In the lobby of a small and obviously very exclusive hotel, he stopped me.
“Chloe. Today— today I’m trusting you not to let me down. Don’t worry— you won’t— I know you’re ready”.
We arrived at a very exclusive restaurant on a hotel terrace, a few floors up— very luxurious, even by his standards. I was flattered, impressed, to be taken somewhere so special.
We were led to a table by the Maitre D’. I felt eyes on me, but as long as I was with R, I gloried in being so obviously dressed to excite sexual attention. Then I realised we were heading for an occupied table. A man a decade or so older than R, very strong looking, dressed expensively, but with restraint; calm, easily confident and assured, his face a little on the ugly side.
He looked at me frankly, thoroughly, coolly; assessing me as obviously as he might have done a horse, or a motorbike— not looking at my eyes at all. At that minute, I suppose, I knew what was coming— at least in outline. But I didn’t, couldn’t allow myself to think it; neither did I run away. My heart was thumping as if I had seen a tiger ready to pounce, but I kept a calm expression, and kept my body language open while his gaze ran over my body. I felt the urge to run away, but I savoured the knowledge that I wouldn’t— that whatever R had planned for me today would happen— that he was in charge, and not me.
I was blushing girlishly as R introduced me;
“Sir D, This is the girl I was telling you about.”
And that was it— my name didn’t seem to matter; I was just a girl, just a girl who had been talked about. I blushed again, more deeply, then giggled foolishly, helplessly, weak, as the stranger lifted my hands to his lips in an archaic but completely convincing way, and looked directly into my eyes for a while, without the slightest expression, until I lowered my gaze, unable to sustain my resolve. To be so patronised— and to accept it, take it, smile, hold myself as best I can for inspection, to show myself to this stranger as I do for R— this is deeply troubling. I am accepting treatment which is is intentionally demeaning; instead I should be outraged, insulted, justifiably angry. I should have some pride. Another girl would. I would have, months back.
But it seems that pride is something I no longer can access, as I simper girlishly and pull my shoulders back, give my head a little shake, just to show off my neck, set my hair moving, my blood seething in me, breath coming almost at random, controlling myself, hard, just so as to let him think me a tart.
“You have lovely breasts, and you present them well enough. You may be suitable. Will you put your hands behind your neck, and move a little for me?”
I was shocked cold by this, flicked my glance sideways to R. Seeing his expression— serious but expectant, brows raised a little as I hesitated, I gulped down my giggles and complied, deeply unsure, but still, as prettily as I could, blushing deepest red as I felt my nipples stiffen, pushing at the gauzy fabric.
“Obedient enough. Obviously a helpless little wanton, but very slack— no real discipline. She’s been marked, you say?”
He spoke to R, not to me. I stood, awkwardly, nervousness flooding me.
How could he talk about me like that? How could it be that R had told him about my tattoo? What was I here for? Still, I could not allow my consciousness to consider the obvious. It was humiliating, just to accept that such a thing could be said about me, in such a pubic place. But I wanted to be there, wanted to go wherever this was leading. In fact, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. My sex was warm and tingling. The thought of being taught some ‘real discipline’ by this man was idea that had me fizzing inside— horrifying, yes, but also making me weak, breathless, mesmerised.
I allowed the Maitre D’ to settle me as the men stood watching. After a few minutes of chatting, they sat and began to talk business and politics to each other; serious, ignoring me, not deliberately, not intentionally insulting, just … ignoring me …
It became insulting, though; intensely embarrassing. Anyone watching (and I felt the eyes of various men in the room coming to me again and again) must have seen that I was being ignored— that my only contribution was to look attractive. I should have left— a voice in my head told me that this was ridiculous— I was a successful lawyer, a person of education, of substance— I should not allow myself to be treated like this. In practical fact, I stayed put, and tried to keep my face pretty, to look sexy— the need deeper with every passing second.
The waiter approached, took the order— I was not consulted; I didn’t speak up. They ordered for me, resumed their conversation, still ignoring me. It became a project with me to feel the humiliation— to live it, to accept it, to remain pretty, to understand what it meant to be to be simply ‘a girl’, ‘a helpless little wanton’, with ‘lovely breasts’. Just that, nothing more. I had to blink back tears a couple of times, bite my lips, chest heaving a little. It was hard— I knew also that it was self-destructive— that forcing myself to accept this demeaning treatment, forcing myself to live it, to be what those words implied for them— that this would take me further along this terrifying, suffocating, but intoxicating journey into … into what? R wouldn’t tell me— only that I should let him decide… And I knew that I didn’t want to stop.
Food arrived. Full meals for them, a pretty little salad for me, on a small plate. A bottle of red wine for them, a single glass of champagne for me.
