Law Firm Whore Pt1

I had no idea why I had been called to the senior partner’s office, but I was certainly pleased and had expectations of something good –– I had done good work, and made myself noticeable too. Luckily, it was a slow day –– we had clinched a case a few days before, and none of the other current ones were quite wound up to real busy-ness as yet.

“Ah, Ms Dainty; thank you for coming in. This is Mr Weiss, and Mr Lvov. We are about to conclude a most important agreement with them, one which the practice is very pleased to have won. We look forward to a long and constructive relationship with these gentlemen and the organisation which they represent.”

I nodded, smiled — a little uncertainly; the two strangers (I knew nothing about them or their business), neither of them young men, or particularly pleasing to the eye, were looking at me in a way that somehow didn’t fit. At the time, I couldn’t figure out what it was, although it would be obvious to me now –– it was the context and the unlikeliness of it that fooled me, I suppose. In any event, the next statement utterly shocked me.

“I have a slightly surprising request of you, Ms Dainty, but one which I require you to consider most carefully. The practice requests that you sexually entertain these two gentlemen, this afternoon, in an anonymously hired suite at the Regency Hotel.”

The first problem was simply accepting that he had actually said those words, and that took me a few seconds. Then, I had to process them, and then, I had to react. You see, one part of being a good negotiator –– which is what good lawyers are, and I was (was then) a good lawyer –– is that you keep yourself under control; you don’t react instinctively, you think, you consider.

Well, that was what trapped me. If I had acted on instinct, I would have slapped my boss, and walked out. He would have had to have been a brave man to fire me.

But instead I used my brain, and suppressed the obvious response;  a terrible mistake, because now I was on shifting sands –– it appeared that I was prepared to consider what he had said, even though it was so utterly ridiculous and offensive. Knowing him better now, I’m sure he had calculated the risk finely –– that I did just as he had expected me to.

He used my hesitation very well; before I could figure out what to say (why was it so hard to think of the word, ‘no’?), he spoke again;

“I can see that you are giving the idea some thought, and I suppose that is understandable, but these gentlemen have limited time, and a flight to catch. We’ll go to lunch now.”

With that he stood and ushered us all out of his office. I was still in shock, and at some level very pleased to be out of his office, out of a room in which I was a young woman alone with three men, much older, and much more powerful than me — with them and those horrible words; the awful assumptions that lay behind them and their terrible implications, too.

It has to be said, as well, that on some level I was excited and flattered to be being taken out to an expensive hotel for lunch with the senior partner; however shallow that sounds, it was true. Of course, it didn’t hurt that I had quite a crush on Mr North already –– he was incredibly dynamic, decisive, and had been instrumental in building up the practice to the powerhouse it was at a relatively young age (he was in his early fifties, while the senior partners were mostly older than him, but he had brought them along, not the other way around).

He dressed well, and although old enough to be my dad, he was very trim and had a strong physical presence that had more than just me among the female staff rather infatuated.

I was then swept along with arrangements to go to lunch, standing helplessly, heart fluttering, trying to keep calm as he told his PA how long he’d be gone for, confirmed that the cab would be waiting for us, arranged for a message to be got to my team –– not sure when we’ll be back, are we? he said, looking at me for confirmation, and I found myself nodding, automatically affirming a senior’s statement in front of clients. He looked so calm –– the others did too, just as if the circumstances were normal. What if I ran off, now? I so nearly did.

But, of course, I didn’t — couldn’t get the resolve together — couldn’t, to be honest, actually believe what was happening; it just didn’t seem real, and so I just stood there, numb, and, in a sort of stupor, feeling rather weak and strangely limp,  I allowed myself to be ushered into the waiting limo with the three of them, and another senior partner, Jarmisch, who grinned at me in a very unpleasant way.

About halfway through the journey, I sort of woke up –– feelings of panic rose up in me –– I wanted to get out! I had to get out –– how could I still be here –– this looked like agreement, like weak submission.

I think N saw what was in my face –– of course, that’s another lawyer’s art –– and he intervened perfectly, pulling my shoulder gently round so that he could speak to me, sotto voce;

“This is a terrible situation I’ve put you into, I know, but believe me, there’s no choice. These guys have the firm by the short and curlies and they’re squeezing us hard all over. I know this is an insane request, but somehow, you’ve got to stay with us. There’s a five thousand bonus and a company Porsche for you –– plus, of course, there’ll be some discussion about who’ll be made junior partner this year… Just … I hate to do this to you kid, but you’ve got to look at it as paying your dues. We’ve all had some tough compromises to make on the way up here, and this is going to have to be yours.”

Again, this speech was so bizarre as to be impossible to react to, and I realised that we had now arrived at the Hotel Regency, where we were to have lunch, and where I was, apparently, to let these strangers fuck me.

The luxury and grandeur of the place, the presence of bored looking uniformed flunkeys, a solicitous Maitre D’ all somehow made it seem impossible to make a fuss, or even act in the smallest way as if anything out of the ordinary was happening –– the only way to feel safe was to act as perfectly as I could, pretend I was calm, that this was all a misunderstanding which would turn out to nothing really, and I even thanked one of the strangers when he held the door for me, acutely aware of his eyes on my butt as I slipped through ahead of him.

You see, one of the ways in which I had cemented my rapid advance through the old white male ranks of the firm was by dressing to kill. And I mean kill –– with heart attacks. I have a great figure and I used it as best I knew how –– all the while exercising rigourous judgement, and spending a great deal on very expensive clothes, so as to avoid being too obvious.

