“It’s me, Chloe” Her voice is bright — too bright — he can hear the carefully repressed tension beneath the light, cheery tone.
He’s fairly sure he knows which Chloe, but he decides to play her cool.
“Who?”
A little pause; her heart skitters, she almost hangs up.
But she needs him, and so she tries to be flirty and coy;
“You USED to call me Pretty Chloe, last year.”
“I know a lot of pretty girls.”
He’s sure now, and the memory is a sweet one.
A perfect, corn fed blonde, with ripe apple tits, a svelte ass; long, long legs, and a lovely face to go with it.
It was a pity she hadn’t made the grade.
Chloe, of course, remembers too. She had been at a few parties, and was obviously looking to attract a powerful, rich protector; revealingly dressed, but acting cool to the youngbloods, moving relentlessly on with the older, more assertive members of any group she was with.
He assessed her as smart enough to be an entertaining pussy, but not smart enough to be any trouble. He had registered his interest with a few society bitches, and she had been delivered to him at a midsummer party, breathless and nervous, carefully making sure he got a good view of her decolletage, on very high strappy heels, but doing her best to be cool.
He was genuinely cool, affected to be amused, but uninterested, gave her his assistant’s number on some pretext and asked her to leave her details. She hadn’t been sure if this was a genuine job that he might have for her, or it was just a manipulative way of getting her details without any suggestion of personal contact — it put him in charge, left her unsure.
That was OK with her. It was exactly the sort of assured, controlled, powerful way her dream man would behave. She still had an option — she could decline to call. She called first thing Monday, gave her details, received absolutely nothing definite in return, and simply had to wait.
And wait.
She didn’t dare go out in case she missed a call. It was getting silly, but she even refused afternoon dates with girlfriends.
Eventually, he did call. Ten at night, she was getting sleepy; she knew it was him from the way the hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she picked up the handset. Not that she had any illusions about love — this was just … important.
“It’s M. I’d like to take you for dinner tomorrow night. Are you free?”
Just like that. God, but he was sure of himself. She is so utterly on the back foot. She attempts to reprove him with her tone as she says:
“Ye-e-es, I suppose so”
A short silence, during which she screws up her face, hoping she hasn’t said the wrong thing.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
His voice is firm, calm, definite.
She caves in immediately — gratefully;
“Oh, yes, yes, of course, I’d love to.”
“Good. Tell me, do you take it up the ass?”
She can feel herself freeze, surprised, then shocked, then hurt, at last weak, as she finds herself unable to get angry, to slam down the ‘phone.
She tries, nevertheless;
“Excuse me?”
He is calm, amused; “You heard, pretty”;
A really long silence, then she speaks, in a low , husky voice, ashamed.
“Please, don’t do this to me. I do, really want to meet you… OK? … and, and I do … I will… I do put out. Yes.”
“You mean, yes, I can fuck you in the ass?”
A long pause. she can hear her heart thumping. How can he be so direct? In a low, soft voice;
“Okay then, Yes”
“Say it then. Tell me.”
She giggles — he likes the sound of it — a weak, girlish giggle — she needs to pretend it’s all fun to herself, even though she knows he really is serious. Its a weak position, and they both know she will be ruthlessly exploited.
He’s got her number, and she can’t even wriggle.
“Yes, YES, you can. You can fuck me in the ass!”
“Good girl. I want you at my office around 7.30. Don’t wear any panties. Sexy high heels, push up brassiere — you know the drill. I’ll fuck you there and then we can go to eat. Bring a clean dress and your make up - you can use the bathroom here.”
Then he hung up, not waiting for an answer. She sat there, in the dark, her heart thumping, trying not to cry. But cry she did, softly. Because she knew that even though he had showed her he would use her as a whore, she was going to go, going to dress her best, knowing she was going to be crudely ass-fucked before he even bought her dinner.
Why? Because he was what she had been looking for — because she wanted the deal she was sure he was offering.
She knew were she was headed. She had no idea where she was headed. She couldn’t have imagined it.
When she arrived the next day, 10 minutes early, to be stared at and giggled at by his two PA’s — both gorgeous, both dressed to thrill, demure but definitely sexy — she was quaking, blushing, frightened.
It was so obvious they knew what was going to happen to her next. She felt like a whore.
