Chloe and the Agency Pt.4

This will make more sense if you have read the previous episode.

Chloe is awakened by the door closing; it’s morning, and someone has delivered her a little breakfast — croissants, hot chocolate, orange juice, on a pretty, ornate little metal tray with its own stand.

She looks up, still mostly asleep, understands, slowly, that she is naked, in a strange bed, in a strange room; a luxurious, soft bed, in a beautiful, sun-filled room, well furnished with subdued antiques, overlooking lush greenery, countryside.

But grand as all this is, she is aware, as she awakes more fully, of something, something huge … and then the memory of the previous night rushes over her, and she is gradually overtaken by a slow, powerful, suffocating panic attack, which has her clutching at the bedclothes around her convulsively as her heart rate accelerates, her breathing gets wilder and deeper, her belly begins to try to turn itself inside out, her legs rigid, cramping, her mind in turmoil.

It can’t be. It just cannot be! That … that she … that they … that he …

And where is she? Somewhere M and D have taken her? Somewhere of Lord K’s? Delivered to some other stranger?

Naked! She’s naked — vulnerable (and now the soreness — multiple sorenesses — of her body remind her how thoroughly her vulnerability was abused last night).

Wildly, she looks around for her clothes, her bag, shoes … sees nothing, although there is an inner door…

She is up, scampering to the door, clutching the duvet around her, glancing backwards at the main door, checking it’s closed, needing safety, something … something of her own, beyond her naked body, to cling to, to anchor herself …

A bathroom — luxurious, elegant, sun-filled, but impersonal. A few small hand-towels, no robe.

Heart thumping, tearing up now, feeling small, weak, frightened, vulnerable, she sinks to her knees, her head going down, down, until her forehead is on the cool tile, her hands balled into painfully tight fists either side of her head, the impossibility of last night resonating in her head — shame upon horror upon fear upon shame — until sobbing overwhelms her, fighting with the heaving of her chest for control of her mouth, and everything goes wrong — she is inhaling spittle, mucus, coughing, panic out of control, crying out, inchoate, in her distress…

It can’t last — she becomes faint, exhausts herself, rolls onto her side, shaking, clutching at herself, until eventually, a small voice inside her tells her she must control the panic — to breathe, to let the feelings be as they will be, but not let them own her — something like that — she’s read it in a magazine, maybe. Whatever, it helps.

And gradually, she is calmer. Her heart slows, her breathing too, the unbearable combination of the immediate need to do something — anything — physical, in revolt against the absence of anything that could actually change the past, ebbs away, the sobbing fades, and the tears eventually dry up.

Slowly, actively suppressing thought now, she picks herself up, weak, shaky, and walks back into the bedroom.

Seeing the breakfast she realises that, under all the emotion, her body is demanding food, with some urgency, and sinks to her knees by the little tray, glugs half the juice before a thought comes to her that it might be drugged, and freezes. Seconds later, she shrugs; ‘I’m here, helpless, naked, I did everything they wanted last night — they don’t really need to drug me’ — manages a little sarcastic smile and takes another swallow, then goes for the croissants. There’s a note there.

An elegant, scallop edged card — heavy, soft, like a wedding invitation or something, handwritten — comfortable, precise script, flowing, impressive;

“Good morning, pretty, I do hope you like the room — and the breakfast. When you’re ready, ring the bell, and Ginny will come with some clothes for you. There’ll be a choice to make, which I am afraid I cannot help you with, save to say that I trust your instincts. I will look forward to seeing you at lunch.“

It was signed, simply, ‘M.‘

This calms her considerably. M is in charge, here, and M is honest and clear — even if what she asks of Chloe is — well — Chloe searches for words … and finds herself saying them aloud;

“Bat. Shit. Fucking. CRAZY!”

The last word comes out as a half shout. In the silence of the house, it shocks her, and she cringes, frightened of what the response might be.

But nothing happens; the silence persists, and the calm of the room helps her calm herself again, and she attacks the food, which is delicious and rich. Then the bathroom calls, and once done, she knows that she wants to shower.

She is happy with freezing cold water to begin with — it feels soothing, purifying, cleansing, but by the end she has it as hot as she can bear, before she dabs herself dry with the small towels.

It takes a little courage, then, to look at herself, look at her back in the mirror, to touch her groin — front and back, explore her tenderness there, expecting damage. She is surprised that the trail of the whip on her back is almost invisible — and realises that the sensation, the pain she experienced, must have been largely psychological — shock and humiliation, rather than actual damage.

The situation at her ass is less comforting, though — seriously sore, some traces of dried blood — he had used her hard, and she sinks to her knees again, tears coming — strangely soft tears, that come with no anger, no revulsion, no regret, even; tears at the realisation of a new knowledge that is unfolding in her — that she accepts this pain without rancour, not because she likes pain, but because she is transfixed by the emotional recall of what it was like, to be used like that, so roughly, so selfishly — so gloriously… To have been the girl who could, who would give him that — that freedom.

To be a girl who was free with herself. Free with her body — free with its intimate uses. Free.

A strange word to use for that situation, she thinks — ‘free’, but with her wrists bound. Free, but pushed down, held down by force, entered with force, naked, whipped, vulnerable, in a strange building, under the control of people of wealth and power and confidence and seemingly completely relaxed about imposing sexual savagery upon an innocent.

Nevertheless, free is the word that makes the most sense to her, and she stands, dropping the towels, naked, clean now, looking at herself in the mirror, seeing herself as never before; as a body — a desirable, fuckable body — seeing her as she thinks (hopes…) M sees her, as D sees her.

It’s entirely new, this appraisal — almost impersonal. She’s always been unsure about her body — like most young women, her image of what she ought to be has been conditioned by the peculiar selection of images that the media offer. Has always thought her breasts the wrong shape — too large, too obvious, not like the catwalk models or the famous actresses she likes; has always been unsure about her legs — the thighs so long and slim, topped by what seems to her a disproportionately rounded and jutting bottom, her neck too long, her lips … the list goes on…

But now, although she is perhaps more critical, she is looking as if with new eyes — with the eyes of a sexually greedy man — the workings of whose mind M and D laid out for her so dispassionately in the bar. And with this filter, she can see how her breasts work, how her hips work, her ass — and also see that she can do — no; needs to do things — with posture and body language, and also with clothes, to improve and enhance them — that she needs to recommit to exercise, maybe go back to dance classes.

It’s not that she’s any happier with her body, so much as that she is less worried, less confused, clearer. Men like her tits, so she can make more of them. They like her ass on her long legs, but shapeless skirts just make her bum look big, conceal the promise of her thighs, her torso lacks muscle tone, so that her breasts are not well supported.

She even finds herself smiling at the image in the mirror as she experiments, shy of herself, but also surprising herself with her own boldness; pulling her shoulders back, arching her neck, head off to one side, seeing her breasts respond, offer themselves — and she giggles, half embarrassed, half amazed at this new — freedom. There it is again, that word, that feeling — she has new freedom with her body — has been freed from the weight of expectation by a simpler, more direct understanding — she wants men to want to fuck her. More precisely, she thinks; M and D want men to want to fuck her. Rich and powerful men with extreme tastes. So that they can rent her to them, under cover of an employment agency. That seems to be their business model.

This is sobering, and she goes back to the bedroom, wraps herself in the duvet, suddenly weak and tearful again.

What is it? What is this thing? How is it possible that, last night, she did — she allowed … that?

How can she have been used — truthfully, abused — like a lost slut in some fetish club, without any preparation at all, really, just dropped in at the deep end — and yet be feeling as if she has been freed; feeling happy, pleased with herself — even as her poor asshole smarts from the roughness of the taking of her cherry there?