That day I had on a pencil skirt with a high waist with corset lacings and an exaggerated kick pleat, dove grey dense stockings, rather high-heeled court shoes with ankle straps, a white blouse with an open neck and little embroidery details around each buttonhole, with some tiny little holes that didn’t let you see anything, but which planted the thought in your mind that you might, and a little jacket that was so cut back it was almost a bolero –– chosen because it framed and emphasised my bust.

I wore my hair up (of course, sometimes tendrils fell loose and dangled invitingly –– but what can you do?), and always a choker of pearls together with slightly larger earrings than a young female lawyer ought to wear. Only that morning I had smiled inwardly as my immediate boss had backed down on something that I wanted, a little while after I had caught him looking at my arse. He had reddened –– I of course had played it cool, but he knew I had a marker on him, and it had helped me get my way. I was used to this, used to using this.

But here, with these much older men (they looked as old as my grandfather, albeit far more vigorous), much more powerful, and, it seemed, utterly uninterested in the finer points of political correctness or indeed common decency, my presentation was no longer a weapon, but a vulnerability. Without the protection of ordinary standards backed up by the implied threat of sexual harassment complaints and tribunals, being dressed as I was began to feel very high risk indeed. I was also uncomfortably conscious that it was a very sexy feeling, that I was responding to the situation in ways that were not really appropriate.

There was a short discussion between North and Lvov in the lobby, and it was decided that as it was a little early for lunch, perhaps champagne in the oyster bar would be more appropriate to celebrate the deal.

I just stood there, in an agony of indecision, shame and frankly, fear. I had lost control of the situation. I wasn’t used to feeling like this, and increasingly I felt my young age –– I was 24 when this happened –– incredibly young to have the position I had, but I didn’t usually think of it. Now, in the company of these older, powerful and experienced men, being treated not as a member of the team, but as some sort of sexual bargaining chip, it began to bear in on me how little of the world I had seen, how sheltered my life had been.

The two clients, in particular, looked as if they had come through the school of hard knocks to get where they were –– any urbanity was veneer over harsh, selfish and ruthless intent. I saw this in their eyes, in the quick, nervous glances I gave. They met my eyes full on, grinning, and I looked down again, heart thumping.

I ignored it at the time, but I remember that my nipples were stiffening, that my body was beginning to tingle, lightly, a sensation that is familiar to me now, but which was new to me then. It comes over me when I know I am going to be subjected to crude sexual use.

Nowadays I understand that it is a prelude to incredible sexual tension, as shame and eroticism, fear and perversely welcome submission to another’s will, flood over me.

Then, I just knew I felt weird, that I seemed not be in control, so that, when again I was ushered, with exaggerated and wolfish politeness, towards a high stool at the bar, I did as I was expected to –– and not carelessly, either; feeling that I was under close scrutiny, I did as I was used to doing when needing to keep feeling good about myself –– I moved as elegantly as possible, and positioned myself for maximum effect; again, my whole training was leading me further and further away from where I was safe, from where I wanted to be.

Or maybe not –– who can say, now, what I wanted — what I really wanted?

To be sure, I had no imagination of the life I currently lead, but did I want something different, some change?

Certainly, I could escape it now (at least I imagine I could), but I do nothing to distance myself from it –– quite the opposite. Only this morning, having been drafted into a team to bargain with a tough customer, one that I had been told is a sadistic lesbian domme in her private life, I saw our senior partner pass her a private note at an awkward point in the proceedings, while looking pointedly at me.

The tingling came over me. I felt myself flush, tremble a little; looked down, humiliated, knowing this was something degrading; but then made myself look up, meet her eyes, meet her hard, inquiring look, let her read my shame but also my weak acceptance, my vulnerability, before lowering my face again, letting her know that I consented –– although I had no knowledge of what I had consented to. Nevertheless, I consented, as I always do. As I love to do. As I hate to do. As I am ashamed to do. As I am excited to do. As I am grateful to do.

I Consent.

The words are tattooed, elegantly enough, at the back of my neck, at the base of my spine, at the cleavage of my breasts, and above my sex. Also, on the inside of my bottom lip, upside down, so that if it is pulled down it can be easily read. All of this makes it easy  to submit without having to speak. I have been told not to speak unless absolutely necessary –– that my mouth is for taking cock, for giving sexual pleasure. There has been talk of having my vocal chords somehow put out of action, but I think this has been to test my reaction, rather than a real plan, I don’t know. I would consent, of course. I can’t think of anything else to do, these days, however outrageous or atrocious the demand.

I just open my blouse, or raise my skirt, or pull down my lip; or, just as likely, someone with power over me does it, displaying me and my status at the same time while I stand meekly, prettily, allowing all of this, trembling with the the anticipation, both appalled and grateful.

I found out later that they had offered to make me available to be whipped, after which they accepted that I would probably be unable to resist ‘other things’. She looked at me hard, careful, guarded, but aggressive –– a true lawyer’s look, and my response seemed to be acceptable, as a deal was worked out –– part of which was that I would be deputised to her office for a week, in a ‘liaison’ role. Since it was in another city, she had kindly offered to let me stay in her apartment…

I will have terrible fears before going, will probably be cruelly treated while I am there, but no-one will have to force me. I will make thorough efforts to present myself as beautifully as I can, to behave in ways that please her, excite her –– even if they excite her to cruelty, I will still do my best to be as she wants. And I will probably have incredible, shameful orgasms –– if she permits me to; and I will tell her I love her, if she wants me to –– and I won’t really be lying.