Ushered at last into his enormous, imposing, masculine office, after a half hour wait, her fear grew. There was another man there — one she recognised, but couldn’t place — a big, solidly built man, tall and broad. They greeted her politely, then ignored her as they concluded a business conversation.
The tall man made no secret of looking her over.
“You know, if you threw in a weekend with this pretty piece, the deal could be even sweeter!”
He was joking, she supposed, but it sounded fairly serious! As they both looked at her, she had to giggle, weakly, to make sure they knew she thought it a funny joke, but she knew that the quaver in her voice made it clear how unsure she was.
“Oh, well I haven’t broken her in yet myself, so I think that’ll have to wait for next time”
They were talking about fucking her, right in front of her! Again, she simpered, desperately trying to pretend it was all just playful banter. It was awful! And yet, she found she needed to meet the tall man’s gaze, to see how he looked at her; needed to know that the possibility of fucking her mattered to him, that it wasn’t only a joke.
Too late she realised that her own eyes betrayed her more than his broad smile did him. He burst out laughing
“Well, break her good, ol’ buddy, and then keep her on a leash, cause if that look means anything, I think you got a live one here!”
This time there was no laughing it off; she blushed crimson, hung her head as they chuckled and said their goodbyes.
He goes back to his desk, ignoring her, scanning papers, concentrating, while she waits, knowing that this is done on purpose, but not being able to deny its effectiveness in making her feel unimportant.
She dares not speak or move. Her flush mounts. As she watches him, through lowered lashes, she feels how deeply she wants him to want her, and the feeling gets stronger as she waits. He buzzes for a secretary; a girl comes in, takes some papers, some instructions.
It is obvious that C is being made to wait. On her way out, the secretary smirks at her; all C can do is smile back, weakly, blushing.
The smirk broadens as the girl exits. All Chloe can do is concentrate on looking alluring, sitting well, knowing she is being a whore, displaying herself for sex. She goes through patience, into irritation, anger, then, suddenly, acceptance.
Acceptance is blissful. She relaxes, her smile is easier, she shifts her position to one more obviously sexually inviting, knees wide spread, leaning forward slightly to emphasise her breasts.
It seems to have some effect; a few minutes later, he looks up, smiles easily at her, slowly appreciating her pose, appreciating her spreading blush, her careful maintenance of the appearance of relaxation as he lets her know that he sees how wanton her pose is;
“Pretty! I’m so sorry — I have some matters to attend to, but you make an nice adornment to the office. Maybe I should keep you here.”
He’s smiling, obviously joking; she smiles and giggles a little, letting him see her breasts sway, letting him see she wants to please him. But she is also aware of a note of seriousness in his tone. He could keep her there, if he wanted, she thinks — he’s so rich he probably could make it happen.
Her heart beats faster. She’s a little frightened, and a little more excited. God, but she likes this, she feels alive — however strange and shaming it is.
She decides to flirt.
“Would you like that — to have me here all the time? Would you … uh … keep me on a … a chain?”
She can’t believe she said that, giggles some more, deliciously nervous; god, but this is intense! She brings one foot up onto the chair — it is possible that he can see her naked pussy above her stocking tops. At the very least he can see a lot of her smooth thigh. She is flushed, her pulse jumping.
“Could be, if I had to. I’d certainly have you wearing less than you are now, and dressed to make your position clear — maybe in a skimpy little maid’s uniform — or a bunny costume — what do you think?”
She is overcome by a surge of blood pumping through her — she can feel her neck pulsing, hard, as she realises he is serious — he will do this to her, if she allows it. She is trembling now as he comes toward her, weak, soft and helpless as his hands find and possess her breasts, casually, confidently, and he’s only half speaking to her now;
“No, I think for you just a pretty little corset, very tight; high heels and stockings, and maybe black leather collar and cuffs.”
And then his hand is at her pussy and she’s opening herself for him, moving for him, knowing she must offer herself completely to this man if she wants him to want her — and she does.
To be rejected now would be terrible.
The combination of his skilful fingers and the powerful effect her surrender of her body has on her brings her to a high pitch of arousal; in a few short moments, and she gives a tiny cry.
He smiles, amused;
“Now , pretty Chloe, ask me, very nicely, to fuck you in the ass, and tell me it’s OK if I hurt you.”
There is only a tiny hesitation, and then, in a soft, throaty voice, she complies;
“Please. Please M, will … will you fuck me in the ass? I don’t mind if you … if you hurt me.”