How can it be that they are all so assured, so confident? If she — if she went to the papers, there would be some massive scandal — they must be aware of this risk, surely? They don’t know her — don’t know what she’ll do…

But they are confident — supremely so — in fact Chloe is lost in admiration at their lazy, wonderfully cool but implacable power. And … and they probably see this, she realises — certainly they see it, in fact, and so they do understand her, she thinks — they proved that last night — seeming almost to know her better than she knows herself, so deftly did they manoeuvre her.

And then she sees it; that that’s where the freedom comes from — from being in their power. Within that, within their setup, she can be free.

‘Free to be whipped and fucked up the arse? Yeah, right!’ comes a cynical voice in her mind. She hears it, and acknowledges it as deserved. It’s true, of course.

But nevertheless, she feels it, feels free in this house even — not free to do what she wants, perhaps — but a deeper freedom — freedom to get what she needs, what she has never known she wants, but which she has responded to so recklessly, so deeply …

This is pointless, going round and round in her head; it’s time. She looks, and there is a bell pull cord to the side of the bed. After holding it, staring at it, its braided gold silk heavy and rich, for some moments, she watches her hand rise, grasp it at a height, and gently pull. From far off, she feels, rather than hears a resulting buzz, and slowly gets back into the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin.

Almost immediately, she feels uncomfortable — it must be late morning now; she’s been up, she’s not a late sleeper, she’s eaten the breakfast — her brain is whirring, she tries to understand what it is that feels wrong, and then realises that, somehow, she feels more vulnerable, more unsure, less safe in bed, decently covered up, than she will if she is standing up — even though she has no choice other than to stand naked, for whoever comes.

Once standing, she knows that she cannot bear to be considered unattractive — that she must hold herself well — use that freedom. Oh, but this is hard — to have no idea who will come through the door (Ginny — but who is Ginny?), to know that those in charge here were responsible for the treatment Chloe received last night, and nevertheless to show herself to them naked, hold herself to emphasise her sexual attractiveness for them; it is hard, and she has to ruthlessly suppress a new onset of panic when the door opens.

Two of them — a woman first, in a servant’s uniform, rather pretty and skimpy, but not outrageous, followed by (Oh God!) — a man. Him also in some sort of dark livery, carrying two portable clothes-stands, each with an outfit.

Chloe cannot flinch now — or if she does, she will have hidden nothing, but shown something else in addition — shown her fear, as well as her body — and so she finds the courage to stand well as they enter, breath coming in small sips as she sees their eyes appraising her.

They are expressionless, though, and it is just bearable, since the man carefully places the clothes-stands, retrieves the breakfast tray, and quickly leaves, closing the door behind him.

Chloe sees immediately that one stand has her own outfit — the one she wore to the trade fair (although it appears to have been freshly laundered and pressed, immaculate as it hasn’t been since the shop) while the other has a pretty white dress that she hasn’t seen before. But she cannot look properly, because her whole body is aware of the presence of the maid (for that is what her uniform proclaims her) — she’s a young and very pretty girl, possibly under 20, and quite nervous herself, Chloe sees.

The girl (this must be Ginny?) is flushed, and her eyes are very bright as she turns her head to look at the stands, obviously needing to be sure of something.

Much later, Chloe discovers that the maid’s eyes were so bright because the girl is still blinking back the tears brought on by a swift and painful few whacks across her bare bum, delivered by the manservant with his leather belt, at M’s request — punishment for stumbling over her lines — followed by a possibly more agonising requirement to say them clearly, while holding her skirts high, with M’s fingers in her sex, while he looks on, grinning, everyone in the room knowing that M has promised the man that he shall fuck her, Ginny, very soon — although no-one has asked Ginny her own views about such an event.

Ginny, too, is in thrall to Ms M.

Now, Ginny makes a start, trying to talk slowly and clearly (’With my authority’, Ms M had said — as if there was any chance of her achieving that, thought Ginny);

“Good morning Miss … Miss Chloe, and welcome. I … I hope you enjoyed your breakfast. I … I’ve come to bring you clothes. There … there are two options (again her eyes flicker sideways). On … on the left, um my left, your … your right hmhm …”

She falters; Chloe would normally do something like smile encouragingly at a young and nervous woman clearly having trouble delivering a message in the exact words required of her, but right now she is herself in an agony — her nakedness in this situation becoming more and more uncomfortable and strange to her; she’s in no state herself to offer help, and so simply stares as the girl struggles, biting her lip, blinking fast, obviously having trouble managing herself.

“The, the dark one” (the girl is clearly improvising now, hopefully trying to do her best); “ … the dark one is yours, and, and the white one is offered you as a choice.”

“If, if you choose your own clothes, then after lunch, you will be given a lift to the train station for your return journey — your luggage has been collected from your hotel. If you choose the … the white , um , outfit, then, then you are choosing to … to stay, and Ms M will explain. At lunch, I mean; she’ll explain at lunch what … what that means.”

“If … if you choose the white outfit, you are to wear everything in that stand and … and nothing, nothing else. At all.”

She says no more, but doesn’t seem about to move. Chloe, for her part, is frozen — the only way she has been able to hold herself steady has been to demand total obedience of her body, and she dare not relax now, for fear of embarrassing herself even more.

So the two young and pretty women, neither feeling at all comfortable, both experiencing all sorts of paradoxical and raw emotions, stand facing each other, stuck, for some moments. Ginny cannot help noticing Chloe’s lush, tip-tilted breasts, her long, slim thighs, the gap between them at the groin pronounced, her belly flat and smooth, her neck so elegant, her hands so delicate and slender, while Chloe is desperate to see what the white dress is in detail — as if this might offer some clue as to what the outcome of choosing it might be, but dare not move, or even really look away from this girl with the lovely almond shaped face and glowing skin, cheeks brushed with freckles, scandalously short skirts, the tops of her breasts, on show, also freckled, soft and defenceless, and wonder just what her condition here is, what happens to her bottom when Lord K calls, and feel own her eyes tearing up at the imminence of the choice she must make.

Thus is the bond between these two begun — in their joint experience of life-altering, helpless sexual shame and intensity, both mortifying and addictive, in service of the machinations of an M to whom neither of them is any more than an entertaining and transient plaything.

They will almost never speak freely to each other — and even then, only in hurried, breathless, nervous moments stolen from commanded service, but they will see each other often, watch each other performing, oh so eagerly, so sweetly, for M’s approval, often feeling jealousy, but also growing mutual sympathy for each other, understanding as intimately as they both do the agonies and joys of being so deliciously, so thoroughly, so helplessly ensnared.

These sympathies will not, of course, escape the sharp intuitions of M and D, and will be ruthlessly exploited when they are asked to pleasure each other — and to hurt each other, too — for the entertainment of friends and clients; engagements which will both cement their bonds and provide them with raw and destabilising moral quandaries, as they both experience hot but guilty pleasure in inflicting cruelties upon each other; the more intimate the cruelty, the greater the pleasure, and the deeper the guilt cuts, too, further undermining any remaining capcity for resistance, for independence — still less escape.

Their shared and obvious guilt, their shared and ruthlessly exposed shame at the vulnerabilities they will be made to draw from each other for the enjoyment of cruel and greedy strangers will serve to make it easier, and more entertaining too, to push them further, until they cannot be in the same room without becoming hot, breathless, needy, fearful, aroused and conflicted, a condition which of course will make both of them easy to exploit and expose for still further amusement.