I will receive money –– I am a well paid whore –– but as the company pays for my flat and my car, and I am taken out most evenings by someone or other who will use me later –– use my body, my holes  –– I have little need for money; I have nothing really to spend it on but clothes and make-up. Although the idea came to me recently that a young, submissive girl as a maid might be a pleasant addition to my lifestyle. I might not even have to pay her myself –– I would certainly make her available for use, or perform with her as directed…

Back at the oyster bar, I was quickly on my second glass of champagne. I was desperately thirsty, and somehow heedless of (or wanting?) the blunting of my intelligence that alcohol brings.

I had said not a word, and hardly listened to the conversation. My whole attention was consumed by my body, on how I looked –– on how they would be looking at me –– I was transfixed. I had always been highly aware of my body, using it to best effect, but this was a whole new level, and the awareness was sharp and disturbing. At the same time, I was confusingly aware of the possibilities of new and previously unsuspected pleasure.

Pleasure at what? At being made sexually available to two ugly old men? Frankly, yes — I have to admit it. The idea that sex with me was worth five thousand, plus a Porsche and a possible junior partnership, was somehow more than interesting –– it was exciting. I had always used my body to get ahead. This was extreme, outrageous, an appalling prospect, but yet here I was, not screaming, not sobbing, but indeed finding myself smiling occasionally, if mechanically, at a joke made by one or other of the men.

I was trying not to think, but thinking had to be done. I couldn’t let things happen entirely by default. Then, suddenly, I knew I had made a decision. It almost stopped my heart, but I suddenly knew, with a sick lurch, that I was going to open my legs for these strangers, that I was going to accept that my bosses knew I was willing to do this.

And I also knew that I felt horribly sure about this terrible decision. Not happy –– no, not happy –– I hated North at that moment for having put me in this position, but –– I was weirdly proud; and also another thing, for which –– well –– the only expression was; turned-on. I was sexually excited. My main concern was to hide that as far as possible. It was one thing letting my bosses know that I would whore myself to get ahead in the firm; quite another letting them know I was aroused at the prospect.

Somehow, having made the decision, I was freed. Once freed from conventional binding, my sexual excitement grew, rampantly. My fears grew too, and disturbingly, both these emotions fed from each other.

Now, when my boss caught my eye, raising an eyebrow slightly, wanting to know what I was thinking, I gave him an almost imperceptible nod, trying to look calm, in control, as if it were a normal lawyerly decision. But I wasn’t in control of what happened next, as a few, slow tears gathered at my eyes and splashed onto the upper slopes of my breasts, turning the superfine fabric of my blouse transparent.

I was trembling, but not sobbing, resolutely not tensing up. Lvov looked briefly at North, got an ‘I told you so’ raised eyebrow back, and grinned even more lopsidedly than before as he turned to look at Weiss, who turned to me and insolently lifted my chin with a forefinger;

“You are pretty when you cry.”

That was it, I had crossed a line. If I accepted this, I was a whore. I could never be a girl that had not taken money for sex again. I was a prostitute. I could be touched at will, my looks and sexuality were acceptable terms for comment. In fact, they were probably the most relevant things about me. I was sex for sale. I could escape this only by leaving - leaving the firm, and probably the city, too.

My breath shuddered –– I felt my breasts move, and saw it catch their attention –– knew it would be arousing to look at. I shuddered again, allowing it to happen this time. I somehow couldn’t allow myself to do even this without wanting to succeed –– to be good at it. Again, my nature, my habitual approach, was sucking me deeper in.

My heart was thumping in my chest so loudly I wondered if it wasn’t audible; I could feel my pulse in my groin, in my neck, at my wrists, and, most strikingly, in my belly –– the place where strange cocks would be piercing me that very day, if I didn’t do something decisive — and soon. I gulped a little, and looked up, forcing a smile onto my lips, and in a soft, small voice, heard myself say;

“Thank you.”

As soon as I had said it, I wanted to die of shame. I was a whore. I was a willing whore, and these men knew it.

I hadn’t screamed at them, I hadn’t issued some superb, scathing put-down. Instead, I had cried, and said ‘thank you’. I closed my eyes, and tried to stop the tears –– although I was pathetically determined not to scrunch my face up –– not to become ugly.

There was a little laughter –– smug, satisfied, cynical laughter, with no trace of relief or tension in it –– this situation was apparently neither unusual nor surprising for them –– only for me.

Only for the newly initiated whore. Although I hadn’t been initiated yet, had I? That was to come. The thought of letting these men see me naked, letting them use my body, was … was still turning me on, at the same time as horrifying me, making me want to die of shame.

And then, amazingly, they began to talk about other things –– specifically, other pretty girls; other sexy girls –– other girls they had bedded; other situations in which firms had provided whores as sweeteners; other firms where some of the secretaries were company whores.

My tears had stopped, but I could no more meet their eyes than I could before. They were ignoring me; making it clear that I was just another whore in the long list, shaming me, demeaning me, deliberately showing me that I was of no real importance –– that if it wasn’t me, they would have some other girl.

I bit my lip, tried to smile and to stay pretty. What else can a whore do? The first of many hard lessons.

After a few minutes, Lvov put his hand on my leg –– at the hem of the skirt. He slid it up the inside of my thigh, and I … I froze; but only for a second — and then, because it was the only thing I could think of to do that wouldn’t break the spell — the spell that I now needed, the spell that protected me from thinking too much about what was happening, what I was permitting, about what would change if I didn’t stop it — all those things that I could not bear to think about because my heart might break.

So, just like a good whore, I relaxed my legs and let him pull my thigh outward, as wide as the skirt would allow. It was more dignified to submit gracefully than to struggle; grace and dignity could be striven for here as in any other situation, even if my world had turned to ashes. And there was always the tingling at my nipples, the insistent beat in my belly, that was ready –– so shamefully ready –– for the violation that was to come.

