This is the only fragment worth keeping of an early piece. It is rather cruel in places
She makes it to the salon just in time, having had to give the taxi driver extra money –– all she had in fact, making it simple to comply with that part of her orders. She approaches the desk, feeling desperately vulnerable –– worse than naked almost, in the high heels, miniscule vest top and tiny skirt, and horribly conscious of the well-dressed middle-aged lady clients waiting in the lobby beyond.
“Hello, I… I’m Chloe, and … And I need to wait for F”
The girl behind the counter looks at her, coldly, without a trace of customer friendliness;
“You’re a minute late.”
“No, no, I checked!” Chloe is immediately terrified –– she cannot face more punishment today.
“Are you arguing?”
The voice has a dangerous, eager note.
“No, no, of course not, I … I’m sorry”
She’s quivering with fright.
“You will be. Sign this consent form please. No, it’s not for you to read, just sign and date it, here, here, and here. Good. Now, go through that door on the right, all the way to the end, and wait.”
She’s kept waiting a while: strangers pass her, looking frankly at her barely covered charms, and all she can do is stand and blush. At last, she is ushered into a room, where two more white coated women calmly undress her, bathe her, massage her, apply soothing ointments, depilatory creams, waxing strips, toning treatments, all with the minimum of speech — they give her to understand that she should not speak either, and truthfully, it is easy to comply.
Finally, she is bathed again, her hair coiled up onto her head, tendrils hanging down, alluring. She is made up, elegantly but eye-catching –– with delicate pale blue eyeshadow and a coral red lipstick (the same is applied to her sex lips and nipples); dressed in delicious silk lingerie –– a tight corset, laced yet tighter, that cups, supports and separates her breasts without covering them at the front, offering them blatantly, the nipples inviting attention, swaying at the slightest movement; hold up coffee cream stockings with seams and elegant lacework cuffs; a tall lace choker that has something stiff inside forcing her to keep her chin lifted; elbow length lace half mittens, high-heeled wedge mules, a tiny wrap around broderie anglaise skirt and an equally tiny bolero in the same thin fabric, with only the flimsiest of ribbon ties to hold it across her jiggling breasts.
She feels incredible –– she has never had clothes, treatment, so expensive, so luxurious, and yet…
In a tall mirror, she sees herself –– a sex toy –– personality faded out by the gloved hands, the trimmed pubes, constrained hair, strong make-up, all the emphasis on the jutting breasts and long legs leading to the barely protected crotch. She is at once overwhelmed by a terrible mix of pride, shame and gratitude.
She has never seen herself looking so beautiful, and yet, and yet…
But it takes her breath away, and she falls in love with the idea of herself as a perfect sex fantasy –– a living fucking machine, devoting herself utterly to becoming F’s perfect servant. They pull her arms behind her, somehow link the mittens all the way up so that her arms are immobilised. She is blindfolded. A lead is clipped to her collar, and she is led along the corridor.
At a corner, they stop abruptly, one of the women leans in and whispers ;
“The cameras don’t reach this corner, but we have to be quick. Let me get you wet. you must always be wet for them –– if not you’ll be whipped. Move yourself on my fingers, any way you like it. Do it, stupid girl!”
And so, hesitantly at first, she finds herself working her hips onto the stranger’s fingers, shamed at how quickly she becomes thoroughly, unmistakeably wet. The woman snickers in her ear;
“Slut!”
They take her to F, sitting in a sunny guest lounge, at her ease in an armchair.
The lovely redhead stands, legs slightly apart, breasts outthrust by the restraint of her arms, blindfolded, trembling gently. She hopes — fervently hopes — that F is here, but has no way of knowing who or how many are in the room. The minders are at her sides, a hand from each side at her upper arms, softly holding, but with a clear promise of control should she attempt to move. She is to stay put.
Fawzia approaches, lazily pushes a finger into C’s mouth. C, not knowing who or what this is, nevertheless opens her lips and allows the invasion of one and then two fingers, gently sucking, because she is frightened not to –– anyway, that’s what a sex toy would do. It’s astonishing how utterly demeaning this simple occurrence is.