Such is the skill and engineered good fortune that M and D have accrued over the years of their collaboration, and such are the subtle and intoxicating vortices of emotion that girls who become thus captured are at once tortured and exalted by at the hands of these two.

Eventually, Ginny realises that she must leave, cannot stay a moment longer, whatever her uncertainty over her having got M’s meaning across, and abruptly gathers herself, turns and leaves, biting back tears, sure that she will get another punishment when she reports, unsure why it is that she reported for work today at all, after how shocking was her experience the previous weekend, astonished to realise that the idea of being punished, frightening as it is, is at the same time heart-stoppingly exciting.

Ginny is a student, recruited 8 weeks previously at a freshers’ fair by Ms D, working Saturdays only for an amount of money that is easily double what friends of hers are earning in 6 nights of bar work. She loves the grand house, is coming to love the skimpy uniform to be honest, and the work is light and sometimes fun, but she is really only here because Ms M seems limitlessly wonderful to her.

So far, she has only been fingered, stroked, spanked a little (this morning was her first taste of the belt) — but it has been made clear to her that she will be expected to ‘develop’ quickly, or not be asked back. Her heart skips a beat when she thinks about this — which is far too often — and she is always promising herself that she will not come back next week, if she can only last out this day. Ms M told her this morning that next weekend she will be required overnight on Saturday, and on Sunday, too, next weekend, and has a strong premonition of what that means. Deep down, she knows that she would come even if they said they wouldn’t pay her, but she cannot admit this to herself.

Chloe, for her part immensely relieved to be alone in her nakedness (she is unaware of the four cameras in the room, of course) can at last go over to the clothes, see what is actually there.

Her own outfit is complete and fragrant, down to the underwear and shoes in a neat bag. There’s a note explaining that the clothes which were bought for her the previous night, and an envelope containing a generous cash sum are with her bags downstairs. If she chooses this option, which of course means leaving, she must know that M and D would always be grateful to her for her ‘remarkable and sweet willingness to please’.

The phrase gives her a delicious rush of sensation, as if someone has stroked her neck with a feather — quickly followed by a hot flush at her sex and vivid recollections of the many moments at which that willingness to please had been taken such thorough advantage of.

Now for the white dress. The one she must choose if she wishes to stay.

It’s a pretty dress, the bodice tight, in a surprisingly heavy cotton, a matt ivory white, obviously tightly fitted. Strapless, there’s a rib-knit bandeau, almost like a shawl, that would just cover her breasts at the top — the tight cotton will push them up and out, but not hold them. The short skirt is pleated and flippy, in a lighter fabric. There are five large buttons only, from the top of the bodice to the top of her pubic mound. Obviously, she’ll have to step into the skirts and pull it up before buttoning. The bandeau is entirely separate, held in place only by the top button.

It’s a lovely and classy looking dress, beautifully designed and detailed — overtly sexy, yes, but not in the least slutty. With the experience of last night clear in her mind, though, the ease with which opening a few buttons would render her naked sets off powerful alarms. For there is no underwear — nothing. All that remains on the stand is a slinky mesh bag with white semi-opaque thigh high stockings that have lacy hold-up tops, a pair of white high heel strappy shoes with ankle cuffs and a pretty three-strand pearl choker with matching bracelets, plus a little make-up kit.

Chloe is in love with the dress, wants it, wants to wear it, wants M to see her in it, wants to thank her for the chance to wear it, wants M to remove the bandeau, put her hand under the flippy skirts and…

She feels dizzy. Yes, yes she wants the dress, wants these things even, but … but at what cost?

If she stays here, then she is inviting — accepting, surely — more of what happened last night, more …

Violation! It was a violation, she tells herself. Whatever they had said to her beforehand, whatever she had offered them, what actually happened was way, way beyond that, far beyond anything anyone might have imagined when consenting — even consenting to anal sex with a stranger (she is blushing furiously, but forcing herself to accept that she had in truth done this).

No. No, she must not stay! She must get out while she can, get out with the money, go back, back home. Maybe she will masturbate about last night for the rest of her life, but she cannot live her life like that!

She stands quivering, staring, for the longest while, until she cries.

Soft, soft, only a few tears, no sobs, just trembling lips, a sideways glance at her own clothes, so safe, so solid, so predictable, so decent.

And then she wipes away the tears, breathes deeply, calm, slow, and her mouth sets, serious. This is real; she steps forward, reaching out.

She’s going to put on the pretty, sexy dress, understanding that she will be naked underneath, and go down and see M. And she just stops thinking about anything else that might happen.

The make-up kit has red, red lipstick, pale blue eye-shadow, a hair clip and earrings to match the choker, and she does her best to do what she thinks M wants.

She wants, and does not want, to see herself, but is unable to resist the large, bathroom mirror.

What she sees is a Barbie doll version of herself — her legs in the high heels seem longer than possible, the clever cut of the dress emphasises her waist, the swell of her breasts (it fits her so tightly, so perfectly, the stiff fabric holding her almost like a corset), the flippy skirt juts out above her buttocks, inviting attention to the tops of her thighs, naked above the stockings, which end well below the hem of the skirt in a way that she both appreciates and understands now, but would have instantly rejected 24 hours ago. The pearl choker is definitely a collar — she understands this, accepts it with a little gulp — the bracelets and ankle cuffs of the shoes are elegant, but also speak of restraints, and she knows this too. She will be restrained, used while restrained, in these. It’s obvious, after last night, what these are. She catches her breath, and finds herself doing a few little wiggles, watching herself, entranced by the girl in the mirror, keen now to show herself to M.

Of course, M receives edited highlights of all her girls on a daily basis, and sends select edits to valued customers; Lord K sees this and several other excerpts the next day, and pulls the head of his favourite in the Swiss villa, Vēci, into his crotch, forcing the Tamil girl to take him deep into her throat, put her breathing on hold, desperately doing what she can to massage his cock with the convulsions in her throat in the hope of bringing him off sooner. Damn those women for continually finding girls he cannot resist, and for bringing them to such a fine state of helpless, such deliciously, helplessly eager vulnerability; they’re costing him a fortune. But he’s grinning broadly, and then grunting as he empties himself deep into the lovely, dark-skinned woman — herself an Agency girl whom he bought from them at an eye-watering price a year ago — a purchase he has never regretted, he reminds himself, as she busies herself cleaning him with her soft and clever tongue, smiling sweetly at him, though her eyes are still wet with tears brought on by his careless and greedy usage.

The skirts of the dress are unbelievably short. Without the security of underwear, Chloe feels as good as naked as she tries to walk elegantly down the stairs in the high, high heels, feeling her breasts jiggle as her hips switch, concentrating on what is to be done next, not thinking, not thinking.

The house is beautiful, stylish, dark and rich. She feels foolish, completely out of her depth — very young and unsophisticated — more tremblingly uncertain with every step, wondering if she has the nerve to turn and retreat back to the room, to take the safe option, to escape.

But it’s too late; dithering at the bottom of the stairs, she is spotted by a grim faced older lady in a severe black dress, black stockings and solid, sensible shoes, her hair in a bun; some sort of housekeeper, presumably.

Chloe blushes, begins to stammer something.

“In the brown sitting room, if you please.” The voice is dry, clipped, no-nonsense. Chloe is nearly dying of embarrassment at the realisation that this hard old stick must know, better than she does herself just what Chloe is here for, what her having chosen the white dress will mean for her.

She is politely but firmly ushered toward a half open door.

