Who is she?" "People say she had a hard upbringing. Her mother's dead, her stepfather's in jail. The girl herself...was killed in a hit run the same night as her mother was killed. About six months ago it was." McGuire sat. Feeling faint. Wanted to cry, but had to hold his feelings in. "How terrible," he said as blandly as he could. He returned to his bedroom and, on the bedside table, he saw an earring. And out the window, he saw Mrs Moffat's daughter's shirt flapping on the clothesline. THE END

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Gangster Girl Gabriella's Story 1-5

Why am I even here?

On an unwanted honeymoon with a feckless fool of a man I’m not attracted to or in love with. How have I, Gabriella Spinetti, the daughter of a ruthless and feared gangster, wound up with a man whose only interests are reading, photography and ballet? Oh, and keeping his back acne under control.

Easy. His father is also a ruthless and feared gangster. Probably more ruthless and feared than my father, truth be known. And his father and my father thought it might be nice to unite the families into one big criminal conglomerate rather than spend time and resources killing each other for minimal fiscal advantage.

I got roped into marrying this wimpy fool because I did something really stupid with a car, a shopfront and a passing chihuahua. Long story. I’d been to an exclusive invite-only nightclub, had far too much fun, swerved to avoid the chihuahua and, well you can guess the rest. It made the papers and I was grounded. I tried everything to get out of it including flashing my tits at the copper interviewing me, but it didn’t work. So I couldn’t leave the family compound at all.	After a month or so my father said: “Do you want to get out of here?” “Yes, I would please,” I said. I was polite to my father because I really was shit scared of him. “Then marry Warren.” He walked out and slammed the door. I didn’t think about this for long. I used to have three brothers, but now I’ve only got two, and that’s not because raising kids is expensive.
I married Warren at a simple service with about 800 guests and some famous band from the 80s. My father thought it would be cool to have topless table staff. Then we flew to a small tropical island, one that runs on bribery and corruption. A stop-over point for the drug trade. Me with my tropical island gear. Bathers, factor 50, sandals, hats and fuck-off sunglasses. Him with his books, big bag of camera gear, a pair of shorts, thongs, and cream for his acne.	After about two days I realised I had married into a passive version of hell. He was so hot for me he’d cum in his pants before I’d even undressed. I tried to be understanding and patient, but he was a simpering, self-pitying wimp. Every time we had sex it was like that first time behind the shelter sheds at school; all furtive, dribbly and apologetic. He was besotted. I was not.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Gangster Girl Gabriella's Story 6-9

To amuse myself, I met and struck up a friendship with two of the local lads. Good looking boys, buff and the colour of milk chocolate. Their job was to sweep up palm fronds and check for coconuts that might potentially fall on passing tourists. They were nice and chatty. I asked if they could arrange for one to fall on Warren while he did t’ai chi one morning. They laughed. But they did arrange to show me a secret waterhole. Early it had to be. They’d get into trouble if caught sharing it with a tourist. I’m an early bird, and Warren sleeps in so I gladly accepted the invitation. Next morning I whisper to Warren “Just going for a swim. Won’t be long.” He squeaks a response and goes back to sleep.	I wander down to our meeting place. I’m wearing a bikini. No towel; it’s already hot. I walk down the path, and see them in a clearing. They’re naked. And extraordinarily beautiful. Their shorts are neatly folded over a tree branch. I hesitate. “Sorry, we don’t wear bathers,” one of them says. “Nobody does here.” I playfully bite my bottom lip, take my bikini off, and revel in their lustful gaze.
They each take my hand and lead me to a beautiful glade, completely hidden from everything. “Come on pretty lady and have fun with us,” they said. And I did. Oh my, oh my.	One of them is very forward, and he puts his hand on the small of my back, lies me down, and torments me with his tongue. The other fondles me. My breasts, thighs, feet. I lie back and let it happen. Those tongues. I will never forget those tongues.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Gangster Girl Gabriella's Story 10-13

