Moving Her On Pt2—Later that Morning

You will want to have read the other parts of this story before reading this. Trust me.

After he’s finished with her, the fat one levers himself upright, his gross belly, his hairy, meaty hands all the more appalling to her as she remembers how desperately she had offered herself to him last night, how she had encouraged him to use her, how she had crawled for him, licking the sweat from the folds of flab at his groin before taking his hairy ball-sack into her mouth, naked, on her knees, her ass held high, thighs open, working her hips as they had told her she must, how she had let him pull her face right into his groin, into a suffocating mask of flabby, hairy, sweaty skin, her hands lying palm up, on the floor, expressively useless (again, required of her), as one of the others had pushed himself into her sore rear, laughing, saying that only a whore this dirty could possibly get him hard again after what he’d already pumped into her.

That was her, that girl — Chloe. She had done that. She hadn’t been forced, but her lover; no, not her ‘lover’, not any more, not after last night; her man — maybe that would have to do — her man had asked her to. And so she had.

And she could never undo it, never forget it, never not be that girl. Never not know that these repellent fingers had brought her to a jerking, crying, wailing orgasm in front of all of them. She had been on top of him, once she’d got him hard again, on her back, legs split apart, his heavy feet on her ankles keeping them so, wrists tied at the small of her back (tied after she had repeatedly been unable to stop herself trying to protect her breasts from the doubled-over belt they’d thrashed her with) his cock in her ass (how many of them had used her there? She realises she doesn’t know, that she had stopped counting; more than three). The image of her man — the man she had been used to call her ‘sweet lover’ in her mind — looking on, arms folded, a drink in his hand, complacent satisfaction on his face, interested but uncaring, exchanging casual comments with another man (her breasts, her cocksucking technique), the image burned into her memory as she realised there was no way she could stop herself having a noisy, unhinged orgasm in front of all of them.

The point where she had found herself unable to resist the crashing waves of feeling (no longer wanting to), the wrenching intersection of shame and lust and intensity and raw sensation, and had given in, succumbing to the humiliation and wild abandon of that orgasm, hearing their amusement, their crude, degrading comments, losing herself in it, letting it destroy her, insanely glorying in the experience of letting herself be so destroyed; feeling her body take over, its needs, its requirements, thrusting herself hungrily onto the invading cock, writhing urgently against the fat digits that are so crudely manipulating her poor clit, nothing mattering any more but release, but to be overcome, to be absolved of all responsibility, hearing herself moaning and crying out with undisguised need. Submitting to it all.

And now the moment she knows she needs to repeat — that opening of the door, that voluntary, soft acceptance — invitation — of impending violation that was signified by her opening her blouse, is matched in significance by this moment, this overwhelming, unwanted but also accepted — sought after — public orgasm in the heat of that violation.

The first moment had changed her inside — forced her to acknowledge that something in her is hungry to the experience of offering herself for violation — and the second changed her in the world — made her helpless sluttyness incontrovertible to those men, and more significantly (tragically) to Him — to her man.

It comes to her then — the memory of what he had said, weeks ago — ‘it’s time to move you on’.

She had not understood it at the time, had been too emotional even to try. But now, naked, on her knees on the bed, thighs spread, the fat man’s come still in her throat and on her lips, still stinging in her nasal passages, she understands.

She has indeed been ‘moved on’. Forced — as a result of her inability to resist his wishes — to experience those moments, and, having experienced them, to have become something else; she has indeed been ‘moved on’ to a place where she has to accept herself as both a helpless whore and a degraded slut. To a place where these inescapable certainties about her seem to define her, to render everything else that had made her life meaningful seem pale and shallow, unimportant. It’s not that she wants this to be true — but that she cannot keep herself from it. She can find nothing within her that can stand against the blowtorch of these twin realisations, that might replenish the psychic scorched earth they leave behind.

For months, now, He has been everything to her, made himself everything to her, and she has eagerly, gratefully, wonderingly opened herself to him, accepted it, revelled in the totality of his embrace.

Now she sees that he had been preparing for this all along, that she has been snared, just as much as she has been embraced. But this insight changes nothing; doesn’t make her angry, doesn’t make her wish she had realised earlier, doesn’t make her wish she had escaped. And then, she realises, there is one thing it does change; it increases her awed respect for his capacities (as if increase were needed) — and thereby makes it all the more sure that she will not even try to escape — that she will be unable to challenge this ‘moved on’ position — however insane it seems to not struggle, not to rebel against the idea that further experiences like last night lie in her future.