Horribly nervous as she enters the large, expensively furnished room, with low leather sofas and tables, she freezes when she sees the only occupant — someone she doesn’t know, a woman of perhaps 35 years of age, intimidatingly beautiful in the style which gets called handsome; very elegant, unmistakably wealthy, confident, powerful, in an austere tailored outfit. Immediately unsure, frightened, Chloe comes to a nervous halt.

This vision smiles at Chloe, calmly;

“Ah, good! Someone to talk to, and I was just beginning to be bored. Perfect. Come and sit down, do.”

Her accent is foreign, clipped, a little harsh, her voice deep, authoritative, and Chloe finds herself obeying without hesitation, lowering herself onto the little banquette opposite the stranger, who looks her over, admiringly;

“But aren’t you pretty? And such a tease in that flirty little dress! Lovely to meet you. I’m Mrs Fisk, and you are …?”

Chlo is pre-occupied, trying to find out how to sit without showing her naked sex to this stranger, and finding that nothing but primly clamped knees will do;

“Oh! … Chloe … ah…”

“Just Chloe?”

The woman laughs at her, then continues, not waiting for an answer;

“A very pretty name. And do you work for Madame M.?”

Chloe flushes. Even if she had been trying to think what might happen next, she wouldn’t have imagined this. The woman thinks she is one of M’s girls!

In desperation, she stammers;

“No No, … I mean …maybe? I … I don’t know!”

And she stops, her breathing panicky now.

Mrs F raises her eyebrows, her face hard — Chloe is aware that she is frightened, that the woman is doing this to her on purpose, that she means Chloe no good at all. She is excited; her heart flutters. She remembers now how this feeling had preceded the best bits of the last evening. Terrified, fascinated, helpless, she gives herself up to the feeling.

“Maybe you should take a deep breath, girly, then start again. Answer my question, do.”

F’s voice has a little steel in it.

Chloe looks up, finds the returned look too frank and piercing, and looks demurely down again, taking a deep breath.

The idea that this woman might be thinking of using her … She can feel her nipples stiffening, and knows this is immediately obvious through the thin bandeau.

“I … I don’t work for Madame M., at the moment. But she might … I might … perhaps I’ll work for her soon.”

Again the soft, relaxed laugh.

“So, pretty, is she waiting for you to say yes, or are you waiting for her?”

It shocks Chloe now that the answer is so obvious to her, and it is hard to say it out loud, but there is no doubt in her soft, low voice as she says;

“I, I’m hoping very much that she wants me … to, to work for her.”

That she felt it necessary to add the second part speaks volumes, and Mrs F laughs again, knowingly, as Chloe blushes, looks down, her hair falling over her face.

“So … a girl like you; pretty, provocative, submissive — might be available to Madame F’s clients; to me, in fact. Is that so?”

Desperate panic! This woman is allowing her no hiding place! She knows M’s business! She might even know what Chloe has been trying so hard not to think about — the events of yesterday evening! And Chloe finds she needs to look up again, even though she is frightened to — needs to look at this woman, fascinated, needs to see again that she is, indeed, the sort of person to whom M might make her ‘fully available’.

For a long moment they look at each other; F, glowing and glossy with power, privilege, entitled greed and lazy confidence; Chloe, quivering slightly, blushing, finding the easiest thing to do is to slip into the role set out for her — as F has described it — pretty, provocative, submissive. And then she knows what to say;

“I … yes … yes I suppose I would be.” — and she finds herself deliberately letting this stranger see how vulnerable she is; frightened, excited, embarrassed, needy. And finding the experience of letting this be obvious even more exciting, embarrassing, frightening — and that it brings on further neediness; ‘O God, O God, O God what am I doing? Why do I like this? O God don’t let her, O God…“

“And as I understand it, Madame F’s girls are all, what is the sexy little phrase? Oh, yes — ‘fully available’?”

A long pause; Chloe is blushing fierily. But she holds herself prettily, determined not to disappoint Ms M (even if she isn’t present, not to let her down, not to prove unworthy), letting F’s smiling eyes capture hers, lips parted, wanting to be desirable, to feel desirable.

Her chest rises and falls noticeably, her nipples stiff through the thin fabric, unfettered breasts moving softly, unmistakeably, as Chloe realises that she is actively presenting herself to this stranger as a sex object, willingly co-operating with a plan devised by others, terrified of what is happening to her, knowing that this plan leads to degradation and humiliation, but drawn by the promise of that incredible intensity she had never felt before the events of the previous evening.

The sense memory of the moment when Lord D drove into her wet sex comes to her mind, and she is dizzy with the implications of it — to have felt so wonderful; stripped, whipped, chained, penetrated in front of strangers. She feels desire flood through her whole body, hot, fluttery.

She knows she is letting the other woman see too much as their eyes remain locked; showing her weakness, her need, her vulnerability. It’s the same feeling she had yesterday, revelling in M and D’s interest in her, even as she knows that interest is limited to a desire to use and abuse her for sexual game playing. But to Chloe it feels like watching someone fall in love with her — it’s as exciting as that, a glorious, tender, frightening, tingling sensation. At last;

“I … I don’t really know about the other girls.”

A pause, a knowing, triumphant smile, a glance that slowly, lasciviously travels the length of Chloe’s body, lingering insolently at crotch and cleavage, before capturing her soft, nervous eyes again, seeing there the eager hope the girl has that her charms are enticing enough, the awful fear she has that she is not sitting right, that she hasn’t held her lips softly, that her breasts aren’t displayed to their best — all these thoughts flit through Chloe’s distracted mind;

“But you, you would like to be ‘fully available’ — to me — if I wanted you?”

The voice is dangerously soft, the savagery it promises only masked, not concealed, and Chloe finds she can hardly think. Her breath is coming in shallow shudders and her lower belly, just above her sex, is full of fluttering butterflies. She knows she must speak, but can’t.

Then; “Dear Livia! You are such a tease! She is a lovely little piece, isn’t she? Those luscious breasts! And she moves so well. But she’s not available at present. Not even to you! Heavens — she’s my guest!”

M! Chloe’s heart seems to start beating again, a million miles a minute — my God! For a little while, she can’t concentrate, hears them laughing — a complacent, smug sound, but hardly even hears what’s being said, so disturbed is she.

When she can pay attention to the conversation, she finds they are talking about some business associate — fairly sophisticated gossip, as if she wasn’t there.

It takes only a minute or two for this to become awkward, then actively distressing. Here she is, dressed for display, having allowed unbelievable, intimate atrocities to happen to her, assumed by F to be a slut for hire — all this, and they can simply ignore her! Have they lost interest in her?

Because, she is now sure, she would very much like M to make her ‘fully available’ to F; to be able to serve M, by putting herself in the hands of one as smoothly, powerfully exciting as F; to show M that she, Chloe, can live up to her standards.

For a fleeting minute she is cross. They continue to ignore her, and then she suddenly remembers M’s lessons from the previous afternoon (already a lifetime ago…). She blushes, ashamed of herself, as she remembers, again, what was said — talking, at the time, about the fictional men who would be dazzled by her beauty, and pay her unimaginable sums just to appear at their offices each day, acting the part — except that now, the part is for real, and it is her who is dazzled, dazzled somehow by M, by D, By Lord K, by this woman F — my God, she wants so much to be part of their world — whatever it costs her!

