Waking the next morning, unaccustomed dull fires reminding her of outrage, of cruel abuse of her most intimate places, she knows that something has changed inside her, that she has lost something.
It’s heartbreaking.
The heartbreak is not, though, for lost innocence, for the bright promise of her relationship with him now violently shifted into a new, unknown territory, terrible hurts though both of these are. The heartbreak is over something worse, something deeper — driven by the new knowledge of what is inside her.
From all the vivid, shocking, appalling flashes of memory — of the red and black infamy of the previous night; so full of firsts, of impossible humiliations, of enforced violations, of casual, debasing cruelties large and small, of ignominy, fear, suffering, and — terrible to recall — unlooked for but devastating sexual intensity, one moment stands out as the moment from which this change stems.
The moment at which she had peeled back her blouse to show them her breasts — so shyly, yet so completely; had so fully exposed herself to these grinning, greedy strangers — the men she knew had been invited to violate her. The moment at which she had been consumed by the intensity of feeling that claimed her.
That she knows she will need again.
He had told her this day would come — weeks and weeks ago.
She had laughed at him, teased him at first — it was a ridiculous joke, and in terribly poor taste, too; but he had been unabashed, had repeated himself, calmly, steadily, without doing more than smile a little, and in the end she had got cross with him — been shockingly rude; sulked at him, shouted at him, ignored him, flounced out (only to return, embarrassed and — truthfully — shocked and unsettled at how little she could cope with the idea of truly leaving).
Through it all he had remained calm, amused, tolerant, friendly, understanding — so infuriatingly understanding — waiting until she had worn her mood out, resuming normal relations until she, unable to let it lie, asked to him to repeat what he had said — demanded it, so that it could be dealt with — put to bed, closed down, finished.
He would smile at her, genuinely, warmly, almost sadly — for a long while. If she got huffy, made a face, she didn’t get an answer.
This sequence had happened several times.
If she waited, if she persisted, if she kept calm, he would eventually say, patiently;
“Very well, I’ll repeat myself. Shortly — in the next few weeks — we’ll have visitors — a few of them. Men — you won’t know them. Over dinner, I will tell them that I’m making you available to them, that evening, and for the remainder of their stay — as a whore.”
“I’ll tell them that they must not hold back with you — that they should take the chance to do to you anything they have ever dreamed of doing to a woman — no matter what — that they are to consider you as nothing more than a plaything; a warm and willing sex toy — and if you’re not willing, that they should feel free to force you — with violence, if need be. With cruelty, if they wish — if it will entertain them to see you suffer.”
And she would stand, or sit, open-mouthed, chest heaving, heart pounding, transfixed, trembling, until at last, after minutes — many minutes perhaps, she would muster from somewhere the energy to make some proper show of outrage, of resistance, of disgust…
Somehow, this got harder and harder to carry off, until one day she had just stopped, mid flow, and burst into tears, stumbled brokenly towards him and begged him to hold her, tight, his strong arms around her…
And, after this had led to one of the most torrid and frankly glorious sexual interludes she could remember, and after she had dozed on his chest, sated, she had drowsily lifted herself from his belly and looked up at him, voice soft but urgent, and very, very sincere;
“Please. Please — don’t tease me. This .. this awful thing you tell me you are going to do ..”
She falters, and he helps her;
“Whoring you out, you mean?”
She is all but undone, tears in her eyes;
“Please. … Please, don’t.. .. don’t do this to .. to me?”
He lets the silence grow, playing gently with her hair in a way that they both like, until at last he lifts her chin with a lazy finger so that he can look into her eyes;
“Silly girl. I’ll do what I want with you, and you’ll be surprised how little resistance you’ll put up. This has been your fate since about an hour after we first met. It’s been fun playing at boyfriend, but it’s time to move you on.”
She discovers that she cannot answer this, anymore than, when the day dawns, she can make herself leave — although she has told herself that this is exactly what she will do, has packed her bags for, ordered the taxi for.
But she doesn’t open her door when the housekeeper knocks to tell her the taxi is waiting; cannot move, cannot speak — stands, furiously gripping the bedhead, shaking but immobile, blinking back hot tears, until she hears footsteps retreating, and at last lets the tears flow, grey despair flooding through her.