Then they both jump into the deep pool, and I slip in between them. I will never forget that forty-five minutes. Two beautiful young men combined with weeks of pent-up frustration and the experience of having sex underwater for the first (and second) time caused me to turn myself inside out with pleasure. And not an ounce of guilt did I suffer. We met every morning while I was there. And every morning, a repeat performance.	On the second last morning after we’d finished our hi jinks, one of them held my face in his hands afterward and told me we’d been discovered. The waterhole was sacred. The gods were not forgiving of this kind of thing. I should have listened to the gods. Instead, I begged for just one more wild morning. A change of location. Anything. We agreed that I would come to where we leave our bathers as usual. If their shorts were there, I would continue up the path beyond the pool to a little forest clearing. If they weren’t, I’d just go back. Try and wring a root out of Warren.
I woke early as usual. Slipped on bathers and wandered out. My heart skipped a beat when I saw their shorts, neatly folded, over the usual tree branch. Took my bathers off and left them. Had a gorgeous naked walk through the forest. Something about the danger was really firing me up. I’d hardly slept all night I was so horny, and this was adding to it.	I heard what sounded like a drone nearby. I stopped. Looked around. It was somewhere else. I faced where I thought it was. Gave whoever was watching the full frontal. It added to the danger.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Gangster Girl Gabriella's Story 14-17

Beyond randy, I rounded a bend and found the clearing. Where there stood five gorgeous young black men. Oh my.	I stood there, dumbfounded. Couldn't move. They came over and gently engulfed me with everything they had.
After nearly two hours, I exit the forest, go for a quick swim in the resort pool and return to our room, sore, but oh so happy. Warren's nowhere to be found. Actually, neither is his luggage. His pimple cream, toothbrush, cameras, all gone. My laptop is open on the table, strange since I hadn’t taken it out of its bag all week. I press a key, waking it up. What I see next makes me want to vomit. My screensaver was now a picture, taken only two hours ago, of me frolicking naked through the forest, happily giving a two finger salute to the drone. My desktop now had only one folder. “Gabriella’s Honeymoon Pics/Vids.” I opened it. What I saw turned by blood cold. Photos and movies of me fucking at the waterhole. Going off like a tonne of TNT. Over and over again, each day meticulously edited for brevity and impact. Oh God. Please don’t let this be real. Phone rings. It’s my father. I answer it, my blood running cold. I say hello. “You’re coming back home on a 1.00pm flight. There’ll be someone there to make sure you’re on it, or to find you if you’re not.” Hangs up before I can say “Where’s Warren?” Fuck.	So that pathetic little weasel I was forced to marry followed me and took photos. Probably came back and wanked himself silly. He even had a fucking drone with him; no wonder he had so much luggage. I packed my little bag and walked to reception trying to look the picture of normal. There was a hubbub that went silent the moment I walked in the door. The staff were huddled around a computer in an office, open-mouthed. I could hear myself orgasming. They stopped the video and looked at me with an indescribable loathing. “Just go,” one of them, a woman said. “Get off our island.” “She’ll have to swim,” one of them said. “No more flights where she’s going today.” “Maybe the sharks’ll get her.”

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Gangster Girl Gabriella's Story 18-22