My heart was trip-hammering again, and my cheeks were hot with shame, but at the same time I was aware of a sort of glory. I was the object of desire. It was some sort of privilege, to be able to offer these powerful, rich, powerful men the pleasure of using a young woman without inhibition, without having to charm or seduce her. Without even having to ask her.

I had been told, and I had accepted. That was how it had gone. As a lawyer I couldn’t make any other case.

It was sort of incredible to be sitting here, with these four men around me, knowing that they could use me for sex, that my most intimate parts were for sale. That I was their slut; their whore.

There was a little pause. My chest rose and fell. I couldn’t look up. Lvov’s hand was now obviously high on my leg, and equally obviously I was doing what I could to accommodate him, although the skirt was tight. They could all see; North was looking directly at me, a little smile on his face. I opened my legs wider, somehow needing him to see how good I was being, feeling the roiling shame mix with something like pride.

“You look hot, Chloe. No really, very hot. Why don’t you take off your jacket? And then I think you’d be more comfortable if you went to the ladies and removed your underwear; open your blouse a few buttons. Maybe that will help.”

Grunts of appreciation greeted this order. For order it was, however shocking, however outrageous, however insupportable.

Lvov removed his hand. There was a little drawing back –– they were all watching me. Again, I felt tears at my eyes, and it took a while, but nothing apart from the need to please came into my head, and I made a pathetic, weak little laugh;

“You … you’re right … Sir. I — I am feeling quite … hot.”

I blushed deeply as a couple of them laughed. “Please … please … excuse me for a moment.”

And I stood, all of them watching me with more or less intensity, in the almost empty bar (even the waiter was watching, I realised –– he had got some inkling of what was going on), and, feeling desperately self-conscious, reached up and opened my jacket to remove it.

Facing them, the action of shrugging the jacket back off my shoulders had the potential to make my breasts move in an obvious manner. Ordinarily, I would have carefully achieved this so that it seemed I was completely unaware of the effect, while in fact stage managing it totally. This time, while a part of me wanted to turn away from them and hunch in on myself, I made myself do it as deliberately as I normally would have, but this time without the protection of all of them knowing they mustn’t be caught looking. I blushed hotly, horribly embarrassed, but at the same time an incredible feeling came over me, of freedom –– sexual freedom; of specialness.

I performed for them, letting them see the way my breasts moved, making it as sexy as I could, without being too obvious or tarty.

If I was a whore, at least I could be a high class whore. I hung the jacket over the little stool back, blushing deeply, letting them enjoy the moment, all of them watching. After a second, I found myself unable to hold back a weak little girly giggle (which of course, jiggled my breasts again), an embarrassed little smile, accompanied by a couple more tears.

Immediately, there followed a wave of incredible sexual heat, that burned in my cheeks, and made me shudder. The smile was wiped away by the intensity of feeling. I bit my lip.

More appreciative chuckles, then North said; ‘Go, pretty. You’re just getting hotter and hotter!”

The feeling lasted about three seconds as I turned and walked away from them, trembling, suddenly full of shame and fear and self-disgust as it hit me what I had done, where I was headed.

In order not to collapse, pathetic, in an undignified sobbing heap on the floor, I concentrated; focused desperately on walking as perfectly as I have ever done in my life, feet along an imaginary line, hips swaying, back straight, head back, arms at my sides, desperately keeping my expression smooth and calm, although I was in terrible turmoil, willing the tears not to fall, my face not to screw up in misery.

I almost lost it once I was in the tranquility of the bathroom, on my own. I sank to my knees, clenched my fists, heard myself beginning to moan — on a knife edge, on the brink of full-on screaming hysterics, but somehow I pulled myself back. Not to do the sensible thing, which would have been to go on through the corridor which must lead to some other part of the hotel and escape, no: for some insane reason, I was convincing myself that I needed to go through with this, that it was important.

I stood up, took deep breaths, told myself all would be well.

Refusing to allow myself to think, I was like an automaton as I repaired my make-up, removed my bra and panties, stuffing them in the sanitary towel disposer. I was in a quandary about the suspender belt, but in the end, I decided that I must remove it, too, in order to be free of underwear –– surely what was intended. The stockings would probably mostly stay up by themselves; and there is something sexy about stockings that slip, I suddenly thought.

Undoing three blouse buttons, I was hit by a wave of mixed fear and sexual excitement; I had to close my eyes, dizzy with it.

Walking back to them across the quiet room, feeling my breasts move, my nipples stiff, I began to feel special again, suddenly pathetically, inexplicably grateful to North.

I realised that I wanted him to fuck me. That he would of course fuck me. And not just him. That this could not be a one-off. That I was, truly going to be a whore. The logic was inescapable.

My knees almost buckled. But I didn’t want to be anywhere else, couldn’t think of anything else I could see myself doing, and so I continued toward them, feeling their eyes, hot on my body, on my obviously moving, unfettered breasts, the pronounced upward tilt of my pointed nipples (I was so proud of my nipples, so pleased with the way they attracted men’s attention, held their gaze captive, fascinated them — but all that was before — before those nipples had been bought and paid for, when they were no longer mine, my private property, before they became commodities for sale) blatantly obvious, on my wrinkled stockings.

It was somehow delicious, flaunting myself for these older, powerful men, knowing that they could — would — use me, that I didn’t have to be clever, or assertive, or the hardest worker on the team –– that my sexuality would not be manipulative, sterile, without reward this time. It was so simple; I would act sexy, get fucked, and get paid.