Tears cannot flow forever, and when eventually they are done, and when she has sat with her despair for further timeless moments, she looks up, looks at herself, quite objectively, in the reflection of a framed picture. The last she will see of the Chloe who is not a whore. Then, calmly, numb, she goes into the en-suite and begins to prepare herself, as thoroughly as for some gala event. There is simply nothing else to be done.
Whenever her mind goes to thoughts about what is coming, about the impending horror, about the fact that she is still here, that she is doing everything she can to make herself look attractive, she refuses to follow the train of thought. Simply, she stops, lets the thought, the question, the fear — lets it all be, but gives it nothing, no oxygen, no answer, no consideration; wills the numbness, the despair again to fill her mind with nothingness.
It takes a minute or two — longer each time, perhaps, as the time grows closer — but she manages to make it through to the point at which He appears, smiling, relaxed as if it were any other day. He compliments her on her beauty, on her choice of dress, tells her she is gorgeous, desirable, ravishing, enticing; caresses her cheek with a finger, softly.
He doesn’t kiss her, though; simply takes her hand and leads her down to meet the assembled guests, with whom he has been sharing an aperitif.
She can hardly make herself meet their eyes for the second it takes to see who they are. There are no introductions, except for his announcement;
“Gentlemen, the delectable Chloe!”
None of the men make any effort to speak to her, and neither does He. Already, she has been lessened; already, she finds that she has no will to reject being lessened, to object to such treatment. Already, the feeling of having been lessened, so obviously, for these strange men; men who — presumably — know what is to come; already, her reaction to this situation is not as straightforward as it ought to be.
The feeling sits on her; oppressive, yes — but also strangely calming. All of her turmoil, over the weeks, about this becoming real, is now, in the moment, replaced by a dreamy, tingly feeling of anticipation — half-numb, half relieved. It’s not that she isn’t fearful, apprehensive — even horrified — but that these emotions are another girl’s — another Chloe’s; a Chloe who is no longer at the centre of things, but simply a bystander.
At dinner, she eats only a little, drinks less, sits in silence, suppressing her trembles, looking at her plate, at her hands, at His hands. She works hard at her posture, at avoiding tensing up, at keeping her face placid, smiling politely when they laugh, but not really paying any attention. After all, she is not here as a person, but as a whore. It becomes increasingly unreal — she feels light-headed.
After dinner, at a lull in the so far perfectly normal conversation, he says, as if he is announcing a tasting of a fine port or some-such;
“Well, gentlemen, we should go into the lounge where you’ll find brandy, whisky, cigars and so on. Then Chloe can strip herself for you and then .. well — she’s all yours.”
She doesn’t stand up and leave then either, but instead, heart racing, drops her eyes and stares at the table, trembling, painfully conscious of how carefully she is holding herself. Holding herself for them, for their gaze — so that they will find her attractive; sexually attractive; desperate not to be rejected as undesirable.
“As I said earlier, she’s utterly fresh — only been with three men in her whole life, but believe me she’s a natural. Don’t hold back in the least — anything you like, you take it, any hole; force her, torture her if you like — anything goes.”
Now! Now! she tells herself, feeling her cheeks hot, her belly crawling — Leave! Scream! do SOMETHING!
But she can’t even raise her head, and then the tall fat one has her elbow, helping her, quite politely, to rise. He ushers her across the hall and into the lounge, where he directs her firmly but gently — she somehow finds it important to make a supreme effort — so that she can appear calm and happy to comply — to a position in front of the fireplace, facing the chairs, where she stands, belly fluttering, breathing almost randomly, her chest rising and falling, the movement of her breasts in the gauzy blouse distracting them from their idle small talk.
It seems an eternity — an agonisingly hard eternity in which to stand, for them, work to appear calm as they sort themselves out with drinks, cigars, get themselves comfortable, get the cigars lighted…
At last, they are all seated, and quiet sets in. No-one speaks.
She is quivering tinily, a queer mix of extreme tension and a strange numbness controlling her.
She’s to strip, so that they can rape her, degrade her.