I trudge to the door. There’s a small crowd yelling abuse in my direction. Two angry women nearly rip my dress off. The doormen try to create a path for me to a waiting taxi. One of the doormen yells “Let her go. The sooner she’s gone, the sooner the cleansing ceremonies can begin!” I pile into the cab, holding what’s left of my dress up. I look at my phone. No tickets or boarding passes; just a cryptic message from my father’s muscle, who we called Muscle: “See you for 1.00pm. Looking forward to it. (Smiley face).” Creepy prick. Always handsy. Always the double entendre. I send a thumbs up.	The taxi drops me off at another crowd, bigger and angrier, outside the busy little island airport. “See what you’ve done?” The driver who had remained resolutely silent throughout the short drive yelled at me. I pull a lot of local currency out of my bag to pay him. “Keep your money; it’s dirty. Like you.” “I’m sorry…” I murmur uselessly. I fight my way through the angry crowd to the terminal where security blocks their entry. It’s cold, sullen, unfriendly. And I’ve never been so pleased to see Muscle in my life. I hand him my luggage. He hands me a small bag. “Put this on. Put the clothes you’re wearing - what’s left of them - in the bag. All of them.” He offers up a weak little smile. “Warren’s father is very keen to talk to you, and you need to make an impression.” I shudder inwardly at this. Muscle sees it. “Think the worst,” he reassures me.
I emerge a few minutes later in a very little white cocktail dress and heels. Everything else, including my underwear, is in the bag. I hand it to Muscle. He casually goes out the front door and lobs it at the crowd, who descend on it like seagulls to a chip. “Apparently having some personal items helps in the cleansing process. Underwear is especially sought-after because it might have…residue.” He makes no attempt to hide his leer. I’m on the news. I can’t hear what’s being said, but my one-fingered salute (tits coverede by a black patch) is currently on all the airport screens, with a title that howls "This is what I think of your culture!" I try to hide my face. Muscle takes my arm and leads me through customs and out a back door, across the tarmac, to the waiting jet. Now I am truly terrified. At 30000 feet no one can hear you scream. “Is my father with us?” “Indeed he is. He’s paying for everything. By way of apologising.” I remain outwardly calm. At least I think I do.	“Is my father with us?” “Indeed he is. He’s paying for everything. By way of apologising.” I remain outwardly calm. At least I think I do. I climb up the steps to the jet. Muscle is behind me. I can feel his eyes on my naked butt. “Up you go, Miss. Enjoy your flight.” The door shuts, and I sit opposite my father and Mr Andropov. That would be Igor Andropov, Warren’s father. My father looks at me with an air of weary disappointment. Mr Andropov clearly wants blood. He looks at my face with contempt. Looks at my legs and my modest cleavage and licks his lips. Neither say anything.

The screens lower and flash into life. We get the safety message and the plane takes off. After a few more flashes, a lovely aerial shot of the island appears. The drone cruises over the lagoon, and then sweeps gently down the Main Street of the township. There’s me walking down the street. And up a beach. I see myself trying on a sunhat. I remember putting them back on the rack and checking out a dress shop next door. I’m wearing bathers and a towel, and sunglasses. All very innocent.

“It’s lovely she’s got this record of her holiday, Spinetti. I regret that I have very little to look back on from my youth.” Warren’s father talking to my father about me. He says it warmly, but his face flicks across to me with a sneer.

The footage cuts between a few drone shots, stills, and a hand held camera on the ground.

“Warren did all this,” Andropov says to my father. “I never had much time for him. A bit of a weakling. The runt of the litter.” They both laugh. Sip a drink.

“Igor, I think you underestimate the lad. He’s obviously very talented.”

“Especially with certain types of movies!” They both laugh.

Right on cue, the video cuts to me between the two beautiful boys, naked, heading to the waterhole. One of the boys jumps in. I sit on the edge. Let him spread my legs. I shuffle closer to the edge so he can torment me with his tongue. I slip into the pool and the other boy slides in behind me. I’m out of my mind horny, and they both enter me. I’m howling with pleasure.

Thank god there’s no sound on this, because my orgasm was raucous enough to scare the birds from the trees. One of the boys, the one plundering my anus, put a hand gently over my mouth. “Sssh. Is a secret game.”

“In the footage I saw this morning, your girl has a loud voice.`I never hear that when she’s with my Warren.”

The video cuts to the next morning. I’m lying naked and face up on the rock at the edge of the pool. They massage me with all sorts of exotic oils. They eat fruit from my breasts and belly. We roll over and I’m on top, straddling one of them while I suck the other. When it’s over we slip into the pool and one of them takes me again.

“That really turns me on Spinetti.” He looks directly at me.

