This will make more sense if you have read the previous episode.
Chloe seems hardly aware of what is happening, eyes unfocused as she is fed yet another little treat sweet (which she takes with unthinking gratitude), then quickly tidied up, her hair brushed, make-up retouched, hands once again cuffed at the back of her neck and then led, walking this time (tottering might be a more accurate word), with the chain again doing its degrading job of encouraging her to move as directed by cutting into her sex; sensitised by the strong orgasms, the intensity of this is sharp, and when the chain pulls tight as she stumbles a little, she moans and gasps out loud, unable to hold her emotion in check, earning a slap on her newly tenderised buttock from Miss A;
“Quiet yourself now, pretty, or I might just forget myself and give you a couple across the tits right here.”
This brings high-pitched titters from the bimbos, and a new flush of humiliation and tears that have to be blinked away.
“That’s better; good little cunt.”
A little rush of resentment now: no matter what Chloe has consented to in terms of Lord K’s treatment of her, no matter what her arrangement with M and D, no matter that, on Lord K’s explicit instruction, she has allowed this sharp-tongued bitch to cane her, no matter that they made her come; none of this gives her the right to make such threats! No right at all!
But this tiny mental revolt just brings more humiliation, as a new tug on the chain has Chloe meekly hastening to step along, just as is desired of her, even though this will set her breasts swinging so very obviously, and she finds herself having to grit her teeth to keep from crying out again — obeying Miss A, repressing her own needs, being obedient, even to a minion, trotting along like a well-trained pet…
She bites her lip: how have things moved so fast? How has she been brought to…
But there’s no time to think, to get her mind clear, to even address these questions, for they have reached the reception area, the door leading to Lord K’s office, and Chloe is brought up against a pressing reality; M is inside; M, whom Chloe has just taken a whipping for, then been brought humiliatingly to orgasm by strangers while helpless, too; her throat constricts; it becomes critical to her that she can see how M looks at her, that this look be approving — or at least complacent, needing to be sure that this hasn’t all been some cruel con-trick, some stupid bet — a sneering joke at the expense of the stupid girl from the sticks.
At the same time, she wants — needs — to be what they want her to be, needs to make them see that she is not just a witless innocent — that she wants to be here — for them; for M.
But what do they want? Proud slut? Destroyed sobbing wreck? Abashed young innocent? Words from that intense and disturbing conversation in the street came back to her;
“Concentrate on walking elegantly — keep your thighs apart; hands by your sides or behind your back.”
That was it — that’s what they wanted — elegant but enticing. Chloe panics a little — how can she achieve this in the slutty harness, her wrists cuffed, her legs trembling so, marks of the whip across her body?
There is no time to agonise — she must do it — right now!
Seemingly automatically, Chloe’s body takes over, knows what to do, and does it; straightens her back, settles her wrists more centrally behind her neck, and concentrates on walking as well as she knows how in the high heels, on pulling her shoulders back to shamelessly emphasise her breasts, on fighting the urge to cringe, on displaying herself very obviously to these people, inviting them to use her, offering herself in her vulnerability. To ignore the voice of sanity in her head, yelling at her that this can’t lead anywhere good, that she needs to get out before it gets worse, while she still can.
Only, she didn’t want to get out, she thought, when she saw them — M and D sitting relaxed in club chairs, Lord K leaning against his desk, looking around at the sound of the door; instead, she finds herself overwhelmed by a helpless, needy lust; they are serious; deadly serious. Her belly does a flip. This is not going to end here.
Something changes in her then; a quiver passes through her. Shaking, but deliberately displaying herself without reserve — a young woman who has allowed herself to be cruelly caned for their entertainment, worse than naked, cuffed, shamefully led by a chain which bites into her most private, tender folds, Chloe offers herself.
Some things are gone from her, it becomes clear; suddenly far off — tiny black-and-white snapshots of another life; her girlhood, her silly daydreams of a normal life, a career.
At the same time, something that has been suppressed is let loose; a hunger for intensity beyond anything she has imagined, a need — need that requires her complete submission to something more powerful, more extreme than she could attain by herself … she’s at the same time exalted and terrified, proud and wanting to fall to her knees, trembling with this revelation: she needs them all to want her; they’re so casually powerful, so confident, so strong-willed and clear, so much more important than she, vague little Chloe from the country.
It was so incredible to have the chance to see this life, to be part of it; the best part, too — the part where you were the centre of attention, and got made to have wonderful orgasms…
All of which is evident to M and D as old hands at this sort of thing, and they exchange complacent little grins — their judgement has been proved accurate once again.