For it had to be acknowledged that had she been given every opportunity to back out. Indeed, she had talked about it to him, had told him that his breezy confidence, his assumptions about her compliance worried her, that while it was wonderful to be carried along, to be safe in the cocoon of his certainty, while she loved being able to switch off completely when she was with him, that she sometimes wondered where it would lead?

And hadn’t he smiled, happily told her that he knew exactly where he hoped it would lead — to him possessing her utterly, folding her completely into his life?

And instead of recoiling, questioning, taking stock, had she not melted at those words, melted into his warm and easy smile, and fallen to her knees and told him that that was what she wanted too, and thanked him, then shyly (for she was innocent then), on her knees, sought to offer him her mouth, lost herself in her desire to service his pleasure, to somehow give him something in return for everything he did for her, in her gratitude taken him more deeply into her throat, held him there longer than she had ever before succeeded in doing for any man?

Now here she is — possessed indeed by him, folded into his life so deeply that she cannot even imagine trying to leave. Having discovered through shocking, shameful violation just what he wants from this possession of her; how absolute and ruthless, how heartlessly selfish that possession will be, that no matter whether she has been betrayed, tricked, abused (as no doubt her friends would describe the situation — and in truth, how she would describe the same circumstances applied to any of them), she has been changed, deeply reconfigured, that he has indeed successfully ‘moved her on’.

‘Successfully’ in the sense that, even in the aftermath of the outrage of last night — a night of harsh and degrading abuse by strangers to her, cruel and ugly older men, to which she has been subjected to by his will; even after that, it is nevertheless true that, sitting here, naked, come-stained, sore, her self-image shredded, her romantic dreams extinguished, she is aware of no stronger emotion than a sweet, wistful sorrow — and that sorrow mostly for her own naiveté in having held onto those dreams, for the poor silly girl that had been Chloe until less than 24 hours ago.

Shocking, too, is the reality that alongside that sorrow there is a strangely deep and pleasurable gratitude.

Yes. She is grateful — undeniably so. Grateful for something which it takes her a moment to understand; she is grateful for peace. She is grateful because — she now understands — the mismatch between those romantical notions and the reality of the relationship between him and her — the relationship to which she was an enthusiastic contributor — had been driving her crazy. Whereas now — now all is clear.

Her new condition — as his whore and his slut — is stark, straightforward. No more navigation, no more second guessing, no more indecision or uncertainty.

And this clarity is more than peace, too — it’s not just gratitude, it is a lurking, twisty pleasure, a sick satisfaction in her gut; she’s going to get fucked, fucked hard. And she’s not going to have to ask for it — not specifically anyway — all she has to do is let him have her as his whore, and it will be forced on her.

Wild, transgressive fucking — some of it hateful to be sure, some of it painful, but last night proved that she can get off on even the most degrading of conditions (slut that she now accepts she is) — she knows, too (deeply shameful as the knowledge is), that her body wants to experience that again — that there is a vast hunger awoken within her for such experiences. It frightens her, frightens her badly; its not that she wants the pain — or the shame — but that she is helplessly grateful to know that more chances of that release, that impossible out-of-body intensity lie in her future.

She will be fucked. Sometimes she will be hurt. She will offer herself, strip herself, open herself, invite, accept; and she will participate, will seek sexual pleasure in the excesses visited on her, will be degraded, demeaned, abused, insulted, shamed; made to offer her violators her orgasms, as well as her soft body. Sick as it makes her to accept it, she knows that she will find satisfaction in being of service to Him in this way, and serve Him with humiliating compliance, as sweetly as she can.

And life will be simple. It’s insane, but it is crystal clear. Wonderingly, she looks down, parts her legs, looks at her sex, almost dispassionate; feels the soreness there — and at her anus, too — worse; spreads herself wider. I’m going to be fucked in these holes; fucked hard, fucked often, by strangers who don’t care about me, who will hurt me. He’s not going to make me, but he will ask me, and I’m going to say yes; if he asks me to, I will say ‘Yes, please; more please; harder please; hurt me if it pleases you’, and will smile as prettily as I can.