I am watching as about fifteen people, most of whom I don’t know, are watching me fuck myself senseless. This goes on for another twenty minutes before the screen blacks out.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Gangster Girl Gabriella's Story 23-26

I move next to Andropov to eat as much humble pie as I can stomach, but my father speaks. “I have an idea, Igor.” “Spinetti?” “Her marriage to your son was clearly not properly consummated. We have it annulled. And then, instead of going back to the old ways, we come to another solution.” “Which is?” “You marry her.” A long pause. Andropov looks at me again. A sick little smile infects his face. “I marry…this…slut of yours?” My mouth is open. Nothing comes out. Then: “Please no. Please no. Please—”	Andropov continues to looks at me. That hunger. He nods slowly, like a man deciding on a cut of meat. While I look on with horror, he speaks. “My only condition is we consummate the marriage here on the plane. In front of everyone. Then there can be no misunderstanding.” “Father.” I turn to him. I am begging. I have never begged him for anything. “Please.” He shrugs. “It’s business, girl. Nothing more.” Something cold moves through me from the stomach outward. “Please.” My voice is a child’s voice. “Please, no.” The white dress. No underwear. Muscle knew. The priest is already there. The documents are already there. I say something about normal protocols requiring time. My father looks at the priest and notes, briefly, that if God can be bought, so can the Department of Births Deaths and Marriages. Everyone laughs.
“First, I would like to see what I’m getting, Spinetti,” leers Andropov. “I think we all would.” More laughter, and everyone looks at me. A pair of male hands - Muscle, of course - caresses my shoulders from behind, and my little dress falls to the floor. He rubs my nipples with his index fingers on the way through.	I want to die but, that not being an option, I try to cover myself with my arms, but Muscle spins me around to face the others on the plane. I’m being displayed. He reaches out and caresses me. Andropov lets out a wet little snigger. “Sir loves watching,” says Muscle.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Gangster Girl Gabriella's Story 27-30

“Let your fiancé look at you,” said the priest with forced piety. “I can feel his excitement mounting.” So can I. I am overcome with a mixture of emotion and fear and want to faint.	I turn around again and sit, almost involuntarily, back next to Andropov. The wedding proceeds. A ring slides onto my finger like a shackle, cold and tight. I feel the metal dig into my knuckle and wonder if it’ll leave a mark, something permanent to remember this by. I stop listening after the first few words. Is this even fucking real?
“Stand up and show Daddy what he’s giving away,” Andropov says. I realise the priest had just asked “who gives this woman away…” Andropov dips a finger in glass of champagne and traces it down my thigh, leaving a chilled and bubbly trail. I thought of Warren’s soft hands, the way they trembled. That apple fell so far from the tree it landed in a different fucking country. My father answers the priest’s question with a perfunctory flick of a finger.	I sit back down on Andropov’s knee. All I’m aware of is his breath, wet and hot. And eager. Someone takes a photo of the two of us. Our ‘official wedding photo’. That’ll be one to treasure. As you can see by my face, this has been the happiest day of my life.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Gangster Girl Gabriella's Story 31-34