She is breathing heavily, pink with embarrassment and sexual heat, as she remembers;

‘… continually draw attention to your breasts, your crotch, your lips, your ass. Be still for a while, then make some small movement, eye-catching, but soft — you have suddenly remembered you didn’t put the lid on your face cream this morning! You pout, open your moist lips. He looks round, catches your eye. You are embarrassed, you give a tiny shrug, smile at him, put the end of your tongue to your lips — a soft, embarrassed, almost silent giggle, just for him. A few moments later, your ankle itches, you lean forward to softly touch it with an elegant nail, your cleavage is presented. He looks up, at your breasts, then up into your eyes. You let him know you understand, that you are a little embarrassed, but really rather pleased. You drop your eyes, but the itch is still there, you make your breasts jiggle a little for him, before you slowly straighten up. A few seconds later you look up, find him staring at you, lower your gaze in confusion, letting him know that you know he is thinking of fucking you, and that you are excited by this, but also frightened at the thought that you will be unable to resist him.‘

‘You wonder how best to encourage him — will he want you to be willing, or will he enjoy feeling that he has overpowered you — violently, or through force of personality? Do you look up at him again, meeting his eyes, showing him that you want it, need it — or do you appear flustered, nervous, always darting little glances at him? It is an art — perhaps you can learn it well.‘

Chloe is so engrossed in these thoughts that she doesn’t realise that she is being addressed, and M has to speak a little sharply;

“Chloe, dear, Madam F is just saying good-bye!”

Looking up, it is clear to Chloe that she is expected to rise and speak to the visitor, and she does so as elegantly as she can, blushing and mumbling an apology.

Madam F just laughs at her;

“Such a pretty innocent. I want you to promise me something — will you?” — her voice is light, teasing, but Chloe knows there is an agenda here. Nevertheless she is happy to smile, and nod;

“Oh! Oh …yes … I … I mean Yes, Madam.”

“Well, I want you to do all you can to convince M here that you should work for her, so that I can see just how juicy you really are. Will you do that for me?”

And Chloe, blushing, utterly unsure of herself, takes a sideways look at M, who, smiling a little, nods. Chloe giggles, a little hysterically to cover up the implications of what she is saying, and says;

“Yes … yes Madam” — and bobs a little curtsey, almost without thinking, just because it feels right.

“And you, M, may I ask something of you, too?” Madam F smiles, arch.

M’s smile, too, is knowing; “But of course, my dear.”

“I want you to give this sweetie a little sweetie, just from me — so that she knows just how much I enjoyed our little chat, and to let her know that she is perfect — just perfect… A plum, a peach, just ripe… Will you do that for me?”

“I will indeed; you can count on it.”

Chloe’s blushes are from both pleasure at the compliments, and embarrassment at the patronising tone of the words; she smiles with gratitude, but her eyes are down, and she needs to take a deep breath and bite her lip to suppress the hot shame that rises in her chest.

Seconds later, Chloe is on her own, as M ushers the visitor out. On her own, with nothing to do but attempt to process the events of the last 20 minutes.

The stranger’s questions have made it clear to her that she is here because she wants to go wherever M will let her — however far into this unimaginable world of sexual use and abuse, where total strangers assume they have the right to touch her pussy, where she is whipped, roughly sodomised … She is getting tingly again, just thinking about it — how can she turn out to be like this? She has had such a normal, ordinary life — nothing, nothing has prepared her for any of this, and she has no resistance, no idea of how to cope with these feelings, these desires, these temptations, these outrages …

She is at the same time terrified — terrified of M, of D, of the implications for her own future — it’s so far out of any imagined life she has ever had — but then she also sees that she never had any imagined life, really — she has been existing to do the next thing, living without a purpose, without a plan. And now the vision comes to her, of herself as one of those beautiful girls in Lord D’s office — elegant, sexy, eager to submit to the sexual demands of her employer, subject to extreme forms of treatment — she is getting really hot now — a fact that is immediately clear to M when she returns, smiling at her new recruit knowingly.

Chloe looks back for a second, then drops her gaze, submissively, correctly certain that M sees how it is with her, knows her vulnerability — and secretly revels in this knowledge. Bizarrely, it makes her feel safe.

Her heart is thumping. She doesn’t know what is going to happen to her, and she feels terribly vulnerable in the skimpy dress, in this big house that smells of power and wealth that is beyond her. But she is happy to be vulnerable, happy to be at M’s mercy. She wants to be here, whatever happens.

M comes close, something small in her fingers, a lopsided, amused grin on her lips;

“A little treat for you, sweetie?” — and she holds out the little treat, close, but still a little way from Chloe’s lips.

Chloe’s heart is pattering suddenly, ever so light, but ever so fast; her cheeks are hot pink. Her mood shifts; a shrill but determined voice of protest rises in her; whatever’s going on here, it’s about sex, she gets that, control, too; more difficult, but she admits to herself that she is somehow drawn to the feeling of being controlled, excited by it; but this, this shameful business of the little treats, as if she’s being trained like some dumb animal — no! She’s a grown woman, she can’t — she simply can not accept this demeaning, degrading business of being rewarded as if she’s a chihuahua, not let it become a ‘thing’ — not accept it as if it is normal — it’s just too much!

She can’t! Whatever else she gives in to, she mustn’t give in to this! And she makes herself look up, look into Ms M’s relaxed gaze (expressing no displeasure, but only tolerant, questioning amusement), and with her mouth set a little, lips pressed together for show, Chloe shakes her head — just a little, but unmistakeable. Even this feels ridiculous — a childish game.

A small defiance, but a defiance! M is vastly entertained, and feels a strong tug of sexual aggression, too — she likes this one, the most interesting for a while (not to mention those gorgeous tits and the way her pretty flower of a cunt nestles beneath her sweet belly). But this tiny, valiant rebellion is to be savoured — just adorable!

M’s smile broadens a little;

“No? You don’t want it? Nice little piece of chocolate? For being such a sweety with the demanding Mrs Fisk? But I’m so proud of you — and so grateful!”

Chloe is feeling utterly stupid now. Her defiance has been met by mild amusement, softly — she doesn’t know what to do next. Part of her wants to take the sweet at once — just to have this humiliating episode done with, put an end to the teasing, but another part of her is determined to hold the line — stand her ground, somewhere, at least! And she manages, once again, to shake her head — ever such a little, but somehow requiring all her willpower.

She is fearful of an angry response, but almost more dismayed by the big smile that now breaks out on M’s face — she feels like crying at the humiliation of it all — to be treated as an amusement like this — her breath gets short, she feels herself beginning to get panicky again, and desperately suppresses it.

Now, now she wishes that M would just push the treat at her, force her to take it — she’d co-operate, she would!

But instead it is withdrawn, and M is speaking;

“Well, and that’s such a shame — I’ll have to tell Mrs Fisk that you didn’t want it — yes, I must!” (for she has noticed the look of alarm in Chloe’s eyes — which of course has been her exact purpose in telling this little lie).

“She wanted a picture, you see — of you, smiling and chewing it. Never mind. I have no right to insist.”

And now Chloe is in turmoil; knowing, of course, that she is being manipulated, but helplessly disturbed anyway. It can’t — it can’t be because of a silly little chocolate drop that M loses face with an important client — because of Chloe — it cant! And it is as if a cold hand touches her belly.

M turns, walks away, her back turned, to retrieve her ‘phone, sits and taps in, scrolling through her updates, unconcerned, while Chloe is in a hot little emotional knot that she is now convinced is entirely of her own making, unable to believe that she has become so disturbed by such a silly little thing, but at the same time utterly unable to bear it, and within a few seconds she takes the only way out she can find, bursting out with;

“Please! Please, I … I was … being silly; ridiculous, really! I … I’m so sorry! Stupid … stupid me … what … what a lot of fuss over … over a little sweet…”

Her voice is attempting lightness, but the distraught expression on her face is a picture that M will describe to D later that day, with a complacent grin — ‘… so het-up, the little pretty — it was just too darling. We’re going to have great fun with this one — and make lots of money, too; there’ll be some who just want to eat her up, whole, and we’ll make them pay just to have each little bite. Another point for you, D’ — for it had been D who had spotted Chloe in the crowds at the trade fair, D who had tracked her, tested her, and finally pounced, so softly that Chloe cannot even quite remember how it was that she ended up in such intimate conversation with the two smiling, glossy strangers.