She’s testing herself, trying to see if she can generate something beyond acceptance, some push back, some inner resistance to this insane self-immolation, but there’s nothing — nothing beyond a weak spark of desire in her belly, at least, and she has to smile (or else she would cry) — because it’s so very frightening; knowing she is caught, knowing just how well, how firmly she has been hooked, knowing that she isn’t even going to try to escape, knowing that — however it goes in detail — things will get darker, not lighter. That this can’t end well for her. That losing her hopes and dreams is just the start of it — that her dignity, her decency, her self-respect, her meaning — that all of these will be shredded.

He had been carefully bringing her on, she realises, until he was confident he could put her through the ordeal of last night and achieve the outcome he wanted; and part of bringing her on had been — to be very clear about it — what people called ‘gaslighting’; presenting as obvious a reality which is not apparent to the experience of the victim. Not that he had lied to her — never, she is certain. But lies are the weakest form of deception. What he had done was distort her reality until — contrary to all rationality, she had allowed him to set her up for last night; to get her to the point where she would calmly, sweetly, offer herself to strange men to be violently gang-raped, beaten and humiliated — even to let him ask those cruel strangers to feel free to torture her, simply because he asked it of her. Something that, only a few months previously, she would have angrily and instantly rejected out of hand before breaking up with him forever, whatever the emotional cost might have been.

These thoughts have her trembling. How can it be that she is now almost happy to understand of herself that she is going to let him make her his whore, that she is at some level happy to know that she will be required, from now on — as of his right — to offer her soft body up for violations both cruel and crude? To feel certain that she will find herself trying — as she had last night — to make that offer attractive — to be sweet and seductive with a strange man so that he will feel free to hurt and abuse her?

Soft tears roll down her cheeks, matched by a soft, despairing sadness that pervades her body. She had had such hopes, such silly dreams, of a life with him. They had had so many happy, beautiful moments; their lovemaking had been so exquisite, their adventures so joyful, their laughter so natural. He’d been genuine in sharing that with her — she was sure — he’d told her as much; ‘it’s been fun, playing at boyfriend and girlfriend’ — but now he had ‘moved her on’, and she could discover in herself no stronger negative feeling about this than sorrow; no anger, no will to resist, no desire for freedom or escape, no outrage at what he has done to her. Nothing. She has been his girlfriend — she has the memories; and now he has made her his whore, and she will be his whore, for as long as he wants her to be.

Although saying goodbye to her sweet former self is heartbreaking, there is a knowledge inside her that this new idea of being subject to violently enforced sexual usage undeniably fascinates her in some way, that the thought of being utterly consumed through being used as a vehicle for the perverse pleasures of others makes her heart flutter and her belly tremble.

It was important that she become a good whore, an enjoyable slut, she sees. Having been ‘moved on’ once, it is inevitable that she will be ‘moved on’ again, at some point. She can’t bear to imagine what the destination of that move might be (or conceive of herself as being able to resist it), but it becomes urgent in her to delay it — and to delay it by making the current version of her as rewarding as possible for him — by becoming, as closely as possible, what he wants her to be.

Deep in her belly, she accepts that this is her new reality. A door closes, one that she will never again open.

It makes all the difference in the world, at the same time as being surprisingly ordinary, she finds.

For when, realising the time with a start, she hurries off to fulfil their morning ritual; the cute joke that rapidly stuck, when she takes her station on duty in the morning room to serve his breakfast — and his morning hard-on if he wishes — the ritual that she has loved enacting each day for weeks now.

Today, it will be freighted with all sorts of new uncertainties, deeply uncomfortable. Will he even want her — the degraded slut that, only last night, fucked five strangers to a standstill?

There is no mileage in thinking, she realises, and tries hard to stop. Showering quickly, she puts on the button front dress (the one that started the whole serving breakfast thing — the dress he had joked reminded him of a French Maid’s uniform) and the high heeled ankle-strapped Mary-Janes and gets to her place just before 8, only to find herself waiting. He’s usually prompt, but today perhaps 20 minutes has passed, and she is still standing, attentive (for as soon as she hears him she has to go through to the kitchen and have them start his eggs); unbearably nervous as she wonders just how he will be with her, after last night.