Two parts of the ceremony break through my numb terror, clear as a bell. First, “honour and obey.” Love isn’t mentioned, but obey is front and centre. The second comes at the end: “You may now kiss the bride.” Cold air pushes straight down from the vents and raises the hair on my arms, my chest, my thighs. A buckle clicks. Fabric shifts. I don’t look. My nipples stick out and I feel warm tongue on them. “Beautiful,” Andropov says, but he’s not talking about my face. I’m standing again and he delivers a series of long, slobbery kisses to my breasts. I hear my father say “What a lovely service,” to the priest.	“Sit on me,” he says. “Facing them. I want Spinetti to see his daughter’s face when she really becomes my wife.” I bend my knees and straddle him. He is already hard and exposed against my inner thigh, hotter and bigger than I expect. I try to find an angle, some geometry of distance, but his hands find my hips and drag me close in one motion. There’s no preamble. It burns as it enters. His mouth is open and wet against my back and I look up, trying to avoid my father’s stare but, somehow, locking onto it like a guided missile. He watches, completely unmoved. “Move,” he growls quietly. “Or I’ll have Muscle help you.” I move. Small circles at first, mechanical, trying to find the least contact, the least friction. But he slaps my thigh, hard, and I yelp and lose my rhythm. He grabs my jaw and forces my eyes to his. “Like you mean it,” he says. “Like those island boys.” I think of them. Their smooth skin, their laughter, the way they held me afterward like something precious. I think of them and I move. I rock my hips forward and back, finding the friction he wants, and his head falls back against the leather seat with a groan that sounds almost surprised. “Better,” he says. “Much better.”
I keep staring at my father trying to conjure up hatred, but all I can manage is a blank. I look out the window. Count the seconds between breaths. I feel the eyes on me, my father’s cool appraisal. Muscle’s over-keen interest, Everyone wants a show. Andropov’s hands slide up and down my thighs. He pinches, squeezes, too hard, and I flinch but don’t stop moving. I can’t stop. The plane banks and I lean into it, use it, and he moans again, louder this time. Andropov’s hips thrust up to meet me, sharp and deliberate. I feel the impact in my spine, my teeth, the green sign blurring above. His fingers find my clit, press there, and I hate that my body responds, that weeks of nothing with Warren and then those perfect mornings have left me wired and hungry and stupid. “That’s it,” he whispers. “That’s my girl. Show them how much you want this.” I don’t want this. But I want something, and my body doesn’t know the difference. I ride him harder, chasing the wrong thing, and he licks my shoulder and laughs against my neck, a wet sound, triumphant. I face him.	My orgasm, when it comes, is small and bitter, a contraction of muscle not joy. He feels it, or pretends to, and grips my hips to still me while he finishes. Three hard thrusts and he shudders, goes slack, his forehead pressed to my sternum like we’re lovers. He withdraws and I feel another blast shoot up my belly. “There,” he says, loud enough for the cabin. “Consummated. Witnessed. Binding.” There’s a nervous round of applause. I stay where I am, sweating, dripping. No one moves to help me. The priest clears his throat and begins filling out paperwork.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Gangster Girl Gabriella's Story 35-38

Andropov lifts his head. His eyes are clearer now, colder. He pushes me off him, and I stand naked in the aisle while he adjusts himself, zips, buttons. He takes his time. His goons run around mopping him (and the plane) with tissues like there’s been a pandemic. I’m still dripping, and I grab a serviette from a catering tray. My new husband snatches it from me slaps my legs like a naughty child. “The Consummation needs witnesses,” he snarls. “Show yourself to the passengers. And your father.” “Please no…” I begin to bleat, but he slaps my arse. “You will pay for that little protest. You lost your right to any dignity in that forest this morning.” Oh god. I walk the gauntlet again. I have his seed all over me. This too is photographed for the album of the Happy Day. Eventually Miriam lobs me some tissues. “Your clothes are in the bathroom,” she says as though she’s telling me where the dog shat.	Four hours later we land on Andropov’s private island in the Adriatic near Split, Croatia. Before landing, Miriam the flight attendant hands me a bag. “Change into this. The dress you’re wearing is stained.” This draws a suppressed snigger from somewhere behind me. The new outfit is brief in a way that feels calculated. I put it on and check the mirror once, which is a mistake. It fits perfectly. I hate that it fits perfectly. I have to keep checking that my nipples are covered. I walk down the aircraft steps to the tarmac and feel the security men’s eyes move over me and think: this is what he wants, so let them look. We hold hands, pretending to be happy. The plane then takes off again with my father and his entourage. Good riddance.
Two limos wait to take us to the main house. I sit in the back of one of them, bracketed by Andropov and the security man called Claude. Andropov’s fingers trace slow patterns on my thigh, a proprietary gesture that stops just shy of my underwear. Claude watches, his breathing audible over the hum of the engine. “She’s very sexy, boss,” he says, voice thick. “Feel how soft she is, Claude,” Andropov says. Claude’s hand lands on my other leg—dry, calloused skin against mine. My body goes rigid. “Lovely, boss. Just lovely.” “Take those knickers off.” Andropov’s tone is conversational, almost tender. My hands shake as I obey, fingers fumbling under the hem of the dress. I try to fold the anger away somewhere small and quiet. “Go on, Claude. I want to watch her while you touch her.” And then to me. “This is to remind you that you have no dignity.” Claude’s touch is impersonal, efficient. I stare at the headrest in front of me and try not to be here—in this car, in this body. In one brief trip, I understand completely what I’ve gotten myself into.	We’ve arrived at the front portico where there awaits a line of shady looking older men in suits and a few scantily clad young women holding drinks trays. I’m wet. A few minutes of Claude’s probing fingers and my body betrays me again. I take my knickers and dab myself, but Andropov takes them from me and gives them to Claude “For a job well done.” There’s a breeze blowing and I’m aware that I only have an inch between my naked crotch and the hem of my dress. I manoeuvre myself across to the door from the centre seat to get out of the car. Difficult to do modestly with a short skirt that keeps riding up.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Gangster Girl Gabriella's Story 39-42