I should have been pleased— I was on a diet, knowing I wanted to be trim always; but it was humiliating. I toyed with the idea of making a fuss, of flouncing out. Then I ate my little lunch like a demure little schoolgirl, ignored by the two men, swallowed my pride at the same time. I felt Sir D looking me over, more than once, but did not dare to look up or in any way challenge his right to appraise me. Rather, I found myself moving, just a little, at those times— seeking to emphasise my breasts, to make a sexy shape with my lips— little things, but telling, shaming. Exciting. It was like the beginning of one of the better porn films— except that I was the pornstar. The only reason I was there was to be shown to Sir D, and R was hoping that Sir D would like to fuck me. I was being whored to my man’s friend— I knew it. At the same time as finding it terrifying, I was excited by it, like a rabbit in the headlights of an oncoming car.
At last, the meal was finished, the plates were removed, coffee and brandies brought for them, lemon tea and a tiny ice cream for me— again without consultation. Again, I took what was presented to me without complaint.
The talk died down, and, at last, R turned to me;
“Chloe, before we talk, I want you to do something for me— for us. I’d like you to remove your panties— right now; here. You can give them to me— you won’t be needing them again. And then I need you to re-arrange your skirt so that it is not under your buttocks. Is that clear?”
I looked at him, shocked, then stricken— he couldn’t be serious! But one look told me that he was, and I began to feel panicky. At the same time, there was a kind of logic to it— what was the point of wearing panties when I was with him? They came off straight away— usually so soaked with my juices that I threw them away. But there was Sir D, watching— I flashed a glance at him, but he seemed hardly interested, beyond the fact that he was watching. And that resolved it for me; I understood. I was being shown to D, but I had yet to really interest him. Suddenly, I was desperately eager— determined to have him find me attractive— sexually attractive. I felt my life depended on his wanting me.
As calmly as I could, feeling pink and hot, heart thumping, but managing to be composed, I looked down, fishing under my short skirts. I doubt that anyone noticed what was, after all, just a little wriggle, a momentary lean forward, but I felt as if everyone in the place was watching me, knew (hoped!) that Sir D was, and flushed deeply as I straightened up and adjusted my skirt. R reached out and I gave him the tiny silky bundle; he put it in his pocket.
The plush velvet of the chair on my naked buttocks, at the join of my thighs, was a strange feeling, an insistent reminder of my scandalous nakedness under the short skirt. I closed my eyes, briefly, trying to get used to this, my heart fluttering. I could feel Sir D looking at me, but couldn’t look up. God, but I liked being treated like this— liked it so much it was frightening.
“Look; here. I have a present for you.”
I went pink, now, and flushed cR hardly ever gave me presents, but they were always things to do with sex. The last had been a fat glass dildo that he had had me masturbate with for hours before he let me come— I had been almost insane with need. Just thinking of it brought on strong flashbacks. My nipples stiffened. I felt like a little girl opening her birthday presents in front of unknown visitors; vulnerable, on show. With a small, embarrassed smile, I opened the expensive leather box, lined with black silk.
Inside were two bangles— silver— no— highly polished steel, with tan leather inner faces, beautifully finished. Rather plain, quite thick, without being too heavy— presumably hollow; strong looking, elegantly proportioned, gorgeous but restrained and speaking subtly, but clearly enough, of servitude; of slavery (a word that had been bouncing around in my head for weeks). My heart skipped, but I didn’t hesitate;
“They … they’re lovely. May … may I … put them …”
I trailed off. I had just noticed the austere, purposeful letter ‘D’, engraved into each ring, quite large; bold, even, though just as silvery as the rest, which was why it had taken a little while to register them. I felt cold, then hot, then cold again. My nipples were like stones, and my cheeks were ablaze. I was so glad to be sitting down, as I knew my knees would have given way if I had been standing. I looked up at R, eyes wide, heart banging in my chest, mouth gaping a little. I didn’t dare even glance at Sir D, though I felt his eyes on me as if they were glowing with heat.
R let me sit for a little while, quivering, before he spoke again, softly, almost gently.
“That’s right, pretty— I’ve brought you here today because I want to make you available— specifically, your body— that is to say, your holes: cunt, ass, mouth, your tits, too— the free use of you— available to Sir D. Make you fully available to him, in just the same way that you are for me, but even more directly and simply.”
“Sir D will use you for his pleasure, in whatever way he pleases, and you will do your utmost to satisfy him in every possible way. In point of fact, I’m giving you to him, without reserve. To all intents and purposes, he will own you, for as long as he chooses to; although he will have no obligations to you, no duty of care to you whatsoever. This is to be a permanent arrangement; for as long as he wishes it, anyway. Once you have consented, your wishes will cease to be relevant— if you say you’ve changed your mind, you’ll be ignored.”
He left it at that, both of them looking at me, directly, but without any visible concern. Despite the outrageous nature of what R had just said, they both appeared perfectly relaxed, as if we were talking about a lunch date.