Completely different, and at the same time utterly normal; she hears him, scampers for the kitchen, alerts the cook, and is back in position before he enters, triggering the next part of the ritual — the simpering little curtsy, skirts lifted, bob of the hips;

“Good morning, Sir. Can … can I help you with anything at all, Sir?”

Usually, she’s giggling, he’s grinning, as they both know that this is a play-acted (albeit completely genuine) offer of her mouth and throat for his cock (or her pussy or asshole, if it should take his fancy), but now she has no giggles in her, and today he’s not smiling — instead looking at her with a mild but unreadable expression. She realises that, after last night, he might ask anything of her — anything at all — order her to go to the bedroom of any of his guests and offer herself, or put herself over the table for a thrashing. She is suddenly panicky. Tears want to come but she blinks them back, turns the need into another bob of her hips and a further tug at the skirt hem — sure that her panties must now be visible, her heart pattering rapidly, feeling a little dizzy.

He’s looking directly into her eyes now, and she searches for some complicity there, something, but without result. It’s not that he’s unfriendly — just that there is no response to her pleading eyes — and then she sees it; what it is. He doesn’t feel the same about her any more. She is his — yes — but not exclusively his, not any more — not sexually at least. The promise of her throat on his cock is no longer a personal promise, no longer special. She’s a whore now, no longer a girlfriend. Overwhelmed by shame, she can’t meet his gaze any more, looks down, flushed, blinking back the tears.

Everything is just the same, but everything has changed. She lifts her skirt higher. It’s not her personality that matters any more — it’s her body — and the sexual charge of a coquettish curtsey only works if there is a tease. But there can be no tease when it is his choice who she fucks, not hers.

“I don’t think it makes sense, any more, for you to wear panties. Do you?”

She is instantly trembling at the thought she may have displeased him already. So strange — their relationship has never been one where he has told her what to wear, but now it seems obvious that it should be his taste, his preference, that dictates her clothing. So quick is she, in her wish to please, to tug the pretty scrap of lace and lycra down her legs, that she fumbles, to her intense distress — he likes elegance and grace, finds clumsiness a turn-off.

One of the things he has liked about the dress is that it is tight and stiff enough for the skirt, once pulled up above her waist, to stay there, so that when she straightens she is still fully exposed from the waist down.

“Leave it that way,” he says; “and if you have a bra on, I think that should go, too. Nothing like that which covers your nipples; not any more. And leave the top of the dress folded down, too. Then I’d like my eggs, please.”

Although the staff have undoubtedly been aware of what she and he get up to over breakfast, there has always been a door to provide privacy. She’s never gone through that door not superficially ‘decent’ before, but now he wants her to go to the kitchen and fetch his eggs with both top and bottom of the dress folded back — so that it is nothing more than a tight bodice, from just beneath her breasts to the lower part of her belly (the snug fit of the dress below her breasts pushes them up and out, very obviously, but without constraining them, so that they sway in an exaggerated manner when she moves — an effect she has exploited for him many times, grinning at him, knowing how it gets him hard — but which, in front of others, will now expose and shame her).

She thinks she will die. Those men last night were strangers. The staff had gone home after dinner, before the outrage began. She’s known them for months — He’s not stuffy — first name terms all round — and so she feels as if she knows the two women who will be in the kitchen almost as friends. The idea of walking in on them like this is unimaginable; for a few seconds after she has taken off her bra, after arranging the dress so that it supports but does not cover her breasts, she simply cannot move, frozen by the social impossibility of walking through the connecting door with everything on show.

He is apparently uninterested, reading the financial papers as he does every morning.

Time dilates.

She must go — must! But I can’t, she wails, inside her head — I’ll die of shame!

It is the sound of footsteps in the hallway that breaks the stasis — one of the guests is arriving for breakfast. There is something completely different from last night about the idea of one of them walking in on her like this, in the broad sunlit morning, just standing here, dithering, tits out, pussy on display, and rather than experience that, she turns without thinking to open the door to the short service hallway, from which the kitchen door stands open — and where Norah, the housekeeper, is walking directly toward her, carrying His dish of eggs.

