It’s sort of bizarre, that she’s so happy these days. But it’s a fact. She just is, waking up early, stretching herself like a cat, feeling the tone of her body, still feeling the tender places resulting from yesterday’s ‘entertainments’ - but always remembering with a breathless cross between pleasure and guilt - somehow, she even enjoys the memories of her own humiliations.
This morning, it is the mental image of herself yesterday afternoon; on all fours on a low table, face down, arse pushed high, skirt flipped up, thighs wide, hands weakly flat on the table either side of her head, hips grinding as she earnestly, humbly, sweetly begs for yet more flicks of the belt between her legs, proclaiming her willingness, her eagerness, her desperation to come in front of D and his two Japanese clients - total strangers to her - ‘hurt me, please - hurt me bad. I want to come for you. I want to come so bad. Please Sir! please - destroy me. Please Sir, please - I’ll … I’ll go to the tattoo parlour this weekend - - I’ll get two more letters filled in - please!’.
Even this memory, with such serious implications - because he will hold her to her promise, even though both of them know it was at least partially made for the entertainment of his clients - even this memory makes her slowly close her eyes as she remembers; half open her lips, catch her breath, and reach for her pussy, remembering the power of the orgasm that had finally ripped through her - strengthened - as so often - by the knowledge that she was doing all she could to make her climax obvious, attractive and exciting for the two dark suited strangers; by the knowledge that the better she succeeded at this, the more likely it was that they would abuse her in their turn.
Which, of course, they did, deliberately, carefully, smilingly, placing and ripping the sharp-toothed little clips from her nipples, leaving the angry red marks that still adorn her breasts, she alternately smiling, provocatively offering her breasts, yelping, and thanking them through her tears, before finally, on her knees, carefully and with infinite attention, bringing them both to orgasm with her mouth, come splattered all over her face and hair - a Japanese preference.
And now, this morning, she suddenly knows she is ready - suddenly eager - to do something her masters have been hinting about for a week or two - ever since they installed the cameras behind the large mirrors in her room - cameras that she has been told are always on, that are live on various internet sites, so that many men are watching her all the time; sites that allow the watchers to make comments, comments that are used by clever software to produce ‘edited highlights’ of her time in the room.
She has seen these - has watched herself undress, dress herself, seen herself, breasts naked, demurely kneel with her hands sweetly held behind her back and take a cock (a total stranger’s) deep into her throat, allowing herself to be gagged until the tears come to her eyes, then instantly, lovingly, worship the same cock with her lips and tongue; seen herself beaten with a belt across the arse, then unceremoniously fucked, holding herself meekly, provocatively, sweetly open for both types of violation; seen herself in the throes of a helpless, moaning orgasm.
Has found these video shows deeply affecting, solidifying her own self image as that pretty blonde, with the shapely, obvious, breasts and long, long legs, in high strappy heels and a tight corset, perpetually lifting her micro skirt to reveal a naked, artfully shaved pussy to men she has only met a few minutes earlier, smiling softly, invitingly, telegraphing her vulnerability with her eyes to men whom she knows are about to violate her in the crudest ways, opening herself prettily to their insolent caresses, moaning helplessly. Men who are going to be entertained to hear and feel her orgasming wildly as a result of these violations.
She has, finally, grown accustomed to the idea that she is always ‘on duty’, always on display - that she is expected to be pretty, and sexually inviting, always.
Picture: Easy, the self she now accepts
More than that, she has grown to love it. Of course she knows that the drugs, the hypnotherapy, the beatings, the denial to her of any life experience outside that of a sexual plaything - all of these have made it extraordinarily hard to even imagine any sort of resistance. But still, she feels, another girl would have been different, have reacted more strongly - have wanted to resist. Her masters have told her - It’s been like pushing at an open door; you were ripe for this, you dirty whore.
She has at last accepted this totally - there is no resistance left in her - she spends her time thinking about getting fucked, dreaming about it, wanting it. But she hasn’t lost her innocence, her shame. Somehow, in spite of all of it, each provocation, each time she lifts her skirt, each time she kneels to take a cock into her mouth, each time she arranges herself prettily so that she can be beaten, or fucked (usually both), she feels shock, shame and surprise at her own lewdness, at how much need she feels in herself, at how desperate she is to please these rough, careless strangers - and her masters, of course.