But now, M looks up with a blank face, apparently not understanding;

“But dear — are you sure? You seemed so — well, frankly, so certain about it — hardcore, you might even say. I’m about to send her the text. Are you — are you really sure? I mean, you’re a guest, as I said — heaven forbid that you should be pushed into something you don’t like…”

Again, Chloe isn’t taken in by this — knows she is being manipulated, but is suddenly grateful for it — relieved — happy to know that M had not, for one minute, lost control of the situation — that she has in fact been M’s plaything at all points in the little episode — that it’s alright, that no-one will be angry, that she is still safe here. And, at the same time, deep down, she knows that she has once again been sucked down, a little deeper, into the whirlpool.

Nevertheless, her face is transformed — a foolish, happy smile widening uncontrollably, her cheeks bunching, new blushes, threatening tears of relief…

“No — no, really, I … I don’t know what came over me — somethi … I… I’m just so … so silly sometimes!”

A slightly hysterical giggle, quickly caught. Her heart is going wild — this is excruciating — to be humiliating herself so, turning emotional backflips for M, who is simply watching her, face a mask, showing only a tepid and mildly interested disbelief;

“Well — if you’re really sure …”

“Yes! Yes, please. Please! I’ll, I’ll take it and you can do the picture for her. I … I do want it — want her to see that … that I am grateful.”

Chloe is near to tears, pathetically, desperate now, knowing that she is ridiculous, so ashamed and lost is she in this little emotional turkey shoot, and her face in the photo that M does send to Ms F of Chloe meekly taking the little sweet from her fingers (despite it never having been requested) is a picture of desperate sweetness projected as a mask over shame and confusion, bringing the arch response; ‘Fascinating — thank you so much! If she can be wound up like that over a little treat, I can’t wait to see her pretty face when she realises that I want her to beg me nicely to put the riding crop up between her legs, hard! What fun! F xxx’.

M shows Chloe the picture (but not the reply), and reaches out to stroke her cheek, soft, still damp from tears;

“Oh pretty Chloe — it’s hard for you, I know — so sudden! But really, sweetie, you’re doing so well — so very well -” …M stops and laughs a little, self-deprecating, lowers her voice as if a little embarrassed herself; “. — so well, in fact that — that I’d really like to give you a choccie myself — just to show you how pleased I am that you stayed.”

She steps back, to look into Chloe’s eyes, wanting to see just how this goes down, sees with quiet pleasure how hard it has hit the girl, how it has carried home the message that there will be no let up, no holding back, that she is going to be owned, knowing before it happens that Chloe will cave in, but not knowing, until it happens, just quite how heart-breaking it will be to see her, softly, earnestly, make it clear to M with her eyes that, even as knows just how she has been manipulated, she is willingly accepting, as she says, in a small, soft voice;

“O … OK, yes. Yes, please … I’d … I’d like that. Please.”

It is hard for M to control herself (so powerfully does she want to savagely, forcefully invade the girl’s softness at that moment) as Chloe, shy now, but determined to show her sincerity, meets M’s eyes as she is enticed to lean forward, extend her lips to snag the little morsel, let M see her chew it slowly, delicately, see her eyes close as the conflicting emotions of willing submission and certainty of future distress become too much for her, a fat tear sparkling in her lashes, chest rising and falling deeply, until at last she cannot stop herself from laying her head onto M’s shoulder, quivering softly, hands (remembering the night before) finding their way, meekly, to the small of her back.

M smiles to herself, and after a little while, talks softly into the girl’s ear;

“We’ll have no more silliness over these little treats, will we now? Tell me that you’ll take them, and prettily, when they’re offered, that you’ll let yourself be treated like that. That you understand why, what is being done to you. Tell me — tell me now, like a good girly.”

And Chloe’s smile, when she raises her head, sweet and wondering, soft and lost, is confirmation to M that they have indeed, caught themselves a live one in Chloe, as the girl says, in just the same soft, trembling but heartfelt voice;

“I … I understand … understand what’s being done to me … And … and I will … I will take it, as … as prettily as I can… I will. I … I accept.”

A silence. Much passes between their eyes, but nothing is said, as both of them begin to smile — M with a satisfied, smug grin, Chloe’s a weak, hopeful, willing attempt.

And of course, M stands back a little, fishes in a pocket, and holds out yet another little tidbit, high up, grinning widely now, her eyes a mocking challenge, and Chloe blinks, and blushes, and quivers, and sweetly, helplessly reaches up with her mouth, only to have the morsel lifted out of reach.

She is tested this way several times, openly being teased with cool cruelty, and yet she does not permit herself to react, not to change the deliberation, the simplicity with which she commits herself to each offer, until at last, she is granted success, and meekly takes the reward, lets herself be seen to savour it briefly, before murmuring a soft ‘Thank you’, then dropping her eyes — her outward placidity revealed as an act by the obvious and rapid pulse in the hollow at the base of her soft neck. She feels like crying, but forces herself to smile and blinks back the prickling in her eyes, determined to show M how grateful she is for persevering with her.

After a short while, M reaches out, lifts Chloe’s chin with an imperious finger, catches the girl’s soft gaze with her own, then directs it downward, bringing the girl’s attention to her other hand, hovering at the hem of Chloe’s skirt.

Chloe trembles, keeps herself relaxed, arms behind her. M smiles, tilts the girl’s chin upward again — almost hurting her, and asks, in clear, casual tones;

“May I?”

They both know that it’s not a real question, but nevertheless, captured as she is, Chloe nods, and whispers;

“Of … of course. M …Madam.”

Of course — of course M can put her hand on Chloe’s pussy, pull at her labia, discover for herself the shaming wetness, can feel free to tease her hard little nubbin; free to lean into her and kiss her deeply, invading her mouth and sex simultaneously, making Chloe feel faint. She wants to use her hands to hold onto M, caress her, show her desire, convey her need, but somehow she knows she must not — she is to be touched — not to touch others. She moves her feet, opens her thighs a little, knowing that this will be obvious, making it clear that she is inviting M to use her, wanting it, wanton, not sure which will overwhelm her first — pleasure or shame.

Her hips begin to roll, softly, needily, hungry, but M pulls away, stands back, watches the girl with detached amusement as she struggles to keep herself calm, having not the first idea how to behave in these unimaginable circumstances.

“What I said before is true, pretty — you are my guest here. Nothing will be forced on you. However, we will be asking you to make some choices, and your answers will have consequences — sometimes powerful consequences. Once you choose a particular way, then it is set. If you go back on a choice, you will either have to leave, or accept that you may be forced to co-operate. “

She pauses;

“Do you understand?”

Chloe is in a daze;

“Yes … um … I mean, I … I don’t really know if … if I do … Madam”

She had nearly forgot to say Madam!! She is trembling. Why can’t M just caress her again?

“No, I don’t suppose you do, pretty — but never mind. You’ll see as we go along. Let’s keep it very simple, then, shall we? Just now, I asked for permission before putting my hand on your body, before touching you intimately. If you had said no, I would have respected your wishes. However, I would like to ask you now for complete freedom to touch you — when and where I like, in any way I like, without the need to ask or even warn you, and with a guarantee of your complete co-operation. I would like to feel free to use your pretty body as I would a cuddly toy — with concern only for my own pleasure. Is that acceptable to you?”

