Being used like this - functionally, aggressively, impersonally - happens more and more often.
In her old life, if a man had tried this, he would have been slapped down, certainly never been allowed near her again. Such experiences had in fact encouraged Chloe to let her suppressed lesbian urges come to the fore, and, strangely, led her, through twists and turns, to Monica, to this.
To being the willing and submissive vehicle for such for such men’s pleasure.
Now that the choice isn’t hers, now that she is so horribly desperate to win Monica’s laconic favour, all she can think about is how she can serve the man’s pleasure, how prettily obvious she can make her despair, her submission, how to make her degradation interesting to the watching women, sitting comfortably, sipping at their Lapsang. In recent days she has been deeply disturbed to find herself beginning to respond sexually, eagerly almost, to such casual and harsh fuckings, such ruthless hammering, such heartless and selfish usage.
Why can’t she stop? Why can’t she just walk away - let that redhead slut Cathy be Monica’s new favourite?
It’s destroying her - she knows it is - destroying her sense of self-worth, her self-belief. Her inner strength, such as it was, is in shreds. She has found herself, in the street, on the Metro, imagining how some random man who stares at her might choose to use her - in which hole, whether he’d like to hurt her first (or afterward - or both), if he’d spit in her face, call her a cunt, have her masturbate for him…
Nevertheless, each morning, as soon as she can, she will cut classes, and find herself ringing the bell to beg for admission to Monica’s frankly palatial apartment, demeaning herself to whatever society lesbian visitor answers;
“Hi, I .. I’m .. I’m .. one .. one of the amusement girls? I’d .. I’d really like to .. to be, um, used. If .. if that’s possible.”
“I .. I’m the one who .. who got fucked by the plumbers last week.”
For Monica made a point of not remembering names - she preferred to recall a recent or remarkable degradation. The plumbers had been Chloe’s first experience of taking two cocks at the same time. The guys had found it hilarious doing her in front of three uptown power-dressed rich bitches. Chloe on the other hand had almost become hysterical in her shame and grief (not to mention how harshly, how violently they had used her, ripping her back passage, leaving her with deep bruises), had had to use every ounce of will-power she possessed to stay with it, to smile her thanks (through soft tears), to lick them clean, apparently eager and joyful to be allowed to, to giggle weakly at their nasty jokes, keep her hands behind her as they swatted her tits and crushed her nipples, gripped and pinched at her tender clit.
Monica had called her ‘the plumber’s little whore’ a few times, and it seemed it might stick. It was hard to know whether to be pleased to be remembered, or cry about this.
It’s the same when she is admitted (which is not at all certain - all too often, to devastating effect, she is told ‘no’; and sometimes ‘She says don’t come back for a few days - she’s bored with you’); her heart leaps at acceptance, while at the same time her belly goes into turmoil, knowing that whatever else happens, each experience at Monica’s brings new shame and degradation.
So is she happy now, pushed down onto the chaise-longue, being hammered by some football jock nephew of Monica’s visitor, his friend lined up to take her other hole afterwards?
Not happy, no. She doubts she’ll ever be happy again. But here, moaning, wincing, lifting her hips for him, exerting all her capacities in hope of Monica noticing how submissive she is, how softly dedicated, how eager to please - here, at least for the moment, she is Monica’s toy, and not ridiculous, hopeless, desperate Chloe.
Earlier, she had heard the visitor asking if she, Chloe, might be made available as a bed-companion that night - to which Monica had answered; ‘Do what you want with her, she’s here to be used.’ - then ‘Oh, I see, you’re asking if you can mark her - I forgot you like to do that. But of course! Please, feel free. Do you want to do it yourself, or do you want someone with specialist equipment?’.
Suddenly now realising what this means - that tonight, she Chloe Dainty, will be burned with red-hot iron by the visitor - be permanently branded - marked as a whore - that there is not a shred of a chance that she will find the will to resist, she experiences an overwhelming surge of emotion which somehow, horribly, shamefully, gloriously, translates into noisily orgasming under the muscular thrusts of the stud above her, which brings laughter from him and his friend as he jerks his seed deep into her; ‘fucken .. little .. SLUT!’, slapping her ass, hard, in time.
Later, cleaned up after being fucked again, naked (of course), kneeling on the low table, legs spread, eyes demurely focused on Monica’s feet, she remembers the smell of burnt meat from when Monica had done the redhead, and how devastated the girl had been afterward, how torn between pride and terror; pride at having been so honoured, terror at having allowed such a thing - at what might come now, what further depredations.
She realises she is not going to even pretend to go to college anymore. That her life as an independent person has ended, here, this morning, while being fucked by a stranger for the entertainment of a heartless rich bitch and her friends - all without anyone else noticing or caring in the least.
Racked with waves of strong emotion, she suppresses as best she can - Monica is unimpressed with any noticeable ‘behaviour’ from the toys, and severe disfavour usually results.
So she is actually grateful for the distraction when Monica announces that the plumbers are coming that afternoon, with two friends, and that they are going to ‘destroy this little bitch for our amusement’.
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