Thinking these thoughts, she comes up onto her knees now, thighs spread, one hand in her hair, performing, alone, in her own flat, her hips rising and falling as she alternately penetrates herself with two or three fingers, and works on her clitoris, lifting her breasts, pinching the nipples, doing everything for visual effect first and foremost, relying on her out-of-control libido to take her along anyhow, allowing herself to moan softly, uninhibitedly, and then talking out loud;
“I .. I never thought I’d .. actually .. do this - I mean - you know - bring myself off for you, alone, on … on camera. But … but, now, I .. I really want to do it for you - show you how - easy I am, how - turned on I am - all the time. I mean - I, I really, think about - being, being fucked - all the time - about you fucking me, about strangers fucking me - raping me, really - just using me like a piece of cunt, like a hole. That’s what I want - that’s how you I hope you think of me - as a willing, grateful cunt, just there to be fucked, to be used for your pleasure. And, and I’m so happy about that - want it to be utterly, deeply true - that that is all I am, nothing else. Nothing at all. I want to please you .. all .. SO much - do anything for you - anything at all.
Moaning, soft and carefully managed; weak and vulnerable, helpless arousal conveyed as intimately as she can think to do it.
“But there … there’s something else, as well. that I want you to know. That turns me on; that I like - that I need … and … and it, frightens me, but - but it’s real, and I want it, and I need you to know how much I want it - I want it soooo much - I mean I need it, I really need it.
I .. I -oh-oh-oh-ah!oooh!”
I .. I like it when you’re cruel to me. I mean - that’s what I really want, what I dream about - bad stuff - getting slapped about - gang-fucked - more - mean really bad - I’m - I’m ashamed to tell you - and frightened to tell you … but - well I know I can’t have any secrets from you - so I have to tell you. I think about - I mean, fantasize about - you know, when I touch my pussy, like I am now, I imagine I’m getting hurt - really hurt - … t..tortured. Without .. mercy. Not the slightest .. mercy .. None. None at all. And … and - I , I want it. Want you to .. to torture .. me …”
The last is a whisper, that turns into a loud, despairing moan as she comes.
Ten minutes later, she has showered and is dressed, if you can call it that, in high heeled elegant wedges, stockings, and a tight, pretty basque that lifts her tits obscenely but doesn’t quite cover her pretty nipples, with matching choker and wrist cuffs - nothing else, answering the door to her personal trainer, a business-like girl, who puts her through some strenuous workouts in front of the mirrors for the next 40 minutes, emphasising her instruction with taps from a red leather riding crop.
Chloe tries harder than ever today - she finds she is almost pathetically eager to satisfy. At the end of the cool-down, she realises that the day has more surprises to bring, as she hears herself saying, very shyly, blushing crazily;
“I .. I um .. I’d really like to ask you something”
A silence; the trainer stares at her, hard faced, then slowly smiles, watching Chloe as she almost unconsciously arranges herself in a kneeling, begging position, knees spread widely, hands behind her, lightly resting on her heels.
“Oh, and what’s that, girly?”
Chloe can hardly make her voice work above a whisper, but she knows what she wants to say;
“Would .. would you take me into my bedroom - in front of the big mirror .. and .. and thrash me. Really hard. On … on .. my breasts .. and .. and between .. you know.”
Chloe’s eyes close, she wonders if her heart will burst; her nerve endings are all on fire. But when, after a long silence, the trainer squats in front of her, and almost tenderly brushes hair back from her cheek, and says, in a very different voice;
“Are .. are you sure? Because, yes, I will beat you, if that’s what you want. But if I do, I will really hurt you. I’ve been waiting for this for a while now, and I won’t hold back. There’s a really heavy cane that no-one’s used on you yet, but I will, and it will do a lot of damage. You’ll be tied up, and I will whip you senseless, and then I’ll leave - they’ll find you like that, and I bet they’ll fuck all your holes before they untie you. Actually, I bet they’ll just leave you tied, and call the tattooist up; get him to come over here and complete all those letters across your back - there’ll be no sense in holding back then, will there? Is that what you want?”
Chloe is crying slowly now, unable to bear the tenderness of the hand that strokes her cheek, the gentle voice that speaks of destruction, but she nods her assent.
Another pause, and then the hand in her hair takes a grip, clenching so that it hurts, and turns Chloe’s face up. The other hand is at her sex now, two, three fingers inside her, glorious, devastating;
“My my, pretty - that just won’t do it; you must beg for it, tell me exactly what you want, and then you must go through your day as usual, and then beg again the next day, and every day - until I’m instructed to take you - you won’t know when it is to be until it happens, but when it does happen it will be the end of Chloe, and the beginning of something else - an existence as a collection of fuck holes, nothing more. Is that what you want? Because if it is, you are going to have to tell me clearly, and prettily, all about it, and beg me very nicely to destroy you.”
And somehow it seems easy, natural, to repeat the terrible things, to make it very clear that she, Chloe, humbly and eagerly begs for this fate to be enacted upon her, and when it is done, and the girl says to her;
“You should come for me now.”
Chloe finds herself orgasming helplessly, writhing, lost.