I, of course, was the opposite; in utter turmoil. Halfway through R’s little speech, I realised that he was saying just what I wanted him to say. I wanted D to fuck me— I wanted to be as open with him about my wanton-ness as I was with R— I understood and urgently responded to the ‘more direct’ nature of the relationship. But to admit such a thing? To admit that I was willing— no; eager, happy— to be ‘given’ to a man I had only just met, who had virtually ignored me, whom I knew nothing of, whom I was told would treat me like a whore, or worse! And R— didn’t I have feelings for R, whatever the strangeness of our relationship— how could I accept him simply giving me away? Why wasn’t I angry? I couldn’t let R do this, take me so for granted! Could I?
I certainly didn’t seem to be able to work myself up to making an angry speech. I could feel myself going pink, and I was breathing harshly; sharp and shallow, almost randomly, shaking badly, lips working, and with every passing second my silence was more and more obviously failure to object to something that any decent girl must have objected to— immediately and loudly. Abruptly, I couldn’t face them, and lowered my head, knowing they were watching me, knowing that it must be highly entertaining for them to see the emotions passing across my face as they asked me to allow myself to be disposed of in such a shameful fashion. To think that I had not, for one millisecond, shown any flash of defiance, of anger! Dear God what was happening to me?
I felt the tears well up in my eyes, blinking them back and biting my lip, desperate for some shred of pride, feeling the blood drain from my face.
I think I managed to say the word; “no”, but if I did it carried no conviction, or force. Indeed, to this day I am not sure that I really said it out loud. Certainly there was no response. In any event, that was the full extent of my resistance.
They left me in silence, until at last I realised that it was I who was required to move things forward, and that, in practical fact, there was only one thing I could imagine myself doing. My hesitation was suddenly over, replaced with a terrible fear of rejection, if I failed this test. So I did it. I looked up at R, tears in my eyes, chest heaving. A long moment passed, during which I searched his eyes, which remained cool and almost without expression, without tension— a slight smile on his lips. It was up to me; there was no coercion. At the same time I knew that if I did not obey now, that would be it— the end of the affair. The thought filled me with desperation, and I calmed myself with an act of will.
I knew I was going to say yes. I was going to accept this unbelievable proposal. Not really willingly, but because it suddenly seemed inevitable. Right. Correct. Obvious…
It was terrible to go through this with D, this stranger, looking on, in such a public place. Terrible, and wonderful for him to know just how vulnerable I was, just how easy… I was in awe at what power R had achieved over me in such a short space of time, and as terrified as I was eager for what it would do to me as the power was transferred to this unknown man beside him, who already seemed infinitely stronger, more demanding than R.
In the end, it felt simple; easy— almost natural. I made myself relax, and with a quivery little smile on my lips, my voice soft, I said;
“So … will … will you show me how to put these on? And … and then … ” I almost broke, continued in a firmer tone, needing it to be clear; “and then I’ll do whatever … whatever you want, of course.”
At that, I had a tiny triumph. I made an impression on D— I needed to believe so, anyway— he had certainly shifted his position, was sitting up straighter now, perhaps looking at me more intensely. My pussy was suddenly very wet. My cheeks were pink again, my body trembling tinily.
But I didn’t dare look at him. Instead, I looked at R— full of tenderness now, realising that our time was over— that whatever our relationship would be from now on, it would never be the same. I held my wrists out to him, tried to tell him that I loved him with my eyes, because now I could love him, needed to love him, whatever he had said— because love was surely the only thing that was strong enough to make me do what he wanted me to, to give myself to a stranger on such crude and blatant terms. Little fool. There was no love— only lust, addiction, helpless response to someone who had understood my needs.
“You mean, you’ll do whatever Sir D wants.”
I blushed, looked down, wondering why I was so happy that he had said that— at the same time as being frightened— why my nipples were like stones, why my sex was so slick. What had I become that I would allow myself to be whored so crudely, and to a stranger? I looked up, into R’s face, then briefly looked at Sir D before dropping my gaze, ashamed of myself. My voice was sincere and almost calm as I said;
“Yes, yes, of course, Sir. I’ll do whatever … you … want … Sir D.”
A long pause. I looked up at R again, saw that he was a little emotional now, too, and that he was finding it hard to speak. I tried to make it easier for him, smiling, voice soft;
“These … these won’t come off again, will … will they?”
I offered him my wrists, palms up, obviously submissive.
He cleared his throat, smiled slightly at me, perhaps grateful to have something practical to say;
“No, they won’t. The mechanism is one way. Once we have them tight enough… There— will that do? Not too tight? A little tighter even? Yes. There. I move this little catch, and…” A tiny snick, and I am cuffed, identified as property of this man, Sir D, whose features I can hardly bring to mind, so little have I looked at him.