No greasy pole to climb –– I was already at the top of this tree –– I was with the senior partner, being whored to the high-value clients.

Painfully self-conscious, in absolute silence, I walked towards them, on show — showing myself. It remains in my memory — the most intense experience of my young life — forcing myself to do the catwalk model’s sashay, to keep my shoulders back as they watched the pronounced swaying of my breasts the exaggerated walk produced; offering myself as their whore — obvious, undeniably.

I climbed back onto the stool with the same consciousness that I was putting on a show. A sex show — with a promise that things would go further, too.

“You still look hot, girl. Maybe this will help.”

Weiss stepped forward and slowly, carefully, tipped a little stream of champagne from his glass, above first my left breast, and then the right.

I was frozen in place, my breasts suddenly almost as visible as if naked through the thin, wet fabric of the blouse, but somehow more so, the transgression and the inappropriate nature of it all making the situation that much more extreme.

The cold made my nipples stiffen; I let out a little cry of surprise, a little quiver, that of course set my nipples moving, making it obvious how stiff they were; how ready I was — how much of a wanton their whore was. A slut who wanted it, who liked displaying herself like this — liked it sexually.

I had to fight myself to resist the instinct to cower, although another tear came to my eye, and I had to bite my lip, not quite managing to suppress a little moan at the shock and insolence of it. I could not risk looking pathetic — not as well as everything else.

The humiliation.

The raw sexuality of it all.

I was displaying my tits to a group of men who meant to use me like a whore. My chest heaved, and again, I let it make my breasts move, maximising the effect of my almost painfully stiff nipples letting it happen, displaying myself for them, whoring myself openly.

Now, as I let them ogle me, it was as if my heart has stopped, as if time was frozen; I was frozen.

But what broke in, brought me back to heat was the urgent knowledge that I liked the way the men were obviously interested; the knowledge that, now, I wanted to be fucked. And my heart started beating again, insistently, thumping hard in my chest; slow, eager.

“Not bad tits, not bad at all.”

North was cool, appreciative, but not at all over-excited, as a younger man might have been.

And I fet gratitude again, much more than from any compliment (and there had been many) on my legal ability; felt the need to let him know how grateful;

“Thank … thank you,  … Sir.”

Somehow the Sir seemed appropriate — necessary. Only lowly secretaries called anyone Sir in our office.

North looked round the little gathering, smiled at Weiss;

“I don’t think you’ll have any trouble with this one, now, will you? We’d best be off.”

He turned to me, businesslike;

“Chloe, stand up please. Hands behind your back.”

With only a slight hesitation, I obeyed, still wanting to stay beautiful, still moving elegantly, even though my world had been broken, remade, altered for ever.

“Thank you my dear. You will, of course, do your utmost to show these gentlemen how very, very much we value their business. You will be well looked after. The room is booked for the night. Feel free to stay. We will understand if you choose to take a day off tomorrow.”

And he left, Jarmisch in tow, without a backward glance.

I stood, exactly as he had left me, quivering; until a hand laid itself casually, possessively, confidently, right on my butt cheek, and Lvov’s thick, strongly accented voice breathed in my ear;

“Showtime, pretty.”

My eyes closed; I staggered, almost fell. Suddenly, I felt like a little girl, lost, unnerved, desperation growing in me;

“Please … please be gentle with me …”

A weak little giggle at this cliche line;

“I’ve … I’ve never done … this –– before.”

He leaned in and spoke softly, his deep voice powerful and amused;

“We’re in charge, pretty –– just keep us happy and everything will be fine. Drink up!”

He put a full glass into my hand, and I gratefully, greedily, gulped it back.

I never even suspected it at the time, but of course, it had been spiked with a powerful aphrodisiac, and a mild hallucinogenic. These days, I administer them to myself. To be honest, they have to ration me.

He draped my jacket over my shoulders, giving my breasts just enough covering to be superficially decent.

“Now do your pretty walk to the lift –– I like to watch your ass.”

Somehow, pathetically, I smiled at him, and obey, walked carefully, beautifully, sexily, clinging to this thing that I know I can do, that I knew was approved of.

I had lost so much of my certainty about my place in life, in such a short span of time –– this was all I could hold on to.

I don’t know how I did it, but I arrived at the lift without succumbing to hysteria.

It was a close-run thing, though, and when the lift doors closed, and I felt their eyes on me, tears dripped again, bizarrely accompanied by a weak and hopeful smile.

“Throw the jacket on the floor. Open your blouse. Show us those pretty tits.”

They just looked me over, smiling, as the lift rose, and my hands obeyed the order seemingly without reference to my mind.

My chest was heaving, my tits moving embarrassingly obviously. I let it happen: I was showing these strangers my naked breasts –– offering them, displaying them –– blushing, but trying hard to hold myself well. Trembling, but still with some control over myself.

And I found that I liked it –– I liked showing them my tits –– I was proud of them, I knew they were good tits, but it was something more than pride — more like a door opening, once through which I was allowed to –– no; HAD to –– show my naked breasts to powerful strangers, had to move to show myself to best advantage, had to do whatever I could to make them want to fuck me.  

‘I’m made for this’, the thought came, unwanted, into my head … I cringed inside at the idea — and at the same time I found myself giggling, softly, dirtily.

Quite the little slut.

Two buttons, a catch and a zip. That’s all it took, once we were in the room.

They hardly needed to speak, just made short movements with their hands. Everything was simple. I was a whore about to be fucked by two complete strangers. I was going to be fucked by these two men — however they wanted. I wanted to be fucked. Oh Jesus what was happening?