The bolero is opened, her nipples caressed –– they are stiff and so tender from the repeated abuse they have suffered, but this time each in turn is gently suckled in a warm mouth before they are again covered, the lace retied. Chloe shivers with desire. Lastly, the little skirt is lifted, and two fingers casually enter her sex, at which she cannot suppress a tiny cry of shame and fear and pleasure mingled. How terrible to be so casually vulnerable! To be so slickly easy to penetrate! Then her clit hood is pulled back, and her nubbin is softly taken between two more fingers. One of her minders leans in and quietly tells her;
“Move sexily now, excite yourself –– if you make sure you show what a slut you are, and do it prettily, you may be allowed to come. If not, you will be whipped until you piss yourself.”
It is no easier than it was when she had to masturbate for the Germans, but there is no option –– it simply does not occur to her to demur. She begins to move, to push herself against the unknown one’s fingers, which are so lazily intimate with her most private and sensitive parts, which do not hesitate, now and then, to inflict pain through slow, relentless pinches.
She feels her breasts sway as she moves, and, with the mirror image so clear in her mind, imagines how utterly wanton she must look, and it turns her on, and she moves ever more sensually, urgently, increasingly without restraint, suppressing her shame, her fear — not so much in the service of her own pleasure, but in the understanding that she is to offer her weakness in finding pleasure through such mechanical manipulation, in such degrading circumstances, as a tribute to F’s power over her — whether or not F is even present.
She is giving herself, on F’s behalf, to this unknown who manipulates her tender clit so gloriously, conscious of how she must roll her head so, to get her breasts moving, of making sure her face remains pretty, licking her top lip with the tip of her tongue, letting the swaying ripple through her body; accepting the pain, when it comes, as part of the glory of it all.
The orgasm, at last, is terribly intense, pleasurable, and destructive. The mixture of glorious pleasure and deep humiliation is corrosive, and tears run down her cheeks, feeling her nipples jiggling as her chest shakes. To come so freely, so helplessly –– in such circumstances! Only a thoroughgoing slut could do so! If she were told she were to die now, she thinks, she would not resist.
Again, a voice at her ear;
“Control yourself now, or you will receive strong electric shocks at your sex and nipples.”
At this threat, something breaks inside her, and she begins to struggle wildly, crying out;
‘No! No!”
Aware that she has transgressed — feeling the hands tighten at her arms, holding her fast, she realises that the threatened punishment is coming — imminent, and her whole body rejects the idea; it cannot be! Electrical shocks! No! Impossible! Unacceptable! No!
But her pulling and jerking is to no avail; she is tightly held, ankles hook around her own from each side, so that her legs are forcibly parted, her sex open, and then the unbelievable, the impossible becomes real.
The outrageous shock as electricity seems to sear her nipple like a red-hot poker, making her scream, hoarsely; none of which stops the immediate application of the prod to her other nipple; another appalling, unacceptable shock jerks her like a marionnete controlled by a madman.
Then some part of her manages to translate the fear of the threatened shock at her sex into control, and she forces herself to stand still, to calm her breathing, begins to beg, abject, humble, earnest, desperate;
“Please, please, I’m calm now, please, please don’t…”
“If you are calm you will accept the shock at your cunt. If you are not, the intensity will be doubled, and we will begin again. You will open yourself for us please, and ask for it. Ask nicely to have your pussy shocked.”
And quivering, snorting her tears back, fighting the almost overwhelming, desperate impulse of her poor abused body to flee, to cringe, to do anything rather than open herself, she obeys, hearing herself ask to be hurt, feeling the cool metallic touch of the torture device at her sex and moaning piteously, softly, even before the pain, which is like every sort of injury at once, and twists her up so that they drop her to the floor.
And something more is broken in her –– the imposition of the will of others into her most private parts, the continuous reinforcement of her vulnerability to savage sexual torture, the ruthless way in which her own deep sexual responses are manipulated to make her weakness, her wanton-ness public knowledge –– all keeps eating away at that part of her which might resist.
“Remove her blindfold now. Thank you, you may leave.”
At last, Chloe knows it is Fawzia who has been using her. Tears of gratitude mist her eyes –– she had hardly dared hope…
“Come over here, pretty, and kneel on the table for me.”