Chloe freezes, a deep blush burning her cheeks and the flesh of her chest; her knees go weak. She can’t face Norah, but at the same time she cannot bear not to know what expression is on the older woman’s face — so prim and proper as it always is, and so she keeps her head up, eyes round and soft, wet with unshed tears, her lips trembling, feeling as if she must faint if she feels any hotter.

Norah smiles; a tight smile, grudgingly approving, and says something, apparently to herself;

“About time, too.”

This utterance astonishes Chloe, until, thinking it through later, she understands — Norah has seen this before, with at least one — maybe more than one — other girl. He’s done this to other women. And Norah has been expecting this for — for how long? The realisation is yet another link in the chain of inevitability which seems to Chloe to bind her to her fate.

Norah’s eyes unabashedly track down to take in Chloe’s exposed sex, then up to linger at her breasts, which rising and fall noticeably with Chloe’s gusty, panic stricken breathing.

“They used you harshly, girl. That’s good. Might as well understand straight away what it means. I’ll come to you later and see what we can do for that swelling — it’ll be worse by then. Take these, now. Hurry!”

And she holds out the eggs.

Utterly unable to process, her mind a jumble, Chloe is pathetically grateful to be told what to do, and turns to deliver the eggs to Him.

Within a few weeks, Norah will provoke Chloe into a rage with her curt, direct and increasingly demeaning orders. He will ordain punishment, to be delivered by Norah, with a whip. After this, Chloe will spend several hours each day at cleaning tasks, wearing a ridiculously skimpy and very expensive french maid get-up that consists of a solid and excruciatingly tight-laced bustier corset, stockings, heels and frothy lace invocations of a skirt and a blouse that do nothing to conceal, but everything to invite attention to her breasts, sex and buttocks. Sturdy leather wrist cuffs and collar also sport lacy frills, as well as stout steel D rings. Chloe will hate this part of her day more than any other. If guests are staying, she will use the titillating getup in any way she can to invite sexual use, even from those she finds repellent or knows to be horribly cruel — anything is better than humiliating menial labour in that demeaning outfit, her performance judged by Norah against the woman’s impossibly high standards, with failings bringing correction with the whip.

Once back in the morning room, it hits her, hard. To be dressed (undressed) so, in front of a stranger! Never mind that that stranger last night wielded his doubled over belt across her poor breasts, and had his cock in all three of her soft holes, this is different; not a torrid, late night, transgressive orgy, but a domestic day-time scene of mundanity — and yet her tits are out, and her pussy and ass are on show — clearly exposed as an invitation. Her knees buckle and again the heat of her shame threatens to overset her. Only the fact that having a purpose even as weak as ‘delivering the breakfast’ is infinitely better than standing still to be stared at gets her moving.

Another impossible quandary presents. If it were just Him and her, now, she would deliberately and lingeringly brush His cheek with her breast as she bends to position his plate, would take any opportunity to have Him feel the silk of her thigh against His arm or hand, hoping for sex of some kind before His work routine kicks in (He works only four hours most days, but with an intensity and decisiveness that means He pays her little attention until after lunch).

But now, with the stranger looking on — she can feel his interested and leering attention as he pours coffee over by the sideboard where the rolls and fruit are laid out — and with this new strangeness, this ‘same but different’ condition to her relationship with Him, she is once again lost, and freezes as she bends toward Him, only to give a little shriek when, tired of waiting, He tugs sharply at a pinch of her pubic curls;

“Wake up, Chloe! We have guests to please; go and tell Jake what’s on offer; beyond what he can see, of course — it may be that all he wants is your mouth but do let him know what the kitchen can do.”

And that’s how the morning goes: Chloe, half-naked to begin with and rather soon completely so, mind a fog, all certainty, all confidence lost to her, is sent from pillar to post, from one casual, teasing tormentor to another, them grinning at her confusion, grasping at her body, shaming her, entertaining themselves by having her trot in the high heels ‘Hurry, girl, hurry!’ as she is sent on one errand after another.

Only twice is she actually used for sex — it seems, from their banter, as if many of the men are as sore as she is — so provoked into sexual excess have they been by the chance to use a lovely young woman without restraint.

Both times, though, are intensely distressing for Chloe. The lustful, insane fog of orgy that had made things easier for her the previous night is gone, and today there is nothing but the knowledge of being used, of being abused, humiliated and demeaned.