“Let me show you something else clever.” R is talking. In a trance, I watch as he shows me that powerful magnets hidden, fixed within each bracelet, when brought together at a section that is flattened, can be used to lock the wrists, like handcuffs. He asks me to free myself, and I try, then try again. It seems impossible that little magnets can hold me. I try harder, but get to a point where to try more would look desperate, and give up, heart pounding, feeling my breasts swaying, a little panicky, hearing myself giggle; high pitched, weak, pathetic, obviously frightened; so very vulnerable.
Oh, now I need to be fucked. I am in awe. How can they handle me so well, so masterfully? I am supposed to be an intelligent, modern, successful woman, but I am putty in their hands, and I love it. My mouth is a little slack, my tongue wet, busy, flickering at my lips; my nipples are obvious through the thin dress; stiff, pushing upwards; the plush of the chair scratches at my soft inner thighs. Anyone can see how obviously unsettled I am— small, slight movements, helplessly radiating lust, availability, vulnerability, fear.
I giggle, a little hysterically, breathy, letting them see I am frightened, liking being frightened, knowing that I am right to be frightened— that the point of restraining me is to render me helpless— so that it will be easy to abuse me; hurt me. I am going to be hurt and sexually abused by cruel strangers;
“You … you’ve got me … sir.”
R grins; “Of course, if you really tried, you could free yourself, but they are quite strong. Here, let me help you.”
Twisting my wrists, he separates them with apparent ease— I realise that there is a trick of applying force that I would have found very awkward.
“Now, link them again, please— behind your back, then listen to D. He has more to tell you.”
Feeling ready to implode, I keep myself outwardly as calm as possible, while complying as prettily as I can. The ‘snick’ as the bracelets connect is clearly audible. It is immediately obvious that the job of freeing myself with my wrists behind me would be even more difficult. My breasts tingle with the knowledge of their vulnerability, and it is at once terrible and delicious.
At last, I make myself look at D, who is smiling a little now, looking mostly at my breasts, my legs. He meets my gaze, and his face hardens a little, his expression cool, until I am intimidated, and drop my head, blushing, breath suddenly gusty, random, trying to calm myself, suddenly full of fear.
After a long silence, during which I felt both their eyes on me, D speaks;
“Good, that’s clear then. You are right to lower your gaze, cunt— obvious and pretty deference is required from you at all times. Any sign of will-power, of ego, of pride, will be met with harsh punishment. Do you understand?”
At that, I tensed— how could he talk to me like that? Call me ‘cunt’ so matter of factly? Ridiculously, given that I have just accepted his cuffs, I wanted to lift my head, stare at him, let him know that I didn’t accept. But the feeling lasts only an instant, before I feel a soft, warm weakness come over me, terribly welcome. My lips quaver. I heard myself say;
“Yes. Yes, Sir. I … I understand.”
And to say it was to open the floodgates. I was suffused again with a desire to please him, to be worthy of R’s presentation of me.
“Very good. A little thing, first. I require you to keep your legs parted. Keep your thighs open, your lips moist and parted, let your tongue tip show. Your cunt, your fuck-holes are what make you useful— they are what justifies your existence. They belong to me— keep them desirable, advertise their availability, at all times.”
I obeyed as calmly, as prettily as I could, flushing a little, peeking up at him once I had spread myself as wide as the chair sides would permit, licking my lips slowly, deliberately, feeling like a whore. To be spoken to like this was shaming, but much more so was it glorious, wonderful. To have a man who would simply do this to me, without caring what I thought. My god… I was quivering, now, all over, and what came next was almost delicious;
“I gather that R has never beaten you beyond a light spanking. You have not been routinely subjected to physical discipline. Is this so?”
My god, he is going to beat me! It is terrifying, but at the same time, utterly thrilling. I am almost angry with R, or sad for him. Why has he never beaten me properly— it is so obvious that I am a girl who should be beaten. At that moment, my allegiance begins, decisively, to shift to D— to a man who will beat me;
“No. No sir.” in a low but steady voice.
“And you are sexually excited when he spanks you? It turns you on, makes you wet; eager to be fucked?”
I am speechless, throat tight, heart thumping. How can he say such things so calmly? I am wet between the legs now, trembling. Oh god, I am putty in his hands. I am utterly in his power. This is as wonderful as it is terrifying. I would stand up and lay myself over the table to be fucked at the merest flick of a finger from him, whoever might be looking on.
Admitting it is appalling, but I must obey him … I nod, flushed, quivering, voice trembling, small and breathy;
“Yes, … yes sir.”
“Indeed. You are a weak and helpless submissive. A slut. An easy fuck. That much is abundantly clear. But so far you have not been taken beyond your comfort zone. That is about to end. From now on, no consideration whatsoever will be given to your feelings, your limits, your dignity. You are merely a vehicle for the sexual pleasure of others. Perfect and pretty compliance at all times will be required— insisted upon, without respite.”