“Not good enough! Open your legs wider –– you will be whipped for that failing later on. That’s better. You are looking lovely, I may tell you. Here, let me open your blouse –– your nipples betray you as always, slut. Did they show you what you are, in the mirror? Do you like your new image?”
“Yes, Madam, thank you Madam,” Chloe manages to say, in a small, tearstained voice.
“Good, you’ll be coming here frequently from now on –– they will prepare you when you are to be used, which will be often. You’ll always do exactly as you are told here, always submit to any expectations or requests, always be prettily polite and eager to please –– anyone here has the right to use all your holes in any way at all, or punish you as cruelly as they wish — even maim or disfigure you, for any reason, or for none –– do you understand?”
Chloe nods,
“Yes Madam”, in a low, breathy voice.
She is melting –– this is terrible, and also perfect; she is in a dream. Fawzia reaches forward and lazily grasps C’s swollen, abused clitoris. The girl is wet again. She can’t help flicking a glance up at F, deliberately widening her thighs further, offering herself, wanting Fawzia to see in her eyes how much she wants to give herself. The inevitable cruel pinching is met with only a soft and expressively submissive moan, shamed eyelids flickering shut and a further offering push.
Fawzia laughs, and Chloe flushes hotly, dropping her gaze, shamed but mostly grateful.
“You like me hurting your little clit, don’t you, pussy?”
C’s voice is shaky, low, but clear,
“Y … Yes, Madam, thank you Madam.”
“Well, how about this then; every time you come into my office, you will wait to be spoken to. If I say ‘What do you want?’, or something similar, your response will be to curtsey prettily, raising your skirt to show your pussy, and ask me very politely to be cruel to you. Do you think you can do that?”
“Yes Madam.”
“Give it a try then, pretty”
Doing her best from a sitting position, and with linked arms, Chloe pulls at the tiny skirt hem, looks briefly up at F, her eyes full of softness, and says;
“Please, Madam, I … I beg you to be cruel to me”
“No, no, that doesn’t sound right. I think ‘please hurt me’ will do better. Try again”
“Please, Madam, please hurt me.”
“That’s better. Remember that.”
It is longer and harsher this time, but Chloe remains open and soft, only mewing with pain as her poor clit is nipped between lacquered nails and twisted.
Fawzia leaves her then and goes out of the door. Chloe is left alone for a while, to think. She doesn’t want to think, everything is so frightening, so she concentrates on holding herself as prettily, as provocatively, as she can.
Eventually, just as she thinks she may go mad with it, the door opens and Ms F is back.
“You signed these papers before.”
“Yes Madam.”
“They were consent forms. You signed them on the way in. You have already consented to just about anything we choose to do with you. Your life as a free person is done with; over — but I want to make sure that you understand just what your life is going to be from now on.”
“You must understand that you are going to be fucked and abused by strangers, regularly –– one, five, twenty or more at a time, from now on –– that all your holes will be freely available for the pleasure of others; that there are no rules at all governing limits of how you may be used; that your wellbeing is of no importance and will not be considered.”
C’s world goes dim for a second, the words ring in her head –– hardly news, after the last 24 hours, but still shocking in their clarity; but she knows she will answer;
“Yes, Madam,” her voice is tiny, breathy, but clear.
“Tell me then.”
Her eyes flicker and close; her chest heaves;
“I … understand that … that I am going to be f … fucked and … and abused by strangers … regularly … in all my … h … all my holes.”
She can’t be saying this! But she is, and what is more, it is having a powerful effect on her imagination.
“What about limits?”
“There … there are no limits on how I may be used.”
“You understand that you are going to be regularly and thoroughly whipped, and otherwise tortured; at your breasts and sex as well as generally, and as much for entertainment as for training or punishment purposes?”
It is harder to answer now, but she knows it is all the same thing, and that somehow it is obvious and unarguable that she be so cruelly treated.
“Yes Madam”.
“Tell me.”
“I … I am to be … regularly and … and … thoroughly whipped, And … and tortured.”
Her voice is fading; a tiny breath.
“Where, pussy?”
“At my breasts, and my sex, as well as my ass.”
“And you consent to all of this?”