Chloe doesn’t even think; her eyes flick up to meet M’s, briefly, her heart flipping;

“Oh! O yes. Yes, please … Madam.” — her voice is breathy, excited. The deeper implications of these words are opening dark doors in her mind, but she ignores all of that, wanting nothing further to make trouble between her and wonderful M, here, in this wonderful house, in this room, alone…

“You want to grant me this freedom?”

“Yes. Yes … of course, Madam. You … you needn’t ask, but … I mean … Yes!”

“You are so very sweet, Chloe, but I must ask — because it’s so very serious, don’t you see, what I’m asking of you? And because you’re a guest here, not an employee, or under any obligation at all. So do, consider, dear, whether you really are happy to make yourself available to me, in that way — to give me such freedom.”

This warning is met with roarings in Chloe’s mind, warning of the dangerous waters this all suggests, of the madness of letting this virtual stranger, already proven to have dark intentions, have such permission, such freedom — but Chloe experiences these voices as nothing but annoyances, seeking to deny her something that she knows she wants, that may indeed be dangerous, but also sweet — so sweet; far sweeter than the little chocolate drops, far more desirable, far rarer, far more precious, and she hurries, reckless, to affirm her acceptance, her sincerity;

“I do … I do … understand … and … and I’m truly happy to let you, let you have … what, what you want.”

There is a long moment, then, while M looks deep into Chloe’s eyes, while Chloe cannot stop herself seeing images of what this acceptance might bring, trembling, while M smiles at her — a smile that grows, becomes smug and greedy, with no attempt at dissimulation; until at last she lets Chloe move on;

“Very well then, pretty, let’s try, shall we?”

And M comes close again, undoes the top button of the dress, then gently pushes the bandeau down to her waist, exposing Chloe’s soft, silk-skinned breasts, pushed up and presented so beautifully by the tight, stiff bodice, vulnerable, the nipples stiff, a pulse visible at her cleavage, her chest heaving a little with emotion; the bandeau slowly slips to the floor.

“Hands behind your back please, Chloe.”

M takes Chloe’s breasts softly, so softly, but with such an air of confident possession that even this light caress makes Chloe reel — it is as if she has never been touched there before. And then, without any change of mien, without any hint of what is coming, M steps back a little and swiftly slaps Chloe across the nipples an areolae, hard: back, forward; left, right, bringing a short, anguished cry of distress — another, and another until, involuntarily, Chloe’s hands come up to protect herself from further harm.

M steps back, relaxed, watching, gaze soft, interested, as Chloe blinks away sudden hot tears and shocked, hot shame;

“I want to do that some more, Chloe, because I like hurting pretty young girls’ soft breasts. And I am expecting, as you suggested I should be able to just now, that you will co-operate — that you want me to feel free to do that to you — anytime I want to — that’s correct, isn’t it?”

Her voice is calm, clear and firm, but entirely without force; no trace of anger or disappointment — the question expressed as if genuine.

Chloe’s eyes close; she bites her lip, can think of nothing at all to say but;

“Yes, Madam. Sorry, Madam.”

Her hands go back behind her and she tries her best to stand in a relaxed way.

M slaps her breasts again, left and right, a few more times, harder, her intent to hurt unconcealed. The girl gasps at the pain, but she holds her position, and now M twists her nipples, gripping tightly, cruelly cutting into the stiff nubs with her long, lacquered nails. Chloe wails softly and flinches, but makes no further attempt to protect herself.

M steps in then and kisses her again, deeply, wetly — lascivious; the fingers at Chloe’s sex more demanding, more invasive this time, the other hand cupping her buttock. It is hard for her, but the pretty girl opens herself without reserve, sighing and moaning a little — in distress or in pleasure, it’s hard to be certain. Not that M really cares…

“Good — that’s it, little pussy. Don’t ever try to hide or pretend. You are here because you want this, because you like to be bossed, to be used. Never pretend otherwise. Now tell me, do you see that, since you offered yourself so fully, just a few minutes ago, if you had resisted just now — even tried to, that it would be perfectly acceptable for me to restrain you, or even call in a manservant to hold you while I hurt you — unless you chose to terminate your stay here?”

Chloe wants to cry, to let the tears of shock, and hurt, and fear come out, but she knows she cannot, that she wants to please M, not waste her time, that she wants to understand — really understand — and so, biting her lip, hard, swallowing her sobs, clasping her wrists tightly behind her back, feeling her soft, vulnerable breasts stinging and swaying, shockingly naked, pink with the imprints of M’s hands, the persisting crescent grooves made by her nails pale by contrast with the darker skin of the girl’s nipples, Chloe makes herself nod;

“Yes … yes Madam, I … I do see” — because, however outrageous, what M has said has a logic which, in this setting, seems impossible to argue with.

“And are you happy with that arrangement? That I may do anything I please with you — enforce your submission if necessary, in any way I choose? If not, please tell me. I do so want you to be happy here.”

Heaving chest, now, breasts moving deliciously, her pretty lips writhing with her confusion, her astonishment at finding herself in this position, moral compass long since rendered irrelevant, Chloe is lost, and after several attempts at controlling herself, manages;

“Yes … Yes, Madam. I … I am … happy … with that arrangement.”

“Tell me. Be clear.”

Chloe looks briefly up into M’s eyes, blushes, stammers;

“You … you may do … anything you please with me … and … and enforce my … my submission if … if necessary, in any way you choose.”

Again, M enforces a long silence, during which Chloe has to accept the reality of what she has just said just accepted — how the acceptance is at the same time terrifying and glorious, let it settle, try to smile, blink away the tears, worry about whether she is standing prettily, holding her shoulders to make the most of her poor breasts, try not to think about where this is all leading.

Her face, at last, crumples a little, and she directs a beseeching, lost look at M, seeking reassurance, something…

And M does indeed step forward, take the girl’s shoulders in her hands, holds her straight, setting her tear-splashed breasts swaying enticingly.

“Oh my! You are such a sweety, aren’t you? It is, pretty, it is tough, isn’t it? I understand, believe me! Knowing that we will be hard with you — and that you need us to be hard with you — that you’re going to be such a pushover? Be such a needy little whore for us?”

This speech just makes Chloe’s anguish even sharper, as she can find no resistance to this disturbing picture inside herself — none at all.

M leans in now, plants a soft, lingering kiss on Chloe’s lips — glorious sensation for Chloe, eliciting a deep shuddering sigh — and then hugs her (although Chloe knows better than to hug back, her wrists still humbly clasped behind her), and once again M talks softly into Chloe’s ear;

“You know we’re going to hurt you, don’t you — and that people are going to fuck you — strangers, greedy strangers, strangers who won’t care if they hurt you — who will want to hurt you — who will have paid to hurt you. You know this, don’t you?”

She straightens again, looks deeply into the girl’s eyes, lifting her chin so that she cannot be escaped, forcing Chloe to respond, until, lips trembling uncontrollably, blinking hard, the girl nods, helplessly.

M smiles at her, complacent, satisfied, heartless;

“Good girl” — and reaches out, flicking at Chloe’s nipples (telltale stiff), making her gasp;

“I tell you what, though, that little nod you gave just made these twitch so enticingly that I want to slap them all over again — but I have another thought; if you do it again, really softly, make them jiggle nicely for me, I’ll let you off. Will you do that for me — make your nipples dance? Or would you like me to slap you some more? Your choice — either is good for me.”