Still, no matter how blackly soul-destroying it seems at moments, she finds it impossible not to obey, not to at least attempt a smile in response to a request, a demand, however hard it is to accept.

Being made to crawl beneath the table and take the tall, bony black guy’s long, thin cock into her mouth while he discussed oil prices and shipping risk with her man in his aristocratic drawl (he is apparently the son of an African president) was a long-drawn out torment, as he seemed more interested in having her serve him, in testing how deeply she can take him, than he was in climaxing — only doing so after her jaw was on fire with an ache worse than toothache, and her mascara was destroyed — charcoal tear tracks covering her cheeks. The proximity to her man — His apparent indifference to the thorough and degrading way in which she was being used, right next to Him, added to the torment.

Going back to the kitchen after that was unbearable. Facing Norah and Tabby (the cook), naked but for the high-heels, now, her face marked with mascara and gobs of come, she sobbed bitterly in front of them both and fell to her knees, whereupon Tabby took pity on her and wiped her face with a warm, damp cloth, telling her how pretty she was, how lucky the men were to have her, how her breasts were even lovelier than Tabby had imagined them to be, how jealous she was (Tabby was homely, a little overweight, no longer young, a worshipper of Him, knowing that He would never see her as more than a treasure of a cook, and sweetly heartbroken by that — Chloe had pitied her until yesterday, but was now infinitely grateful to be looked after). Rather soon, though, Tabby said;

“Off you go now pretty Chloe — you’ve a job to do, entertaining His guests — you mustn’t let him down!” and shooed her back to the morning room to clear dishes away.

In time, Tabby, too, will be sanctioned by Him to discipline Chloe, and her jealousy will make Chloe fear her spite as much as she finds herself able to dissolve into the woman’s tender care at other times. Eventually, Tabby works up the nerve to ask Him if she may command Chloe to service her with her mouth, at which He laughs out loud; ‘Tabby, that’s hilarious! The slut Chloe servicing my dumpling of a wonder-chef! But if course, feel free — whenever she’s not needed. Have a blast!’. Both Chloe and Tabby shed many tears as a result of His amusement — Tabby because his words once again crush her hopeless worship of the man — and Chloe because Tabby’s spite increases the viciousness of her punishments.

Collecting dishes is, of course, just one more opportunity for her arse to be slapped and for her to be detained by one man after another wanting to put his fingers in her pussy and hear her low cries and moans as he hurts or attempts to pleasure her (for Chloe, it is mostly hard to be sure which is intended).

The last of these — the small, quiet man who had remained somewhat on the sidelines the night before, asked her to take him to the gym, where he proceeded to act out some private fantasy, trapping her ankles and wrists with dumbbells and other weights while he fucked her. Whatever his fantasy was, he was unsatisfied with how it translated into practical reality, so that he became angry and mean, and bit her breasts savagely as he gave up on his botched fetish dream and simply rutted himself into her.

Chloe felt her heart must break as this sordid, pleasureless scene played itself out (so angry at himself is the man that he seems to find the thing as difficult as Chloe, so that she cannot even tell herself she is serving his pleasure), but still found herself without the slightest will to resist, weakly repeating back to him the shameful and ridiculous phrases he wants to hear from her lips, as she licks his cock clean afterward, wondering how she will be able to live with the shame of this, sure that He must reject her after this morning’s degradations.

A little later, Norah comes to find her, and without the slightest sympathy, nevertheless commands her calmly enough so that Chloe manages to rein in the weeping fit which had overtaken her once he had left her, still trapped by heavy weights. It had taken her several efforts at last to escape from these, while the tears ran down her face and her heart grew cold inside her.

The idealised, abstract version of Chloe — the whore and slut of this morning’s reverie — hard as that had been to contemplate, was turning out to be infinitely less troubling than the messy reality of being used by ordinary mortals, rather than her man. Her world seems grey and cold as Norah lays out a pretty, white, skimpy cotton sundress and suede wedge bootees for her while Chloe showers, and then efficiently takes over the application of make-up — announcing that from now on Chloe will be dressed, made-up, coiffured by others — so that her appearance will always be in accordance with His wishes. Chloe finds herself accepting this without question — as when earlier today He had laid down rules about underwear, it makes immediate sense — pointless even to debate, almost an announcement to be grateful for — however shocked her girlfriends would be to hear of such a thing.