Lord K is more active — he strides forward, grasps the leash, irresistibly drags Chloe into the centre of the room, then puts a hand directly to her sex, invading her there, investigating her with matter-of-fact and ungentle fingers, finding her well lubricated, at which he grins; “Ha!”, while Chloe reacts in more conflicted ways, moaning, bucking her hips, drowning in shame.
Pulling out, he slaps her smartly between the legs, directly on her tender mons, not really hard, but shocking her immeasurably, bringing a weak yelp and simultaneously making obvious to all the depth of her soft, submissive determination to stay open and accepting; worse, Chloe knows that her struggle to control herself, to remain open, vulnerable, keep her face from scrunching up in pain or shame (as well it might) — that this struggle, her self-repression, is plain to read from her face.
(Indeed, M and D once again exchange cool, knowing smiles; this one, it seems, is really quite a find.)
Imperiously waving the bimbos and Miss A out, K wraps an arm across Chloe’s chest, grasps her shoulder and bends her sharply backward, his other hand lifting the thigh closest to him right up, opening her wide, twisting her unceremoniously so that the light is on her groin, her sex spread, without the slightest thought for her comfort, still less her dignity, as she’s taken completely off balance, relying entirely upon him to stop her falling awkwardly, gasping in shock, her heart skittering as she is lewdly displayed to M and D, who look on, entirely relaxed, languidly interested;
“Much better now it’s been trimmed, eh, ladies?”
D replies; “Very much so, my Lord, like an arrow pointing straight at the useful part — admirably clear as to what this little one is made for.”
And these words, shocking and crude as they are, seem somehow like praise to Chloe, so needy is she, in her thoroughly destabilised state, and she finds herself moving her knees apart, wanting to offer her sex the more obviously, to be clearly willing.
Her reward is patronising laughter and Lord K saying;
“Look at the pretty filly whoring herself, the tart — you’ll have to tie up the dogs tonight, ladies — God alone knows how far this one would go to get fucked!”
Tears come to her eyes, as M and D laugh with him, but she doesn’t try to close her thighs. She’s gone too far along a single lane track; there’s simply no way to turn around now — nothing for it but to press on, to go with it, go all the way. Her breath is coming in almost random gasps, hysteria rising, and she makes herself take deliberately deep, slow breaths, hoping to remain in control.
“Perhaps she’ll be satisfied — or destroyed, maybe — when you deflower her little rosebud, Lord K” says M.
“Ha! I’ll do my best, but I’ve a plane to catch for Geneva tonight, so I shan’t have as much time as I’d like. Perhaps you ladies would wait in the lounge while I see if I can’t make her cry, at least?”
He has let her stand again, and on the way past, M reaches up and strokes Chloe’s cheek, an amused smile on her face; Chloe blushes but accepts the caress, even though, naked, trussed in the harness, hands behind her neck, she feels unbearably, tinglingly vulnerable, awfully exposed, defenceless. And she accepts, as well, prettily, the little treat that M, feeds her — needily reaching out with soft lips, however humiliating it is for D and K to see this. And all the while M is looking directly, deeply into Chloe’s soft eyes, which are so shy, so big with nervous anticipation, so clearly advertising the young woman’s weakness, the vulnerability her neediness brings. Chloe’s heart thumps in her chest as if it is going to burst, but then M is gone, the door thunks home, and she is alone with him.
He looks at her, very frank and amused, enjoying her exposure, her helplessness, a question in his eyes; he is waiting, waiting for something, she realises. Trembling, unable to bear this silent scrutiny, feeling her vulnerability more than ever, breath coming in seemingly random little rapid sniffs, her skin tingling, she feels panic rise again.
Unable to bear it any longer, Chloe makes to speak — without a clue as to what she might say — but again his finger is at her lips, silencing her;
“No, no, pretty, I’m not interested in anything you might say; only in using you as you were offered to me — as a fully available vehicle for my pleasure. If I do so, it will be without restraint — I’ll take what I want, just the way I want it; among other things, I will hurt you — and be happy to know that you are suffering because of me.”
He leans down, a hand at the back of her neck, and kisses her then, soft at first, but still overwhelming, gradually becoming more insistent, demanding, controlling — until he breaks off, stands back, watching her again, grinning, seeing her chest rise and fall, lifts a finger to her nipple, flicking it as her breasts lift and dip, laughing a little, making her mad with the impossible intensity of being treated thus by a man she hardly knows, who has had her caned, her sex hair shaved by his servant, the shamefulness of permitting such liberties, of having offered herself for them…
There are tears in her eyes, her head is shaking, helplessly seeking to ward off the overwhelming feelings, all conflicting, that assail her.