This is impossible, so it won’t happen. It’s obvious. This must be a test that He has arranged; a cruel test, to be sure — horrible, certainly; but see — she has passed, surely? Done her best — not embarrassed him or herself in front of his guests; surely — surely, now, he will tell them how proud he is of her, how pleased .. surely, this must end, now?
The moment gets long, longer. The men seem totally relaxed — a few low comments, a chuckle or two, their eyes appraising her, but without intensity.
And then, all of a sudden, she knows that it is real, and it seems somehow ridiculous that she should delay further, and with a silly, sad, rueful little laugh of her own, she begins to unbutton her blouse, smiling at them as sweetly as she can manage to. It becomes important to her that it is clear to them that He has not forced her into this — that it is not Him that is the monster, but her who is the willing whore — the girl who thinks so little of herself that she has allowed him to set this evening up, to speak of her in the way he just has, to offer her to them in such horribly functional terms. She cannot speak, though; can’t be sure she will ever speak again, in fact, and so her brave, tremulous little smile has to convey the message.
There is, quite simply, nothing else she can think of to do.
When most of the buttons are done, her lover (Can she still call him that? What is he to her now — now that he has offered her to strangers for casual sex, for humiliation, for degradation and cruelty, and in such crude terms? And what is she to him? She cannot bear this line of thinking, and forces it from her mind) — her lover asks her, in a perfectly normal voice, to stop, to stay as she is, to clasp her hands behind her back.
Is this it — will they attack her now? Her chest rises and falls with the intensity of it all, but she has no will to move, or hide. She obeys, outwardly calm, at great effort; inwardly in devastating turmoil..
He approaches, reaches into her blouse; there is a tug at her bra strap.
Before she even realises that he has a small, but evidently sharp, knife, he has cut the other strap, and is reaching behind her to cut the rear strap too. Now he reaches under her skirt, cuts her panties loose, pulls them free; steps back, holding the lingerie up for mock applause — pretty, lacy, expensive; ruined — before tossing it into the fire, to a smattering of laughter.
They are so relaxed! They’ve done this before. Boys she knows would be gibbering at this point. She looks at him, very briefly; he is watching her, serious, relaxed, interested, a faint smile on his face. It’s clear he has no doubts at all.
Somehow she is calm.
And then comes the moment, the particular moment that looms in her mind now, in the morning light, the moment which has wrought this unimaginable change in her — the moment her breasts sway free; the moment when, from out of nowhere, it occurs to her that she is grateful.
Grateful to her lover for forcing this on her. Grateful to these strangers, these men who are so calmly discussing the impending violation of an inexperienced young woman in such callous terms.
Grateful for their attention, for their interest — for what they are going to do to her, even — filled with tender gratitude for their eyes on her vulnerable breasts, tears pricking her eyes, as the trembling grows, pathetically needy for them to like what they see.
The moment, she now understands, as the morning sun streams into the room where she lies, naked, shocking red marks on her belly, her breasts, the strange bulk of the biggest of the strangers in the bed beside her, his huge gut, his hand on her thigh, casually possessive …
… the moment when she knew that she would never get tired of such moments.
Tears gather, softly, but before any falls, his hand begins to forage purposefully toward her tender, puffy sex, so shockingly, so aggressively and so thoroughly used the night before.
Her instinct is to clench her thighs, protect her intimacy, turn away, but the aftermath of her realisation is on her, and instead, deliberately, she opens herself to him, turns softly toward him, pushing her sex forward to meet his hand — whereupon he straightforwardly thrusts two fat fingers inside her, making her cry out softly in pain and weakness, which brings a deep chuckle and a deeper thrust which makes her wail, but does not make her flinch — indeed, she opens herself further for him, lifting the upper leg to split her sex more widely for him, for his convenience.
“Sore pussy , eh? Maybe your pretty mouth can make it feel so good I don’t need to fuck you there, then.”
And as if born to it, she leans over him, caressing his side with her nipples, and takes his cock sweetly, generously, between her soft lips; the tears brimming now.