I undid the two buttons of the blouse, the catch and then the zip of the skirt. I leant forward; my breasts swayed free, the skirt slid down my legs, pulling the stockings down a little. I stepped out of the skirt. As I straightened, I shrugged the blouse off and was naked but for the loose stockings and high heels.

Naked before two strangers. I couldn’t bring myself to look at them, although I desperately wanted to see their eyes. Also, I wanted to cringe — my legs tightly clamped, cover my tits with my arm, save myself; but I knew this would make me look stupid, and at that moment, looking stupid felt as if it would kill me, and so I forced myself to pose in a way I hoped was attractive — legs a little apart, shoulders back (all my normal assurance had departed, having been developed for situations where a young attractive, educated female is effectively inviolable- no matter how she teases).

I felt terribly weak and frightened; my eyes filled with soft tears, my heart was thumping wildly.

Their gaze was hot.  I felt it on me, and my excitement evaporated; I was really frightened then –– of the insanity of it all, of how vulnerable I was. All my strength was gone, I was in their power, both mentally and physically; utterly dominated, without them having acted in the slightest harshly.

O God, what had I done?

But when Weiss stepped forward, and casually, confidently pushed one hand between my legs, my sex was revealed to me as still being warm and moist from the surge of desire I had felt downstairs.

I was instantly betrayed — by my own lust. I heard myself gasp, so soft and so, so sad –– my world was being destroyed, and I had no way to resist.

I found I had opened my legs wider for him, unasked, had leaned forward a little, pathetically helpful –– and then I moaned as he penetrated me — so easily! — with two fingers.

A weak, soft, sobbing moan of despair, full of shame, but helpless, without a shred of defiance, was all my response.

Lvov was behind me. He held my wrists, wrapped something around my arms, above the elbow –– his tie, I realised –– tightened it.

I was restrained, shocked — utterly bemused — nothing like this had ever been part of any of my sexual experience — even imagined — before, but I could not find it in me to protest, to struggle, and this failure weakened me still further, and I let out a pathetic little wail. 

My excitement as we sat in the bar below now seemed so far away, so foolish, so naive, so stupid. 

The idea of money, a car, seemed ridiculous as I felt a stranger’s fingers, bold, exploring, move inside my sex, while the other tied my arms behind me.

I closed my eyes, unable to face reality, even as my mouth opened in another helpless, wordless cry –– weak, accepting.

I suddenly saw that the car, the job, would never happen. Whores didn’t become junior partners; whores got fucked. Tricked and fucked.

Lvov grasped at my breasts, mauling me freely. My legs were so weak –– I would have fallen, then, if it weren’t for their hands on me, inside me.

I did not have the will to even think about resistance. In fact, I found myself automatically shifting my hips to give Weiss better access to me — to my sex; helping him to penetrate my most intimate secret more thoroughly. I heard myself, as if it were another girl — a sad, pathetic fool of a wanton — let out another soft wail of despair, utterly devoid of challenge.

They laughed –– I suppose it excited them, knowing what they were doing to me, the violation, my shame –– the soft, but clearly implied threat of coercion, of violence behind this, their power to have me so; unable to resist.

Their hands were all over me then –– on my breasts, my belly, my legs; they were surprisingly gentle, appreciative –– but at the same time casual, supremely confident –– the hands of older men who had done this many times, with many girls whose names they haven’t bothered to remember, so different from the boys who had been my lovers so far.  

They were commenting on me in Russian, short, grunting laughs, playful slaps, enveloping hands. I was trembling. However much I wished it did not, it was exciting me again, arousing me, this situation, and my body told them so.

Hands in my hair, Weiss pulled me with him as he stepped backward and sat on the arm of an easy chair.

He opened his flies without ceremony, still holding my hair –– Lvov’s fingers were between my legs then, forcing them wider apart; I was again softly, helplessly — no, needily, now — co-operative.

I knew what I was going to have to do now, and it was as if a wave of blackness engulfed me. But when it had passed, I was still there, still in the same place, and Weiss was pulling my head down — gently, but irresistibly, insisting, enforcing.

I resisted, tinily, for just a moment –– not that it was resistance, as such –– there was no defiance –– it’s just that it took some doing, breaking the picture of a life; becoming a whore in fact.

He didn’t force me –– in fact, he smiled, said something to his colleague, who laughed.

And as he laughed, under no immediate pressure, I found myself leaning forward, my mouth opening to receive his stiffening cock. I did it, for him. No-one forced me.

My tears splashed onto his thigh, but I opened my mouth, wide. I was a whore. I had better be a good whore.

Inside, I was like a needy little girl –– a little girl who could think of nothing but how much she had to have the approval of these men.

And I did know — even then — a little about how to please a man this way –– had always liked giving head to my lovers, been keen to learn which moves brought pleasure, and after only a little while I was beginning to use these tricks –– shy, ashamed, but still, wanting to be good, to have them think well of me. Of my blowjob skills.

At least the cock in my mouth was warm, and real –– its owner twitched when I did things he liked –– I could do this well or badly; and so, good little worker that I was, I tried to do it well, within the limits imposed by my state of trembling despair.

To be honest, it became important to me to show him that I could give him pleasure if he let me –– because he was quite casual about enforcing deep penetration when he wished it, pushing my head down onto him, my lashed arms making me subject to his whims.

Within a few minutes then, I was giving the most careful, considerate, servile blow-job of my life, to a virtual stranger, while another stranger looked on, telling me he liked the way my tits were swaying; that he could see my pussy and was wondering whether to fuck me there or in my ass.

I found myself to be pathetically grateful for even this crude appreciation, and I relaxed a little, finding, wonderingly, that I liked forcing myself to take this cock deep, that I liked knowing that the man behind me was watching my tits, liking them; was watching my pussy move, thinking about fucking me there.