“It will shortly be the case that you will be beaten at least daily, by myself or more often by someone else on my behalf. You will find that it changes you, knowing that others, strangers even, have the right to strip you naked; beat you, hurt you, to make you scream, that you will be cruelly beaten by people with no interest in you, just because I wish it so.”
“You will also be made sexually available to others; all your holes, as and when I choose. While your wanton-ness has so far been a private matter between you and R, from now on it is a public matter— you will often be used in front of others, often in ways that will deliberately degrade and humiliate you, that make it abundantly clear how it is with you. Many people will be aware of your status— you will not always know who they are. You will simply submit to the will of anyone who claims you. You will have no choice in this matter, or in any other, as it happens. You must do all you can to please these others without holding back in any way.”
“The slightest perceived unwillingness will be met with harsh punishment, with irresistible force and cruelty, and ruthlessly overborne. You will never be permitted to maintain any resistance whatsoever. Nothing but openness, nothing less than perfect, willing and pretty service will be acceptable. If need be, you will be utterly broken. Indeed, this is certain to be the way of it in the end, as what will be demanded of you must eventually be beyond your capacity to give. You may continue with your day job, for the time being, as you will only occasionally be needed during the day. However, you will soon receive permanent indications of your status.”
Again, I knew that I should not let him say these things to me, that this was insupportable, impossible, ridiculous; but again, somehow, I sit quietly with my head lowered, feeling myself exalted and terrified at the same time, shaking; flooded with bizarre feelings of deep gratitude, weird pride, pulse thudding in my temples. Tears are in my eyes but I will not let them fall.
They watched me for some moments; I could feel their eyes on me, a sense of expectation. They wanted me to explicitly accept, I knew. Accept this appalling promise of cruelty, of abuse, of impossible demands backed by merciless punishment!
My chest heaved; holding back the tears felt like the hardest thing I had ever had to do, the pressure of being subjected to such talk in this public place unbearable. It was so unfair! Why couldn’t D just take me with him and fuck me, treat me like R did?
There, of course, was my answer. What R offered was no longer enough for me, and the notion that it should be me who set the terms for whatever D wanted was ludicrous. This was it. I was being silly, risking D’s interest in me by this hesitation, this resistance. At that moment, ‘my ‘day job’ seemed an irrelevance— a distraction from the urgent meaning, the full-force immediacy of the feelings these men could provoke in me, the glorious way they possessed me.
I bit my lips, hard, cleared my throat;
“Thank … thank you, Sir. I … I am lucky to … to receive such attention. Thank you.”
A long silence, then R laughed;
“I’d like to hear the little whore repeat that speech after you’ve thrashed her pussy raw!”
So now R was referring to me as a ‘little whore’. I suddenly realised that he had always thought of me like this— that he had known he would bring me to this, intended to, at least, from that first night— it was just that now he felt safe saying it to my face. I knew I should hate him for this— but in fact I realised how beautiful it all was, how thoroughly controlled I had been; managed, suborned, played, right from the start, and it made me quiver with desire. There was no room for anger. Nevertheless, I was unable to keep all the tears back now, and several made their slow way down my cheeks as I struggled to control my trembling lips.
D’s voice came;
“My part of this bargain, cunt, is to be unrelenting in enforcing its terms, in ensuring that never a day passes without you being forcefully reminded of the conditions you have accepted.”
And that was it— he went back to discussing other matters with R, ignoring me for at least another 20 minutes, while I sat there, struggling to process the events of the last ten minutes— ten minutes in which my self-image has been changed forever, ten minutes in which I have effectively accepted that I am no longer fully human— given away a large part of what any normal person would consider their human rights. And ceded them, without even asking for time to consider, given myself over without either coercion or offer of reward, given myself to a total stranger.
Unable, really, to take this seriously— and yet deeply impressed by the total conviction of D’s words.
Rapidly enough though, I stopped trying to make sense, and let my mind go where it wanted— which seemed to involve thinking either about what it would be like to be beaten without mercy, or about being fucked by D. I wanted him to fuck me so much; I was trying to show him how hot I was for him as I sat there, but there really wasn’t much scope in a public place. My nipples were like stones, my sex hot. ‘He’s right’, I realised— ‘I am just cunt’.
I experienced waves of panic, which I desperately suppressed, then waves of lust, which I also had to suppress if I was not to writhe in my chair like a bitch in heat. In between, I was conscious of glimpses of an incredible peace— the contradictions of my existence would be solved for me. D would decide for me. All sorts of possibilities, of questions, of doubts were suddenly irrelevant.
R left first, telling me, in an off-hand way, that he would be out of the country for ‘a month, maybe more’, and that he would leave me in D’s capable hands. He told me he had already given D his copy of the keys to my apartment. He had been very sure of me, obviously— another little piece of my self image crumbled as I realised this.