He’s not touching her now, standing straight over her, but her thighs are still wide spread, pussy lips glistening, one breast spilled from the low cut dress, unable to meet his eye. Without any seeming effort, he uses one leg to flip her over so that she is lying face down, ass-up, sideways across the chair, dress rucked up about her waist.
There is a little pause, and then her wrists are tied, then the cord — it’s his tie she realises — is looped and tied at her neck; and the tension in her arms is pulling it tight around her neck.
She is about to complain when a handkerchief is stuffed tightly into her mouth, held there. Panic rises in her. Then his cock is in her pussy; rammed inexorably deeper — his cock feels huge. It’s good, inside her, she knows she is moving, helplessly, liking it, wanting it. He fucks her a few times, then pulls out — she knows what’s coming next, tries to keep calm, as every move tightens the knot at her throat.
Then he’s forcing himself into her tight little asshole. It hurts, it really does, but he is more thorough than cruel, although in the end it is just the relentlessness of his thrusts that she remembers, delicious in her memory as it was all-consuming at the time.
Somehow she finds a way to relieve the tightness at her throat, and then he begins to touch her clit as he moves within her and she cannot resist him, moving desperately with him now, wanting it, wanting whatever he wants…
She is crying softly even as the orgasm hits her, and continues for some while, as he cuts her loose, still moving his cock lazily in her ass, making her gasp, until he pulls out.
Her climax is devastating, not really pleasurable, forced from her as evidence of her own wanton-ness. It gives him power over her — even more than before. She’s fucked guys before, who she didn’t like, because they had money, or could get her somewhere she wanted to be, and she’s fucked guys before, who have been a little rough, a little dominating. But she has always felt in control of herself.
Until now. With M, at least for now, she has given in to him, has no thought of her own agenda.
She waits, in a slight daze, calmer now, and realises that she feels better now than she has done in days.
It’s done — he’s used her like a whore, and she’s let him — no, encouraged him to — do it.
The situation is clear between them now — she’s his whore. She’s been hovering in a world where girls sleep with men for what they can get for so long that it seems much clearer to be a straightforward whore.
And he’s a man worth belonging to, a man who knows what he wants and is rich and strong and powerful enough to get it.
She cries, a little, for her lost innocence, but she is happy.
After a little while, he returns from his en-suite washroom, as immaculate as ever. She is kneeling, trembling, by the chair, dress still rucked up, breasts free. She cannot meet his eye, but she finds herself moving a little, carefully arranging her position, wanting to look sexy, needing him to find her pretty.
So, needy. And so she tingles with gratitude when he says;
“A pretty sight indeed! ”
Then;
“You’ve never been whipped, have you?”
Her shocked, speechless silence is his answer. He grins;
“Thought not. The thing is, you’re made for it. I’ll have Tristan introduce you to the riding crop at the cottage this weekend. Now, be a good girl, and go get changed. If you’re longer than 10 minutes, or anything less than desirable, I’ll take one of the girls instead.”
When she emerges from the washroom, only a few minutes later, she is trembling. She would ask him to cancel the date, only she is too frightened. The dark red, tiny cocktail dress only just grazes the intricate lace tops of her stockings, the high heels are very high, and the halter neck bow just begs to be jerked loose, her breasts being so obviously unfettered beneath the gauzy top.
She falters, hoping at the same time that he finds her unattractive, and abandons her, and that the dress has the desired effect and makes her mouth-wateringly sexy. Her knees are weak. He smiles an easy smile and offers her a small fur wrap;
“I think you’ll need this!”
And she relaxes a little, and then more, as he is charming, relaxed, never more than gently teasing her, making her giggle, allowing her a little fun.
The restaurant is stunning, the food and service exquisite, but she can hardly eat. He doesn’t seem to mind. Several friends of his come over and talk to him. she is introduced, by her first name only, but hardly spoken to. They look at her a great deal though, and a couple comment on her breasts. M laughs with them, agrees;
“They are lush, aren’t they? First thing you notice about her.“
They are invited to a ‘club-visit’ by a society lady — she recognises Chloe, and smiles, in a strange way.
This is an unfinished prologue. The first couple of paragraphs are a year after the action here — Chloe has blown M out, finding him too demanding, too cruel, but now she is calling him back, offering herself on his terms. You’ll have to figure out what happens then for yourself, as I’m not intending to write more of this.