C’s chest begins to rise and fall faster, it is one thing to accept, another to actively consent. Her lips tremble, she blinks back tears;
“P…please…”
“Look at me. Good. Your verbal consent is not required –– in fact it is irrelevant. We’ve come too far now to permit any possibility of your being indiscreet. When we need you no longer you will be treated with some fairly heavy ECT, so that your memory is scrambled. In the meantime, your express consent is for my satisfaction purely. If you can’t give it prettily now, I’ll use the shock prod on you a few times, and ask again. So tell me, do you consent to all this? Tell me it’s what you want most in the world.”
A long moment, and then Chloe looks timidly but directly into F’s eyes;
“Please, Madam, I… I really, really want this. I’m so grateful for you for giving me this opportunity to please you. If it pleases you, I am … Happy, to be fucked … And … Whipped … And … Abused.”
A pause, then, low and heartfelt;
“I … I only hope I can please you.”
And she is shivering and tears are rolling slowly down her cheek, but she is hoping she has pleased her mistress. It would seem she has, as Fawzia smiles, pats her sex, and says;
“You have no choice but to please me, please anyone, from now on, pussy, and any failure to please will result in the cruellest punishments. Now, are you ready to go shopping?”
It takes a few seconds, but an excess of desperate, fearful joy wells up in C’s chest, and she can only nod.
The only concession to modesty made as they leave the building and walk toward F’s limo is that the restraints attached to the mittens are released, except for those at her wrists, and the ties of the bolero are loosely twined together, reducing, but not eliminating the chances of her breasts being exposed by a breath of wind.
The chain lead dangles from her collar, and it is left up to Chloe to figure out how to walk and disguise the fact that her wrists are tied. Fawzia seems not to be interested, walking a few paces ahead. Chloe is overwhelmed by the sensation of appearing in a public place with so little clothing –– and so provocative! The fact that the car-park is basically empty makes little difference to her intense self consciousness.
After a short drive to a private underground parking garage in the centre of town, in the lift to the ground, two men get in at the floor above theirs –– looking like a Russian oligarch and his man-mountain minder, and the reality of her skimpy outfit is powerfully brought home to her; she is consumed by shame, feeling her cheeks burn; she cannot lift her gaze from the floor, is unable to stop herself coyly lifting one knee, to protect her crotch from their imagined stares.
Fawzia notices –– the pose is actually extraordinarily provocative –– only a girl who feels terribly vulnerable would need it –– so that it simply draws attention to the shortness of her skirt, its lack of opacity, the naked thighs exposed above the stocking tops.
However, it is strictly forbidden for Chloe to close her thighs without orders, and so, noting the two men’s obvious approval of C’s existence, she reaches out and caresses the girl’s cheek, and calmly, clearly, says;
“Open your thighs, naughty pussy, and remind me to whip your sex, hard, later.”
It seems impossible, but she feels even more deeply ashamed; she complies at once, and feels (correctly), that she has to say;
“Sorry Madam.”
She can feel cool air on her poor battered pussy, so vulnerable, which now begins to tingle and, yes, she is feeling hot down there. She is appalled and yet further excited by her own wanton-ness, feels her nipples lazily stiffen, feels the men’s gazes on her like heat from a furnace.
The little interchange has broken the ice in the lift, and the oligarch type speaks, in a heavy accent, to F;
“She is yours, this pretty?”
Fawzia answers, coolly, as if there were an everyday question;
“Not completely –– I have a share in her, with other partners.”
This calm statement of what she realises is effectively fact explodes in C’s mind, but in this situation, she just has to bottle it up, although she cannot prevent her chest from rising and falling more deeply and rapidly than before, to the evident interest of the bodyguard, who grunts a little.
“So you share her around, yes?”
He is chuckling, clearly enjoying this idea hugely.
“Within a very exclusive group of partners and our favoured clients, yes.”
“Clients?”
“We’re a very discreet law firm.”
The lift is slowing.
“Hmmm, maybe I should be client, yes? Please, take my card. Please look me up, than call me if you want to talk. Maybe someday we get to use this pretty lady huh, Gorgol?”
“Thank you, I will indeed. Now, Chloe, curtsey to the gentlemen, and thank them for their interest.”