I watched him go, almost as if he was a stranger, hardly looked at him; my brief burst of intense love for him already in the past, almost pleased he was going, as I would now be the sole object for D’s attention.
On the other hand, it was increasingly difficult to sit there, as he sipped another brandy— nothing for me, this time (I had no idea whether the waiter noticed my cuffs, or what he thought of them)— and I did not dare to look at him.
He watched me for a while. It was intense. I felt his gaze but dared not look at him, shamed myself by displaying myself as wantonly as I dared in such a public place, shoulders back, neck straight, hips thrust forward between my parted thighs, licking my lips slowly; burned with humiliation, fizzing with lust, wanting him to know this about me, offering myself. I knew that he could see all of this, and the intensity deepened.
At last, he spoke, and his tone was softer, almost kindly;
“Of course, none of this can be enforced. You should probably leave— treat it all as a sobering experience; try for a normal, respectable life.”
I looked up then, into his eyes, feeling a sudden burst of sanity, of clarity; he was looking at me totally differently— compassion, almost, in his face; understanding, even.
It was— devastating. Thus far he had been to me like a cartoon character— cold, hard, casually domineering, impressive, powerful, effortlessly in charge. I had had no sense of him as a man, as a human being at all.
In one sense it was easy to give in to such a creature— an imaginary, an archetype, not a real person.
But here, now, he was showing me that he was real— human; that he knew, to some extent at least how it must be for me to experience the casual, calculated, formalistic humiliations that had been imposed on me so coldly, so casually, this afternoon.
And on the one hand that was glorious, an enormous release— to be seen, for the first time through this ordeal, as a person, a human, a woman of real feelings— that was incredible.
At the same time, though, it was torture. Because if he saw me as a woman, and yet knew what I had permitted, what I had accepted, what I had agreed to, so politely, so pathetically, so abjectly, then he must know that I am, in truth, the helpless wanton that he described me as.
Oh the depth of his mastery!
Because now I am destroyed. Cannot ever conceive of him respecting me, knowing what he does, knowing what a degraded creature I am, how ruled by perverse lust, how weak in the face of the promise of sexual cruelty.
He has reduced me to nothing, shown me that I am nothing, that I am beyond decency, beyond dignity; unredeemable.
If I leave now, I will have lost R, lost him, lost whatever insanity— the fascinating insanity of my time with R— but gained nothing. Gained nothing at all— left, to walk back to my job, which now seemed drab, back to my off-the-peg bourgeois existence, which held no allure, no life, no intensity— which had been hollowed out by R, by what R had shown me of myself.
This was true domination— to show the weaker party just how hopelessly enmeshed they have become in their own subjugation, how they have come to need it to make sense of life.
My lawyer’s brain puts the entrapment together in all its cruel elegance, and I know that I am done for; that this apparent offer of kindness is in fact a careful and terrible cruelty— to dangle redemption, release, in front of me, knowing that all I can do with it is use it to prove to myself that I cannot have it, cannot reach it, cannot come back. That I am too lost in need for the sensation of being made to be this thing, this sex object, this helpless wanton.
Desperate, destroyed, lost, I looked up; his face was serious, open. He was watching, interested, waiting to see what I would do. I looked around— there was in fact nothing to stop me standing up and walking away…
Except that the very thought of it made me feel hollow, abandoned. I struggled with this feeling desperately— if I could defeat it, then perhaps I might… but it was useless, and giving in, accepting was so … inevitable.
Oh how beautifully, how sweetly, they had set this terrifying, lovely trap for me! How perfectly, how gorgeously, it fitted me! How fearful and yet how glorious it was to let it take me, let it destroy me, let it have me.
D began to seem godlike to me from that moment.
I found myself looking him in the eyes for a second, wanting to show sincerity, then looked down again;
“You … you are right, of course, Sir. I … I should … should leave. I … I really don’t … don’t want to be …”— my voice became a whisper, dark with shame and fear, but nevertheless steady and clear— ” … don’t want to be … whipped and … and made into a whore. I … I beg you not to do this to me. I beg you most … most humbly: I … I can’t bear it— I know I just won’t be able to bear it. I can’t … I just can’t.”
Silence. stretching. He is calm, interested, but says nothing at all. Waiting. Until I become terrified. Terrified that I have blown it, that he will leave, as well— just leave me here— that I will never experience this life he has laid out for me— the intensity, the overwhelmingness of it…
“But … that’s just me … being silly. Weak. …”
Still, still he didn’t speak, didn’t waver in his waiting, in his expectation, his demand. He wanted more. Despite the agonising tension, it took a minute or two before I could speak again;
“Sir … I’d … I’d like to stay. Please.” I was quivering; my voice was a husk.
Silence. I was in terror, fearing that this was not going to be enough for him, that I would be rejected. I thought I might die, then.
At last, after an agony of desperate patience, fearing to irritate him by speaking again, fearing everything.