“If you don’t want this, little pretty, now would be the time to leave. There would be disappointment, of course, and loss of face for M & D — which would do them no harm, perhaps even serve them right, who knows — but you could go back to your life with a little tale to tell, and no real harm done.”
“So go! Run! Run to the door — escape, little one, escape — before I do terrible things to you.”
Standing naked before him, she begins to cringe, to cower; the tears flow, although she does not sob. But she does not turn, does not run, and as the moments mount up, she instead, with a visible effort of will, calms herself, stops her tears, straightens herself a little, although she cannot stop the trembling, and makes herself wait — wait for whatever it is. And with the decision to wait, with the return of some measure of self-control, comes a strange calm satisfaction — a feeling that it is right for her to be naked, cuffed, at this man’s mercy, here because she has offered herself, has asked for it, has not saved herself, and with that feeling comes a strong sexual pulse, deeper and darker than any she has known, and her breathing calms and slows of its own accord, and she wants his hands on her, inside her, again — between her legs, at her breasts, at her arse, at her neck, her mouth — everywhere…
Instead, though, she hears him say (not having dared meet his eyes during all this time, she finds herself staring at his crotch, at the swelling there, knowing that it will be inside her soon now);
“Your turn to kiss me, now — gently mind, soft; let me feel how much you want to please me, how much you understand that I am going to hurt you, how greedily I am going to use this soft and lovely body of yours — let me feel your weakness; give it to me.”
The trembling is back at once. How can he ask this of her?
Cuffed and bound submission, she had at some level accepted was to be her fate; hard and painful fucking of her virgin backside too, however unimaginable. But to be asked to go up on tiptoes, as she must to reach him, to lean into him, breasts crushed against his wool jacket, to seek his lips with hers, to be immediately off balance, her cuffed hands unable to resolve this, and so leaning hard against him, kissing him deeply, giving him her tongue, inviting his into her soft mouth, doing her shaky and fearful best to fulfil his requirements, his fingers teasingly stroking and caressing her back, her flanks, her behind, was, suddenly, the most intense feeling yet — this intimate act, so closely associated with trust and openness, for a man who she knows likes to have her hurt, who promises to hurt her himself, to degrade her — tears wet her eyes and she is jelly, all het up again, belly fluttering, as he wraps his arms around her, lifts her bodily and then deposits her, gently enough, on her knees on the low table.
He unlinks the cuffs from her collar without releasing her wrists, brings her arms down in front of her, and with a hand on her neck, makes it clear she is to go onto all fours.
She is almost grateful to have her face pushed down onto the table-top, so that she can close her eyes; meekly parts her legs wide at a light touch on her inner thigh, the inconcealable wantonness of this affecting her deeply, allows his hand to invade her sex, flexing her hips to offer herself to him, helplessly, finding herself sighing with the feeling of it — the miraculous, unbelievable feeling of being so open, so wet, for such a man, in such circumstances, of quivering at his touch so visibly, so deeply, to be so obviously eager to be penetrated. Feeling at the same time like a lost soul, a dirty slut and an exalted angel.
He walks away, then, abandons her; her hips surge, wanting his touch on her sex, shameless; there are sounds, he’s doing something, she neither knows nor cares — she isn’t listening, can’t concentrate; her mind filled with the certain knowledge that this powerful and selfish man is going to be forcing his cock into her virgin arse — so much more intimidating now it’s imminent than it was when she had said she might like it, standing in the street so long ago.
Long ago? Actually, it will be less than three hours since she so naively offered herself up to be brought here, she realises with astonishment, all over again — it seems a million years, that the Chloe who did that was a different person.
In those three hours her whole world has changed; during that time, it seems, she has become the sort of girl who kneels, naked but for a leather fetish harness, on a coffee table, and who, when a man she knows nothing of but his sexually sadistic appetites opens his trousers in front of her face, a girl who leans forward, opening her jaw wide, to take his cock straight into her soft and welcoming mouth, feeling a pulse of heat at her crotch as she does so.
She’s engulfed by the shocking, glorious wantonness of it, her belly quivering with sexual tension, making herself take him deep, deep into her mouth, give her mouth to his cock, to his wishes. She has always resisted this in the past, limited this activity to a little licking and quick bobbing in and out, but now it seems she is happy to give this stranger’s hot, pulsing cock just what it wants; that she is intensely interested in it, in this cock, attentive to the way it moves in her mouth, wanting to guess what it’s after and deliver it; desperately, determinedly accommodating when he thrusts himself into her, hard and deep, even though her throat convulses, wants to please it, please him, this man who has her caned, who shames her in front of strangers, who says he will hurt her, make her cry, enjoy hurting her, who is going to fuck her virgin asshole.