Like a frightened rabbit, Chloe looks up briefly into the laughing, relaxed face of the oligarch, then down again, flushing deeply, as she raises the hem of her tiny skirt (difficult with her wrists linked, but she manages to grasp opposite sides of the hem at the rear, so that she is forced to pull the whole skirt up, rather than just flap the front hem), exposing her shaven puss, and softly, sweetly, says;
“Thank you sirs, for your interest in me”, just as the lift doors open.
Her skirt is down again a second later, but she is sure the two fashionably dressed woman waiting to go down have seen. As they turn to walk down the street, her legs almost give way. She is discovering that, while her strongest feelings are embarrassment, fear and shame, she is strongly turned on by the risk and humiliation of public sexual submissiveness. She is also steadily more dependent on F, whose coolness and certainty is all she can cling to, and so she hurries to keep up with her mistress (her OWNER!), feeling her unfettered breasts jiggle and sway as her steps quicken.
Fawzia turns to enter an old-fashioned leather goods shop, incredibly posh; cool and surprisingly dark inside –– all saddles, satchels, handmade boots. It is rather empty apart from an old and archaically dressed man who is re-arranging a display of fishing boots. Chloe feels utterly out of place and horribly uncomfortable to be in such surroundings, dressed as she is. It’s all wrong.
“Can I help you Madam?” to Fawzia of course –– no-one could mistake the power relationship between Chloe and F, who answers, matter of factly;
“I want a dog whip –– this little puss has been naughty –– she needs a thrashing.”
There is a silence; the man is obviously a little taken aback. He looks briefly at C, who is blushing fierily, dying with embarrassment, unable to believe that those words have been uttered in public, to a stranger, about her. His eyes gleam, horridly, for a second, before his professional mask is restored. He comes to a decision, and what he says astonishes Chloe;
“Certainly, Madam, it is always a pleasure to deal with an experienced customer. Will you please step into the private fitting room while I call young Mr Adams. Will you take tea?”
Chloe is ready to die of shame, quivering uncontrollably.
“Thank you, yes; and a bowl of water for the pussy.”
He inclines his head and ushers them through a dark, panelled door at the rear of the shop. Inside is a spacious, oak-panelled sitting room, with heavy leather sofas and dark wooden furniture. Chloe stands with her feet quite obviously planted apart, not far into the room, not knowing what else to do. The room is not remarkable, just very, very impressive, in an old fashioned way.
Chloe feels like a silly teenager; overawed, outclassed, terrified of doing the wrong thing, letting her mistress down; most of all, though, she is excited, trembling lightly –– she may be here as some sort of chattel, but she is in the land of the rich and powerful –– the people who really run things –– and they want her –– she is abused, but she is also continually told she is pretty, desirable, sexy. They want her to look gorgeous, walk sexily, show off her breasts; they dress her in beautiful, if skimpy clothes, and lovely shoes with gorgeous heels, have her make-up done so beautifully; she keeps her face calm, for fear of disturbing it (she is in love with the shoes she has on, loves the way they make her arse sway; she is hoping that Fawzia will buy her some more).
In short, although she shrinks inwardly at the thought of the whip, and is truly, desperately humiliated at the way her own wantonness is continually made obvious, and extended, she is immensely flattered to have been chosen, and it simply doesn’t occur to her to protest, or wish she were elsewhere.
Fawzia lounges back on a sofa, observes her.
“You want to be a good cunt don’t you? Tell me.”
It is incredible, unbelievable to be asked such a question –– out loud –– and in a public place! But she must answer!
“Y … Yes, Madam … I … I want to be a good … a good c-cunt.”
She experiences a rush of intense gratitude toward Fawzia for doing this to her, accompanied by the most terrible sensation of vertigo. She is trembling, lightly, all over. The effect is delightful, as her nipples twitch in the filmy bolero.
“Well then, you must take your thrashing in a pretty, sexy way. Keep your cries soft and helpless –– I don’t want to hear any harshness or anger. The same with the way you move. You’re not going to be held or restrained, but I don’t want any ugly jerking about –– keep yourself nice and sexy looking for the guys. Let your tits sway invitingly, let them see how wet you get. See if you can get them hot to fuck you.”