Andropov leads me to a group of men from Azerbaijan. None speak English, but their leader speaks French, as do I. One of the benefits of being brought up in several countries is that I speak four languages fluently. Andropov instructs me to “Make them want pussy. But don’t give them any.”	Miriam takes me through the small crowd to my quarters. “Mr Andropov requires you at 11pm. Someone will dress you and escort you. Until then, shower, eat some food and rest.” She turns around and stalks out.
At the appointed hour, two of his men arrive. They don’t speak, just watch as I strip bare except for the heels. One throws a flimsy silk jacket at me that barely covers my hips. The blindfold is thick velvet, pulled tight enough to press my eyelids into my skull. They march me forward. Endless corridors. The air changes—damp, then dry, then the metallic chill of a lift descending. My heels click on stone, then echo wildly, bouncing back from a cavernous space so vast the sound doesn’t return so much as multiply. “Steps,” one of them warns me, and I go up a short flight of wooden stairs. They lead me across a hollow wooden floor half a dozen paces and then stop and let go of me.	The silence is absolute, except for someone close to me - male - breathing. I wonder if I can feel his breath on my neck. Bad breath. Something brushes my leg up high. The breathing is a little louder. There’s something moving in front of me somewhere. I’m not alone. I get goosebumps. The tie on my jacket is undone. Slowly slips off. Something gently touches my belly. Then something cold, hard, pointy, touches my anus for a split second. Then my nipples. I gasp, waiting for the obvious progression that doesn’t come. Fuck this is weird.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Gangster Girl Gabriella's Story 43-46

My hands are cuffed in front of me, and anchored over my head. I stand in silence a moment longer. I’m naked, apart from my shoes. Something rubs my left nipple, and I gasp. More silence.	I hear a strange whirring noise, like rope being twirled through the air like a propeller but louder. A noise specifically designed to terrify. It gives off a breeze and, whatever it is, is getting closer to me. Louder. The breeze wafts to my crotch. To my clit. Waft. Waft. Waft. Closer, closer. Something’s going to happen. Closer. Closer to my clit. I am exhaling loudly, as a sad moan. Breath in…moan…breath in…moan. Christ, what is this?!!
Then it touches me. And I scream and thrust backwards. A sharp smack by a cane across my buttocks sends me thrusting forward again straight back into the twirling thing. Then something whips my pussy. I howl and start crying it hurts so much. Then another whack across the buttocks. And another. The twirling starts up again. And I beg “no…please…” but it gets closer. Takes forever to reach its mark. I’m moaning, screaming, gibbering half enunciated pleas of mercy, imploring a higher being for kindness, anything. This time, it’s more vicious than the last one, and follows me as I thrust back into the whip across my bum. I weep uncontrollably.	I'm again in complete silence, apart from some shuffling in front of me, and a distant muffled cough. I’m well past being curious about where I am any more. I regain my footing. Stand. Something hard and pointy teases my anus again, but this time squirts something into it. It’s warm. A finger teases me there. There’s a quiet, collective gasp behind me. It echoes through the space so it’s some distance away. There’s an audience. I have my back to it. Dear Jesus.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Gangster Girl Gabriella's Story 47-50