How can it be that she never realised that sex could be like this — so devastating, so terrifying, so all-consuming, so irresistible?
His hands are on her body now, one grasping a breast, alternately wonderfully encompassing and crudely manipulating, both feelings making her gasp with desire, while the other traces the hot weals left by the cane;
“Whip marks suit you, pretty. Make sure to tell those ladies to whip you often, so that you carry visible marks of your submission always. I’m going to go deep and hard into your throat now; you’ll need to take it all, whether you like it or not.”
And he does just that, putting Chloe to the test, taking her by surprise when he rams himself directly into her throat, subjecting her to something she has never before experienced, and which is, frankly, frightening.
He has hold of her head, her wrists are cuffed, and he’s ramming his cock into her, roughly, repeatedly, urgently, giving her no respite, so that her breasts jounce about wildly, and her opportunities to breathe are effectively random; she’s gagging and choking, and at the same time fighting with herself to keep herself as soft and open as possible, to please him, knowing she must; feeling the tears spurting from her eyes as he thrusts.
He’s growling softly, too, deep, like a big dog warning you not to dare do anything it disapproves of.
He pulls out just as abruptly, and she’s left gasping and choking, her main emotion desperate gratitude that she managed not to bite him to get him out of her.
But of course he’s behind her now, before she can catch her breath, fingers at her sex — which has responded to the thrusting in her throat with more lubrication, it seems. He quickly has her gasping and wailing, so sensitive has she become down there, so grateful is her pussy to get some attention again.
This is just the opener, though, and those fingers are quickly at her asshole, working, pushing, stretching, shocking; and then she feels his cock-head, probing, seeking, pressing.
The reality that this is actually happening to her — right here, right now, helpless, her hands cuffed, face down, asshole being fucked by a hard cock that has just been deep in her throat — this is impossible to process, and she gives up thinking, becomes an animal, squeaking and gasping mindlessly as he pushes his cock slowly but steadily into the tightness of her ass, relentless, destroying her, it feels, while she is powerless to resist.
More than this, though, she finds her body — without any conscious decision on her part — actively assisting him in this ruthlessly selfish, painful invasion of her backside, flexing hips in time with his movements, offering herself to him, arching her back, whimpering, opening her thighs, opening her lips for his fingers as he pushes them into her mouth, letting him invade her there, too, making herself soft for him, feeling herself becoming nothing; nothing but a softly willing vessel for his greed; revelling in it, feeling perversely special — as far as she knows no women do this, this unimaginable thing; only her.
And then his hand is at her sex and she cries out, almost unbearably sensitive there; but he isn’t interested in her feelings, only his own wants, and he wants to play with her clit, push fingers into her, then mash her clit again, again and again, the pace of his thrusts into her ass increasing too, deeper, harder, until she is mad with it; mad with the insane feeling of filled-up-ness that his cock makes in her arse, with the raw sensations coming from her sex, with the relentlessly sensuous intensity of the whole evening, with the sheer dirtiness of what is going on, with the knowledge that the five women outside know pretty much exactly what she is permitting, is undergoing, understand the depth of her sluttiness in detail, and she begins to orgasm again; almost unable to bear the sensations of yet another intense climax, rutting mindlessly against him now, sending him, too, over the edge, shouting his release as she moans hers, delirious.
At last, after what seems an aeon, he pulls out of her and steps away, and Chloe softly collapses, utterly undone by the whole evening; shuddering, crooning softly to herself, trembling and shivering, feeling his come oozing from her burning anus, sobbing a little every now and then, eyes tightly closed, biting her lips when she wants to wail, distressed and exalted, smiling through the tears in wonder at the aftershocks of the pleasure that had ripped through her, in the same moment wanting to die at the shame of it all.
She is barely aware of the rest of the evening — being dressed, wrapped in some sort of shawl, held by M or D, helped into a taxi; it all takes on the character of a dream.
She comes a little more to consciousness during the long-seeming ride — the shame creeping up on her again as the presence of ecstasy fades, but then, thankfully, drowsiness overtakes again.
Wakened by a crunch of gravel, cool air, she is half carried by someone — strong — a man; warm, luxurious feeling, thick carpet, soft lighting, lifted upstairs — still the man (a little stir of resistance here, weak and quickly hopeless, given up on, vague expectation of further sexual usage, unfulfilled), a soft bed, blissful unconsciousness…