I was finding there was something glorious in this kind of dirty freedom — something my whole body was responding to –– the knowledge that no-one was going to judge me for being dirty — not in that room at least; that at some level I would be absolved because I had been coerced –– that they had made me act dirty.

Although, too, I was aware that I was not free of blame — that I wanted it, too. I began to feel as if I was losing myself…

Weiss then casually pushed me off his cock, wanting to save himself for another hole maybe, and after a brief pause, during which the horror of what was happening reared up again in my head, threatening to overwhelm me, I meekly turned and crawled over to Lvov, and carefully begin to lick his big dick –  it was, truly, huge, and I began trembling at the idea of being fucked with such a monster. Even when he pushed me, and I did my best to open myself (shocking myself with my own willingness to try, my own subservience to his will), I could not get more than half of it into my mouth.

I was thinking about being fucked all the time now. I had tried not to, tried to remind myself of who I was –– telling myself that it was a one-off, a temporary experience –– a paying of dues as North had suggested. But I kept returning to the basic facts of what was happening, what was going to happen. And I didn’t believe myself — I had to accept that, deep inside me, this was something irrevocable, something I had lost, that I had lost a game, that I would not, could not ever fully recover myself from this.

Partly because of the shame, the loss of status, the certainty that North would take advantage of me again, that I would find it hard to resist — but also, for a deeper reason, because I had discovered that I had been lying to myself, for years. That I was not, in fact, an ambitious, clear-headed, hard-working committed lawyer — not only, at least. That I had not been admitting to myself that I was an eager, wanton slut.

And the terrible thing was, that the more I thought about it, the more I imagined how I must look, naked, arms tied, obviously doing everything I could to give maximum pleasure to Lvov, worshipping his big cock, knees spread wide –– the more I thought about the fact that I was going to be having this cock moving inside me very soon –– the more the excitement I had felt in the bar became resurgent; my breathing becoming heavy and slow, and my movements more and more sensuous, languid, deliberately erotic, enticing, seductive, inviting, the more obviously I was welcoming his fat cock into the opening of my throat; the more willing I was becoming to force myself to stay down longer, to take him more deeply, to let him abuse me with his thrusting — the more I let myself feel — be a part of — what was actually happening, the more turned-on I was becoming — the more eager to take it all the way, the more interested in having these men do their dirtiest with me — the more eager I was becoming to be the whore they wanted me to be.

I began trembling, then, with shame and desire mixed –– I could feel my sex getting hot again, feel the fire in my nipples, in my clit, so that when Lvov in turn pushed me away, laughing, I could only kneel, passive; quivering, panting, biting my lip, having to control myself lest I begin to beg him to fuck me.

In the end, though, I could not endure the silence, and eventually found myself turning, looking for Weiss –– for his cock, for his hands on my body, for him to use me somehow, want me. He grinned, knowing, laughing at my need, and I blushed, humiliated. Nevertheless, I crawled to him, willing, needy, accepting the shame as the price of his attention.

He had me stand, untied my arms, fondled me, quite gently, but without restraint, playing with my breasts, putting fingers into me, pulling at my clit — all of which I enabled, giggled at, opened myself for, wanton.

“Dance –– dance, pretty; show us your sexy body –– excite yourself.”

Again, I had been used to dancing for men –– and doing it well. But until then I had always been in control; dancing to bring the men under my influence –– carefully showing them what a sex-bomb I could be, while preserving mystery and power.

This was different –– the same basic moves, perhaps, but now I was naked, with no mystery that they could not penetrate at will, utterly in their power.

It changed things — dancing, naked like that, was hard.

I was embarrassed and clumsy at first, giggled my embarrassment. But they offered no criticism beyond the occasional laugh or comment about my tits, my lips, my pussy, and gradually, I found a way to move with a little more confidence, to relax a little. At a certain point, a pleasure in my own body kicked in, followed very quickly by a forceful realisation of the depth of my sexual hunger, and I opened up even more.

But it was impossible to be completely natural, as, watched, commented on in a language I did not understand, the object of laughter and unknown crude jokes, feelings of humiliation and shame became impossible to ignore. The little girl was in control again, hopefully trying whatever she could think of in the hope of being pleasing, and I began to do a little more, miming shyness, smiling coyly, while at the same time moving sensuously, letting them see exactly what was going on with me –– the shame and embarrassment at war with the urge to be desired, with the reality of the sexuality of my own body

Eventually, though, the contradictions, the impossibility of the situation I was in begin to overwhelm me, and tears began to fall again.

Slowly, I stopped dancing, sank to my knees, wanting to slump onto the floor and sob, while some stubborn part of me refused to allow them to see me looking ugly, kept me upright, if on my knees, kept my shoulders back, my legs apart, kept some version of a smile on my face, and when Lvov beckoned, had me crawl, willing, over to him and swallowing his cock as best I could –– deeper than before, choking myself voluntarily, giving myself to him in my shame as I never had to any lover, even as the tears tracked down my cheeks; understanding when he wanted me to take him deep, and when he wanted me to pull back and lick and nuzzle him, giving this stranger more of myself than I had ever done before, lost in the idea — in the haven of obedience to another’s will — of whoring myself to him.

And when he came, jerking violently into my mouth, I did my best to swallow his salty come, even as it gushed from my nose and spilt on my face and chest, snorting and choking messily as he grunted his pleasure.