“It may prove entertaining to hear you beg, pretty, but it won’t change what is to be done to you. Tell me that you understand.”
I look up at him, tears in my eyes, and smile, desperately, wanting him to see me— just once more, see me— see this girl, this woman, who was prepared to give up so much, even knowing that what she gave would be degraded, demeaned, abused, debauched, destroyed … wanted him to see how hard it was for me to do this. My chest was heaving.
And I thought that he did see— actually, I was stunned, frightened by the degree of awareness, of interest— even empathy— in his eyes. He was interested, really interested. He was looking, really looking, at me. Seeing me, who I was, at the moment of making this choice.
And that, it turned out, did it for me: I was hooked; lost, gone.
“Please … please, just do it to me. All of it. Hurt me, be cruel, call me names, wh … whip me … god… Don’t… I mean, I … I know you won’t … show me … show me any mercy, or … or softness. Do what you want with me. I do … I do want to be … to be yours. All yours. Please. Own me.”
I trailed off. I knew I was pathetic. I was more humiliated than ever in my life before, to be so emotionally exposed by this man’s stone hard will. I was putty in his hands, glad to be so, despairing that I was so.
His voice is hard again, cool. It is very difficult to control myself— it would be so very easy to give way to histrionics, to throw myself onto the floor and howl my fear and despair. I know he can see this, and I know he can see how desperately I work to control myself, to choke back the sobs, blink in the tears, restrain the gusty breathing.
I know because I can see that he is amused by it, smiling at my distress, now, all compassion gone, turned off— I am no longer in the category of persons for whom compassion makes sense. I am dying inside at the knowledge that I am doing this in order to prove my eligibility for becoming his sex slave, and that he finds it entertaining. How can it be that there are always deeper humiliations, crueller expositions of my frailty?
For a moment I try to marshal the forces of sanity, tell myself about my career, that I am young, clever, beautiful, that I have many options open to me, that the world is not like this, that I am not defined by the urgent need of my sex …
It’s pathetic, though; just words, no more than words, no substance. I would give it all, just to hear him call me ‘cunt’, in that casual, masterful voice of his.
I sometimes wonder, now, how I would have chosen if I had known, really known, what his stark, cruel words would mean in practice. Not that he hid anything— it’s just that the intimate experience of being destroyed, degraded, reduced: day after day, to be so deliciously, agonisingly, terrifyingly, relentlessly, casually destroyed was beyond any possible imagining.
He has asked me this question— whether I would make the same choice now— now that I know just what it has condemned me to, asked me several times since. “Of course”, I say; “Yes, Yes Sir, of course I would choose the same. I am yours, Sir”.
There, at the dinner table, trembling, wrists cuffed behind me, nipples stiff, the velvet tickling at my naked sex lips, I’m lost, but from somewhere comes the urge to make one more desperate attempt at sanity;
“Just … does … does it have to be so … so bleak…?”
I am trying to smile but my lips twist themselves as I hold back the tears.
He cuts me off, firm, but without anger or even mild irritation, voice calm, quiet, almost gentle, but with a core of steel. There was to be no mistake;
“There will be no mercy, pretty. You will be used as cunt, for the entertainment of others— most of them with a sadistic turn of mind— used aggressively, greedily, casually— without the slightest restraint or mercy. In the end, you won’t be able to bear it, and you will be cruelly broken. None of this will mean anything to anyone— you will mean nothing, you will be nothing— you will have no value beyond the entertainment afforded by using and degrading you. There are many others like you, interchangeable— lush bodies with wet holes and vulnerable psychologies, who are given no option but to please or to suffer, who are rendered pathetically eager to offer themselves to those who will enjoy destroying them. Used as cunt. You will be used this way, while you afford amusement, then discarded. There will be no discussion, no appeal. Do you understand?”
His ruthlessness is like a ecstatic knife through my heart. I’m gone. I’m breathless, transfixed, transported. Relieved of all responsibility. I am his.
“I … yes! Yes I do. I understand. I’m yours. Please … do what you want with me. I want it.”
I begin to shake, and a tear rolls down one cheek, but I make myself smile, desperate to be pretty, to be attractive, to be fuckable.
“You have been mine for an hour already— it was clear from the first moment how weak and needy you are. The illusion of choice, of consent, amuses me sometimes. At the same time it is psychologically highly effective. You will leave this restaurant much weaker than you were when you entered— more vulnerable, less sure of yourself, more susceptible to the truth— the truth of your own worthlessness except as a collection of holes for the entertainment of your betters.”
I manage to maintain my smile, my pretty pose, but I am dying inside. He is right, powerfully right. I know that I have lost something today, lost it forever, that even if he should abandon me now, even if I should go and become a nun, I will always be cunt, inside— always know that I am this way. Fighting the tears, I emit a long, suppressed but awful shuddering moan, sad, soft, weak, conquered.