When the shop man comes in, carrying a tray and an array of leather crops, followed by another, younger man, elegantly suited, Chloe visibly flinches, before being seized by a terrible fear that she has misbehaved, and a correspondingly desperate determination to show that she is willing, to show just how willing she is to offer herself up — for all of this (as if there is any choice in the matter, any more) curtseying, deliberately making the most of the difficulties of her tied wrists, and setting her breasts abounce, until she has once again lifted the tiny skirt completely, exposing her shaven sex; wriggles a tiny bit, blushing desperately.
She has no idea what the older man makes of this, as his expression remains wooden. Her heart lurches –– has she done the wrong thing? But the younger man is smiling wolfishly, then turns to nod at F. Chloe suddenly has a rush of insane pride, she feels special –– really special, for the first time in her life, she realises, with a rush of desperate emotion, knowing at the same moment that she is lost, utterly lost.
Then they are talking, ignoring her, discussing the characteristics of the whips, while C, who will be whipped, stands, her legs provocatively parted, skirt lifted, sex exposed, her heart thumping, unable to believe that for the fourth, or maybe fifth time today, she is going to accept sexually sadistic cruelty.
Her eyes close, and she hears again her own voice, telling Fawzia she is happy to be fucked, to be whipped, to be abused, and she feels her sex pulse with helpless excitement, and she flexes her hips, slowly, needing Fawzia to be pleased with her, even if it means making her own whipping as sexy a show as she can for these two men.
They turn toward her, having selected three crops of varying weight and length for trial on the soft and pretty girl in front of them, whom they observe casually, as if this is an everyday occurrence.
“Now, puss, tell me what you are being punished for.”
She is tearful now, and trembling again.
“Please Madam, I am being punished for closing my thighs, which is not permitted.”
“Why not?”
“Because … because my pussy must be accessible at all times, Madam.”
“Because your pussy is the most public part of you, cunt –– the part of you which is most likely to be used by anyone who you are with — either raped, or abused, or displayed –– you are called cunt, because you are, primarily, just a piece of cunt. Do you understand?”
“Yes Madam” in a small, breathy voice
“What are you?”
“Please, Madam, I …” it is so terribly hard — so terribly glorious — to say it; “… I am just a piece of cunt.”
“Good puss; say it again. Tell me what you understand.”
“P … please, mistress, I … I understand that I am just … just a piece of cunt.”
Oh god, but it feels so bad, so good, to be saying such things; she is getting turned on again, feeling her nipples swell, wanting so badly to be fucked now. Desperately wanting to look at these strange men who are witnessing this shaming, to see their expressions, look into their eyes, but not daring to raise her eyes.
“The whole point of your existence, at all times, is to encourage those around you to use that cunt. If your cunt is not being used, you are useless. Now, put one knee up onto the side of that armchair, lift your skirt, and hold yourself nicely for me. Ask me to hurt you.”
And Chloe, as sweetly and prettily as she can manage, lifts her left knee up onto the high leather arm of the chair, feeling her pussy lips spreading as she leans forward, her breasts swaying free of the little bolero as she lifts her chin, and once again raises the hem of the tiny skirt to show her shaved, pink sex, showing still the marks of earlier whipping. Letting the full, awful anticipation of the pain and humiliation of being whipped come through in her low, husky voice, she quietly but clearly asks:
“Please, mistress, please … please hurt me.”
And then she controls herself as the cruel blows cut into her arse, jerking just so much as to set her tits swinging, and keeping her despairing cries soft and helpless, letting the tears flow without contorting her face, never once letting the hem of her skirt slip, as she takes three blows from each whip.
“As you say, Mr G, the lighter one is really only a toy. A longer version would be perfect for hurting her breasts, though –– I want to mark her, make her scream, but not reduce her value –– would you have one of that weight a foot or so longer?”
And Mr A is despatched to locate one. When he returns, Fawzia asks the older man to hold Chloe’s upper arms, tightly, so that her breasts are lifted. The younger man is asked to open the bolero, and to demonstrate the effect of the long, light whip on the soft, proud breasts, already marked from her earlier ordeal with the belt. The third blow, after Fawzia has encouraged him to ‘really cut into her”, elicits a wild scream of helpless suffering, the only effect of which is a grimly satisfied smile on the face of the man behind her, and a brisk nod from F.
“Good, please wrap these. I’ll send her to pick them up later.”
And they are off, back to the street.