Lump in her throat, stupidly happy at this demeaning compliment, and eager, too, not to be slapped again, Chloe finds herself smiling tremulously, and starts jiggling her shoulders, nodding her head, all in the service of making her nipples move entertainingly for this woman who has just hurt those very same nipples with a vicious slapping. And the worst is that Chloe is grateful — grateful to be asked, grateful to see M smile, grateful even when M takes her nipples between hard lacquered nails and tweaks, hard;

“Keep jiggling, pussy, keep jiggling while I hurt you; show me, show me. That’s it. Keep it up, wiggle your hips too — offer yourself to me. Lovely!”

Satisfied, M steps back without warning, grinning. Chloe begins to cry again, unsure whether the tears are happy or not, but suffused with an intensity of sweet, searing emotion that burns at her sex so fiercely that she feels breathless, faint.

M watches her, intently, assessing every quirk of body language, noting mentally those which need to be encouraged, those suppressed, those which the girl is to be quickly broken of — for, exquisite as she may be, no girl is perfect, beyond improvement — and this one will be worth the effort.

“Stop now! Enough. What a hot little slut you are, underneath that pretty innocence! I don’t think you’re going to be able to resist us at all, are you? That’s good — very good — we’ll push you hard, very hard; you’ll see. It will be difficult for you pretty — we’ll make it hard; lots of tears, lots of heartache, cruel despair. But you’ll want it, too, and so you will let us, you’ll ask us for it, all the way. I know. D saw it in you, but I know it too.”

And again, Chloe is foolishly happy to hear these comments, unsettling as they are, happy to be approved of, basking in M’s smile, trembling at the certainty that the way will, indeed, be hard, knowing that she wants it, however hard. That in fact, the idea of it being hard — of M and D being hard on her is, just in itself, lump-in-the-throat fascinating.

Frightening though it is, she knows that she wants it, wants to be taken there, to have no choice but to experience what it will mean to be in the hands of these… What? Just what, exactly, are they?

And then it comes to her, quite simply. They are superior beings. Unlike her, they see life clearly, they know exactly what they want, and they get it, seemingly almost without effort, and it has made them rich and powerful, and Chloe sees clearly — is, for a moment, utterly reconciled to being the plaything of these women, of submitting to them utterly — because without them her life will be a nothing — just a succession of accidents and happenstances; uncertainty, doubt, failure. M & D know nothing of any of these — and she, Chloe, can be part of it.

Even in this moment of clarity, Chloe sees full well what the costs will be for her — that this is a one way street — that she will be stripped of what little initiative and directive power she ever had, have to let go of dignity, of trusting her own instincts, of rights over her body, of agency — so many, many things, precious things, she will lose, she knows it.

Nevertheless, the sacrifice makes perfect sense to her — devastating though it is, if she can be relieved of meaninglessness, of that nagging feeling that her life should have something to it, something more than the drab day-to-day, and she makes it willingly — not so much happily — it is too dread a sacrifice for that — but deeply sincerely, and with her whole body.

For a moment, she is overwhelmed, and indeed, finds it necessary to sink to her knees, slowly, fearful that she might collapse. She is breathing heavily, flushed, trembling tinily, her vision blurs, but she makes every effort she can to remain elegant, not to disturb or upset M, to look good.

M, looking on with an experienced and interested eye, smiles to herself, understanding in outline at least just what is going on inside the lovely girl, knowing that this one is conquered now — not that anything is taken for granted — the road to full submission is about patience, as well as pressure.

Nevertheless, she grins to herself as she sees the girl fighting for control of herself, to manage her gusty breathing, to stay pretty. Her still naked breasts move deliciously, and M lets herself enjoy the knowledge that, rather soon now, she will be free to hurt those softnesses; that Chloe will ask her, sincerely, in full knowledge of what she is asking for, if she would like to hurt them, and then afterwards, with tears in her eyes and desperation in her voice, sweetly thank her and ask for more.

A smile twists her lips, — she does find such satisfaction in doing this work well — and she reaches out a lazy hand to stroke Chloe’s hair, pulls her head gently, gently, but relentlessly too, until it is leaning against her thigh;

“That’s it pretty, that’s it. You’re safe here. We know what you need. Everything is going well, don’t you worry. Hands behind your back, please, keep them out of the way — you know that’s what we like — that’s it, lean on me a little now. Feel my strength — let it support you, let it calm you. You have only very small, very simple responsibilities here — everything else will always be taken care of. Can you relax yourself, little one? Go on, try for me.”

She is rewarded by a soft, deep shudder and increased pressure on her leg as Chloe leans into her a little, then more, tension visibly draining from the girl, breathing slowing, trembling calming. She strokes the Chloe’s hair, soft, hypnotic;

“That’s it — stop thinking so much. Just … let it all happen. The more you give yourself, the better it will be for you, — trust me. There now, that’s better, isn’t it?”

“When you’re ready now, when you feel steady again, let’s have you up, and we’ll put this little top back on, make you respectable again. And listen dear, when you stand, try not to use your arms to balance yourself — all that waving of hands is so inelegant. Our girls always try to keep hands behind the back or loosely at their sides, and it takes practice — so if you are thinking you might want to stay, it would be a great idea to start training yourself as soon as possible — before we start on the intensive regime, when you’ll start to get the whip for each and every little infraction.”

“That’s it — well, that’s a start, anyway …

(Chloe’s rise has not been exactly elegant — a little stagger — but she has made an effort, and again, elegance is only part of the story — the other part is seeing a lovely girl voluntarily disempowering herself — even at the level of everyday movements. It can be so cute, watching a girl deny her body its automatic reflex use of the hands in all sorts of routine movements — and of course the instinctive use of hands to ward off impending hurt must also be relentlessly denied her until it is reversed — that the reflex on anticipation of inflicted cruelty is to pull her hands away, open herself, accept.).

… you’ll learn to pay attention to your hands, and if you notice you’re using them to make things easier for you, you’ll stop yourself — just keep them loose and pretty by your sides. You see, of though of course our girls do all sorts of things for their employers, they are not expected to do anything for themselves — and using your hands to help yourself is not really allowed unless strictly unavoidable.”

For Chloe, the moment of clarity has faded, but the afterglow remains, which helps with the cold implications of these instructions about the use of hands, the reality, the immediate physical, bodily experience of the demands that are going to be made of her, and even as she finds herself carefully making the crossing of her wrists behind her back more obvious, she wants to cry. Instead, she forces herself to smile, tries to look happy.

As if all this wasn’t complicated enough, the whole little thing, being so controlled, breasts naked, swaying, the strong sense memory of M’s fingers still at her groin, is deeply sexually arousing — shameful and exhilarating both.

‘Stop thinking so much’ she tells herself, and this helps her smile a little more.

(Only for a few minutes or hours at a time is a girl — even as obvious a candidate as Chloe — likely to feel as completely certain about her acceptance as Chloe just has — for at least the simple reason that M & D will be relentless in their demands that she give up more and more: however patient and careful they might be in their training, they also enjoy seeing anguish in a girl’s eyes as much as they enjoy whip welts in soft flesh and agonised sobs, and judge their moments carefully for maximum impact.)

M’s smile changes, lightens, and she picks up the bandeau;

“Put this back now, pretty, and we’ll go to lunch, shall we? D will be here by now. I’ll ask her to give you a treat for being so generous with your commitment I think. Actually, I want you to have one from me, too, right now — you’re doing very well, you know — so entertaining, so obedient. Let me see how prettily you take it, and let me see how pleased you are to be rewarded, will you?”

Read the next part of Chloe and the Agency.