I cannot keep back tears, but at the same time, I feel the need to exaggerate the opening of my thighs and I thrust myself slowly forward in the chair, humiliating myself, offering myself, pleading with my body to be considered worth fucking, despite my total predictability, my inability to be anything but cunt. It’s not that I am sexually needy, not any more— I’m beyond that— it’s that I am consumed by need— by need for him to want me— and know that this can only mean— want me for sex.
Another pause.
“Good. Always consider whether it is possible to be clearer about your sexual vulnerability, your willingness to satisfy, your availability. Now, tell me, have you been thinking about what it will be like to be beaten— at your breasts, between your legs; to be whipped for the entertainment of sadists; to be made to scream and beg— to have your piteous begging laughed at and answered with further cruelty?”
The question itself is like a blow; clear, harsh, shocking. It is hard to make myself speak, hard to say the honest truth, although nothing else even occurs to me;
“Yes. … Yes, Sir.”
“Good— keep doing so. Consciousness of your vulnerability to the whip, to the slightest whim of another, of the certainty that the whip can and will be harshly applied to your soft breasts, to your opened pussy— this will dominate your thoughts in a little while. It will define your life; that and the availability of your holes to all who demand to use them. This will help you become even more beautiful.”
Another silence; he was looking at me now, and I was holding myself so carefully, moving a little every now and then, wanting to keep his interest, making my breasts move, flexing my hips; slow, nervous movements, but nevertheless explicitly wanton. He had called me beautiful! I was pathetic in my deep gratitude, even through the trembling, acid fear that had come over me,
He watched, and I just carried on moving my body; degrading myself shamelessly; losing myself.
He laughed at last, letting me hear his easy contempt for me;
“Little whore! R should have brought you to me before. Don’t you agree?”
He seems to know my thoughts, however deep and shameful. I blush, but my voice is sincere, if a little thick, when I say to him;
“Yes, yes sir, I … I do.”
And I flick my gaze at him, letting him see in my eyes how much I wish that I had belonged to him before.
“Look at me; smile. Tell me who your holes belong to; thank me.”
My voice is soft, a little sad, but steady enough, and so is my face as I obey, dropping my gaze submissively as soon as I can, flushed red.
“My … holes belong to you, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
“Now, three commands: one— no masturbating— no orgasms without consent from now on. Ever. Your sexual responses are of interest solely as entertainment for your superiors. If permitted orgasm, you will train yourself to be clearly audible, and aim to convey mingled helpless ecstasy, weak despair and shame— we want to hear that you understand that each orgasm you are permitted is a symbol of your servitude.”
Two: you are to throw away all of your panties. All. You will never again wear anything over your sex more restrictive than a skirt— and skirts are always to be as short as practical, unless you are instructed specifically otherwise. Anus and sex are to be easily accessible at all times. No pantyhose, no knickers, no trousers.
Three: same goes for any brassiere or similar that covers your nipples— they are to go; half-cup, quarter cup, bodices— that sort of thing is acceptable, under a thin blouse, an open jacket; no more. You will always be dressed in the most alluring and revealing manner possible, as relevant to the surroundings. That means naked but for heels, corset, choker, stockings and the like while at home and in other private spaces. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir”
“Very well. You will be notified when you are required. Anyone who acts as if they have authority over your body is to be obeyed as if they were myself— obeyed without question or hesitation, on pain of punishment. You may go.“
Heart in my mouth, I nod and breathe;
“Yes, sir.”
I am in a panic. Go? But I am with him! He’s going to beat me and fuck me! How can he send me away? I daren’t speak, but I try to communicate my distress with my eyes. He ignores it.
“Go home. Don’t get a cab when you leave— use public transport. Encourage men to look at you. I want you to feel what it’s like to be naked under your skirt in public.”
And he stands and comes behind me briefly, to release my wrists. I stand, awkward, knees weak, blushing. He is so gentlemanly, and yet I believe implicitly in the seriousness of everything he has said. I want to go to my knees, kiss his feet, to let myself cry, to strip for him, offer him my body, beg him to use me, tell him how aroused I am. Why is he sending me away? I grow desperate to manage to leave the restaurant without collapsing in tears— what I really feel I want to do.
But in practice I stand there while he again kisses my hand, caresses my cheek with a lazy finger, lifts my chin so that I am made to look into his eyes for an intense few seconds, and that’s it; I am dismissed. He sits down and takes out his ‘phone, and I have to make my way out of the restaurant, holding it all in, biting my lip, trying to walk as sexily as I can, just in case he looks up, painfully aware of the eyes of others on me, of the shame of knowing I have accepted his evaluation of me as nothing more than cunt— suddenly wondering if any of these people know— anyone here could be in on D’s secret— have the right to use me, could be watching, planning how to violate me, wondering what it will be like to whip me…