She is numbly surprised to find herself very willing — eager, even — to please him, knowing as his breathing gets more noisy that he will want to go deeper, and, despite knowing it will make her cry, she controls herself as she takes him into her throat, slow, taking care of his pleasure, letting him feel her spasming around his cock as her gag reflex kicks in, suffused with a sweet sadness as she lets the newly familiar pain and physical distress of being stretched like this take possession of her, deprived of air, the dehumanisation of feeling her whole self collapse down to the status of a tight, warm, slippery tube, of giving herself away. Deliberately letting herself become nothing more than a hole to fuck.
For she has learned in serving her lover increasingly in this manner that the way to satisfy him is to do just that; give up on herself temporarily — become that hole that he is fucking, find whatever way she can to make herself the most pleasurable hole she can be.
She had thought, training herself, joyfully, willingly, determined to please him as best she could, that it was all about love, this voluntary relinquishing of everything about her that was not fuckable, servile hole.
Last night, though, has violently disabused her of this notion. Within a few short minutes after she had stripped herself for them, she had been calmly issued with the chilling promise that if her cocksucking service did not match up to His judgement of her abilities, she might discover what it was like to have a lighted cigar extinguished in her mouth, and discovered that not only was this enough to get her to strive to live up to His judgement, but also for her to force herself to go further, deeper, longer than she has been doing for Him, for her lover.
It turns out that deep-throating a man, encouraging him to face-fuck her, keeping herself soft and flexible for him to take his pleasure with her, is nothing to do with love, and all to do with technique, with submission — with giving your whole self over to become nothing, nothing but that fuckable hole. Last night, despairing, terrorised, she had served them all more completely in that way than she had ever served Him. Just one of many harsh revelations the night’s outrages had forced upon her.
She can’t really understand why she is trying so hard — why she isn’t angry, raging, fighting this man off, this man who had hurt her breasts so purposefully, laughing at her agonised expression, her gasped pleas for pity, for relief, all the while watching her eyes, wanting to see how her suffering was writ there, relishing her despair.
But she isn’t, has no wish to do anything other than serve him, please him, satisfy him; have him think of her again as he had commented last night; as a ‘good little whore’.
Actually, even as she is crying, even as he decides that he wishes to take full control now, as he takes her head in his hands and begins to fuck her throat in earnest — deep, rapid, aggressive strokes, uncaring as to her discomfort, seeking only his own pleasure, using her, even then she cannot find it in her to do other than seek to please him, even as her arms and legs writhe weakly as she suppresses the automatic demand of her body to push him off her, to hurt him in protest at the unchecked force of his thrusting.
After a little while, she is appalled to find herself happy to be the girl who is doing this — who is complicit in allowing this to be done to her, who is succeeding at letting him use her so harshly; is amazed at herself, feels the knowledge from somewhere that she is going to be doing this a great deal, makes herself smile for him, even through her tears.
She is happy, though, she realises, as he pushes into her throat, and she finds she can keep herself soft for him, make it clear to him that she is willing for him to force her, hands at her back as they had so ruthlessly required she learn to keep them, until she can no longer prevent her body from doing something — but even then, the weak flapping of her hands on his meaty, heavy thighs speaks of submission and acceptance, not real resistance, and he ignores her.
And then he’s milking his cock, deep in her throat, a hand holding her neck, tight, and she is feeling faint as his come jets into her belly; makes herself stay soft for him, despite her body’s urgent insistence on fighting him off, demanding air, the freedom to control her own breathing. Suppressing her own survival instincts in the service of his sexual pleasure. This stranger; fat slob that he is, cruel violator that he is. Serving him, shaming herself, helplessly servile. Astonished at how deeply willing she finds herself to embrace this feeling, this abuse. To serve. Tears spurting from her eyes, despair eating into her as she feels the heavy impact on her psyche of having let him do this to her.
Finally, when he decides to pull out, knowing his sadistic interest in her pain, she lets him see her distress when he pulls her head back, wanting to see her tears, her subjugation, not hiding her weakness, her terrible despair at what he has done to her, accepts his cold laughter, his words;
“Easy little slut” — all as if it were some strange blessing.
Read about the rest of Chloe’s first morning as a whore in Moving Her On, Pt.2.