I'm spun around again. After the finger, a penis. Rock hard and savage. I know I cry out again. It pile drives me without mercy. The owner grabs my body and squeezes me all over. Pinches my nipples. Well someone does. Bites my back. Slaps me. It’s frenzied. And I know that it’s Andropov. It’s his smell.
He ejaculates deep into my bowels and thrusts so hard I scream. I am nowhere near cumming; I was never going to be. My body is beginning to understand the concept of consent.	He withdraws and everything goes quiet again. It makes a noise. Feels like I’m having the biggest shit in the world. His seed dribbles down my legs for the second time today. Then someone lowers my arms and removes the handcuffs. Walks me forward, down steps.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Gangster Girl Gabriella's Story 51-54

He walks me forwards, down steps and into the audience. Dear god no. Please no. I feel hands, fingers, mouths all over me. The first group are dressed. I feel their suits scratching at my naked body.	The next lot are naked. Maybe it’s the first group having removed their clothes. Now I can feel penises rubbing against me. Inside me. Pumping. Obscenity in a million different languages. I can’t count how many. A buzzing sound is close to me, a dildo, and it’s thrust inside me. I hear grunting and laughing. I’m sobbing.
I’m thrown against a wall and eaten ravenously. Just as my body shows signs of betraying me it stops, and I hear male protests in a language I don’t speak.	I’m picked up and forced to straddle someone, my hands placed on his cock. It’s rock hard and I feel it come immediately. There’s so much cum I start to laugh hysterically. It isn’t funny. I’m just going insane. I’m dragged off.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Gangster Girl Gabriella's Story 55-58

Someone is trying to take me from behind, at the same time as I’m dragged into a wet, probing kiss. They’ve been drinking whisky and Cuban cigars. Someone digs the hot end of a cigarette into my leg and I swing a fist in the general direction of the perpetrator and scream “Fuck off!!” about six times. My fist hits someone. I remove my blindfold.	I’m in a small theatre and it goes very quiet, very quickly. Some of the men (and a few women) dress hurriedly and melt away around me. Now that I've removed my blindfold they're scared that I can see them. Makes them feel like the perverted arseholes they are. Many keep on going.
The large quorum that stays reboots the abuse frenzy. It’s pure plunder. A few watch. A couple smile. I am surrounded like zoo animals at feed time.	I wonder if the man from Azerbaijan is here somewhere. I hope not. I hope that he gets what’s going on here. I look around while someone pounds me, but can’t see him anywhere.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Gangster Girl Gabriella's Story 59-62

The crowd thins, leaving the desperate, the real sickos, the stragglers wanting seconds. I hang and let it happen until it stops.	Andropov orders that I display myself one last time. He wants me to smile. Is that sick fuck kidding? No he's not. He's actually taking photos. The stragglers burst into a scattered applause, but they're clapping him, not me. They stand there watching, naked, dicks still dripping. After all that, I’m led - naked and dripping - back to my room. I feel like the new toy at Christmas after the novelty has worn off. I truly want to die.
In the last not quite twenty-two hours I have had sex with - conservatively - nineteen different people not counting those who came back for seconds. I have assisted in the copulation of another four. I have had seven orgasms (one of which was in the back seat of a limo) been divorced and remarried, joined the mile high club, totally disrespected the culture of another country, flashed my cunt to half the local gangster population, had three showers and flown halfway across Europe.	The shower water scalds, but I don’t turn it down. Instead I just stand under it. I scrub my skin until it’s raw and stinging, the soap burning between my legs and the welts across my buttocks.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Gangster Girl Gabriella's Story 63-66