Real gratitude, real satisfaction, flooded through me, to my shame, and I give him a weak little smile before dropping my head at his deep and cynical chuckle, feeling parts of me that I had held to be necessary, strong, clean just wither and die, letting them go, having no option but to let them go; deeply sad, but equally helpless.

Almost as soon as he had pulled away from me, leaving me kneeling, head hanging, still choking, sticky with spittle and come — feeling hollow, lost, unmoored — Weiss was on me, pushing my face into the carpet, lifting my ass, thrusting his cock into my pussy from behind, wringing a soft cry of humiliation and weakness from me as he rammed himself home, making my whole body jerk.

It was dreadfully obvious just how wet my pussy was. I was ready to die of shame at my own sluttishness, but there was no time to think as he began humping me steadily, forcefully, almost violently. And very soon I found myself responding, unwanted, helplessly, gasping with the intensity of the knowledge that his dick was plowing me without restraint or consideration for anything but his own pleasure, that the other guy was watching, that I could not hide my own mounting pleasure, the way my hips were moving, the noises I was making, the swaying of my breasts — could not hide my neediness. The drugs were really kicking in, I guess.

And it went on; relentless, powerful fucking that stripped away everything but the knowledge, the deep physical fact that I was a thing being fucked, and that I was grateful, and needy, and drowning in it.

At last, helplessly, I began begging him for it, for more;

“Ooooh, Jesus, yes! Fuck me, please! fuck me –– harder, please!”

Unbelievably, we climaxed at the same time, just like in a porn movie, and it was the most powerful, glorious, mind-blowing orgasm of my life –– I was hard put to it not to scream out loud, thanking him pathetically, abjectly, babbling;

“Oh god, thank you! Thank you! Thank you! “

Crying and laughing at the same time as he pulled out with a grunt, leaving me there, splayed open, dripping, disheveled, my mind disordered by the utterly bizarre events of the day, not allowing myself to think at all, so that I was meekly accepting when Lvov simply lifted me, arranged me, face down on the low table, and pushed himself into my sopping pussy, then announced he was going to fuck my ass.

I mewed a little, but was too weak, too crushed by the realisation of my deeply wanton nature, my vulnerability to sexual excess, to offer anything but token resistance, which soon dissolved when he slapped my arse a few times, at which, without deciding to, I began, simply, almost eagerly, to co-operate with him — to force myself to relax as he slowly but relentlessly pushed into my asshole, his big cock hurting me, making me gasp with pain, frighteningly thick, tearing me; the pain sharp, strong, harsh, but somehow accepted, however hard that was; simply, a given — the price of pleasing him — to be borne, absorbed, washed with the tears that spurted from my eyes, but not to be translated into self protection, even — let alone resistance or anger.

No matter; I was faithfully, helplessly doing what I could to help him, until, with a sudden rush, he was in me, deep within me — the strangest, most intimate feeling of invasion, of being possessed absolutely by another — speared, occupied, my personhood rendered irrelevant by the thing that filled me, so that I was just a recipient, a receptacle, a vehicle for his desire — without capacity to imagine being anything more at that moment.

I was being ass fucked for the first time in my life, face burning with shame, defiled and degraded, but without the slightest outrage or resistance. Indeed, I was moving with him, a true whore as he thrust into me, until, despite the pain, I began to feel a sort of excitement, a dirty, breathless pleasure, and I felt unaccountably happy for him when the thrusting within me took on an added urgency and force as he came, deep inside me, spurting into my ass, even as at the same time as I felt myself to be utterly worthless.

A whore. A brutalised whore, that’s what I was — all I could ever be. But I had no energy left to worry about this.

I didn’t even move as I heard them gathering their jackets, visiting the bathroom, talking about me, laughing.

They left without speaking to me again. After a while, I found I could cry properly, and I spent an hour or two curled up on the soft, carpeted floor, alternately sobbing, hugging myself, and staring vacantly at the wall.

Eventually, I realised how cold I had become, and dragged myself to the bathroom to run a deep, hot bath, where I lay for another hour or so.

After a while, I found that I increasingly wanted to remember, to re-live, the glory of that incredible orgasm. I fought against that desire, weakly, desperately, and lost, immediately losing myself in a trembling fervor of erotic recall, welcoming the blotting out of all thought, the trembling intensity which I recalled with my whole body, the mind-ripping glory of it, the disappearance of everything in that moment of utter intensity.

The floodgates opened, I found myself replaying the blowjob; and then at last, utterly beyond restraint, I let myself feel how it had been to be roughly, selfishly, aggressively ass-fucked, finding it incredible to have to accept that it had been me, Chloe Dainty, up-and-coming lawyer, who had participated so thoroughly, who had so signally failed to take advantage of any of the many opportunities I had had to refuse that terrible humiliation, the violation. Who had, without any real excuse, offered herself up for it all.

That I had allowed my self image, my idea of who I was, to be destroyed so quickly, so simply, so cheaply, for so little of meaning. Just some random clients, to whom I had been given; a bone tossed to two dogs — chewed over, used up, abandoned.

It would be a lie to say that there wasn’t at the same time a powerful, deep, knowledge of sexual satisfaction in me, a calmness, a looseness in my limbs, a strange sort of peace, persistent under all the noisy feelings and thoughts, despite the sharp and insistent pain in my backside, the quivering agonies of shame that occasionally threatened to overset me.

Eventually, I dressed myself, did my make-up. On autopilot, I still made a careful and thorough job of it –– as fragile as I felt, I had to know that I looked as good as possible, that I had something at least to hold onto. The woman in the mirror no longer looked like how I felt inside. Somehow she looked as smart and restrainedly sexy as ever. I stared at her, amazed and puzzled –– that girl didn’t look like a slut!

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