I manage to pull on cotton pajamas, each movement a fresh ache. I collapse onto the bed and curl into a tight ball, knees to chest, shaking. A low, wounded sound escapes my lips, over and over. Every part of me is a map of pain—the welted stripes, the deep throb between my legs, the burn on my leg, the bite marks on my shoulder. But it’s the pounding in my mind that won’t heal so quickly. I’m broken. Inside and out. My hurt and my rage is unfathomable, and someone’s going to know. And if that person decides to kill me, they’ll be doing me a favour.	At this point, dear reader, it's time I give last night's shit show some context. To be a woman in the Spinetti crime family is to be a no one. Despite being dumb, lazy and entitled, my three brothers inherited important roles in my father’s operation. One fucked up so badly he was pushed out of a helicopter into an active volcano in Vanuatu. “Rendered to fat in less than three seconds,” my father liked to say. Despite being able to speak four languages - my brothers and my father can barely manage one - and knowing the business inside out, and being INTERESTED in it, I got nothing.
I behaved badly because I had nothing better to do. Parties, men, endless grinding. And rapes. The first time was when someone in my family plucked my cherry not long after I reached puberty, a gift I never asked for. It was horrible, but what’s one more horrible thing in a house full of them? I remember the sharp, tearing pain and the weight of him, a relative whose name I can still taste like bile. My mother dealt with it by putting me on the pill and leaving home. My father said I probably asked for it—and sometimes, in the dark, I almost believe him. I had a very little black dress I'd sometimes wear if I wanted some action. It always worked. I was the flame. They were the moths.	I think it’s only fair at this point that I give what happened last night some context. To be a woman in the Spinetti crime family is to be a no one. Despite being dumb, lazy and entitled, my three brothers inherited important roles in my father’s operation. One fucked up so badly he was pushed out of a helicopter into an active volcano in Vanuatu. “Rendered to fat in less than three seconds,” my father liked to say.

 

[tanuno]

[Tantalism] Gangster Girl Gabriella's Story 67-70

	I got nothing. I behaved badly because I had nothing better to do. Parties, men, endless grinding, rapes. It began when someone in my family plucked my cherry not long after I reached puberty, a gift I never asked for. It was horrible, but what’s one more horrible thing in a house full of them? I remember the sharp, tearing pain and the weight of him, a relative whose name I can still taste like bile. My mother dealt with it by putting me on the pill and leaving home. My father said I probably asked for it—and sometimes, in the dark, I almost believe him. Love? Love was something you gave a puppy. Humans, on the other hand, you fucked. You fucked them when you were horny, but you also fucked them when you wanted something. Sex could be fun, but I discovered early it was also currency.
	I had a sugar daddy for a while, a language professor. He’d been teaching me language for ages, but when I turned 18 I followed him to Paris and moved in with him. He was a funny, dry old bloke in his sixties. And we’d play learning games, games that’d always end with me taking my clothes off and sitting on his knee. He loved exploring me with his tongue, telling me in French or Italian where he was taking it next. It always ended up between my legs, me howling with pleasure.
	A Mr Lorenzo was sometimes there too. He was a bit younger - maybe fifty? - and we’d book into a dive of an outer suburb Paris motel littered with used condoms, and we’d do coke and tear the place apart. For a cultured mob, the French do grunge filth reaslly well. There was something about how grungy it was that made it more fun.
I made this little video after my time in Paris with The Professor and Charles Lorenzo. It speaks for itself. I stayed away from home a lot of the time because some of the unsavoury men my father got to go his dirty work made me deeply uncomfortable. He sent me to boarding school where my nickname was Houdini because I kept getting out and finding someone to keep me warm at night. I got expelled. We changed countries, we did all sorts of things and I’d find my gang and restart. So now you know why I’m so fucked up. And why I behaved how I did the following day.