She is led downstairs to stand beside Him as he takes leave of his guests, finding her spirits lifting just to be at his side, a stupidly glorious little burst of happiness exploding in her chest as He puts his hand up — inside the short skirts of the dress — to land proprietorially onto her ass cheek, cupping and grasping. A month previously, even, she would have found Him doing this in front of strangers completely unacceptable — would have been outraged; now she finds herself eager to have the others notice that, despite the way He has whored her to them, He still wants to possess her, claim her — as if this casual and intimate handling of her was a sacrament, a blessing.

When He tells them that he wants Chloe to thank each of them for ‘breaking her in’, as He puts it, she is painfully embarrassed, feels the humiliation eat into her like acid, but also rejoices in the way He claims her as His possession — He still wants her!

He has her kneel for each of them, kiss their shoes.

Then she is to stand and ask them if she may take their hands, one of which she places onto her sex, the other onto her breast, then, her hands clasped behind her, their hands on her body, foraging as each chooses, she is to offer;

“I hope I was able to please you, Sir, and I would be grateful if you would judge how satisfactory I was on a scale of ten. If … if it pleases you, I’d … I’d be grateful if you would kiss me while you’re judging me?”

Kissing these nasty, cruel men is the last thing she wants to do — and with this rating obviously having some significance, she knows she will be expected to make the kiss pleasing and sexual. Still less is it comfortable with Him watching (what could put a man off a girl more than seeing her kiss another man intimately — sexually and submissively?).

But there is no escape that will not let Him down, and so for each she leans in, offers her open lips, takes their tongues, their cigar-smoke flavour — takes what they push into her (fingers in her sex, tongues, spittle and in one case teeth in her mouth), works at being pleasing, seeking to discover just what each wants and to give it to them.

She kisses them as sweetly, as sexily, as intimately as she can bring herself to, wanting a good score. Trying hard, shamefully, to remind them of how it had been to fuck her.

It’s devastating, and tears keep coming, keep having to be blinked and brushed away — although she is careful to make herself smile sweetly at each of them as they release her to give her their rating. Rating her for how much pleasure she has been able to give them in her role as a helpless, submissive, frightened rape doll.

This short and outwardly superficial episode is the most degrading, the most devastating so far. It leaves her utterly bewildered, horrified at her own complicity, at her body’s response. For with each kiss, she had found herself giving. Giving; to these horrible, unattractive men — strangers to her; giving — and finding a part of her that wants to give — feeling herself open her thighs for them as she kisses them — inviting invasion of her openings, her body offering a welcome, an encouraging response, a promise, an open invitation to sex in the future — to being fucked on their terms, without reservation. All this was in her mind as she kissed them; thoughts she could not have imagined having just hours ago. Thoughts that, from the amused and condescending comments she hears from the others, are humiliatingly evident from her body language.

She gets two sevens, an eight, a six and a four (from the small man, whose smile is bitter and whose fingers deliver pain).

And now she can no longer hold back the tears, for all she makes herself stand well, keeps a smile on her face, makes herself as pretty as she can manage (what else does she have control over now, beyond how she can hold her body for them through these ordeals?) — but the tears flow, soft and sad. At the same time her chest rises and falls — her breathing deep and gusty, as strong emotions possess her — and it’s impossible to deny that one of these emotions is lust — raw and hungry lust.

She would like to be fucked. Fucked by all of them, if that’s what they want, all her holes — last night, all over again. She is ready to go to her knees and offer herself, if He should ask her to. Appalled that this can be true, feeling their eyes on her, sure that they can see just how affected she is, just how vulnerable. Praying they can’t. Praying that they can. In practice, just standing there — because who will fuck her, when, and how, is no longer up to her, is it? And He is speaking.

“Gentlemen, I make that 32 of a possible 50 — meaning that Chloe gets 18 with the whip; neatly enough, that makes three from each of us. She’ll be fitted with a jaw opener, and her mouth will be available while she takes the whip — something of a special experience, I suggest, if the idea takes you; and of course no risk of teeth when she takes a hit!”

Laughter all round.

Chloe is helplessly, agonisingly compliant while the jaw-opener is applied (she has no ideas of her own, not one — has become a sex doll in reality it seems, at least for the moment) — some ugly metal contraption around her neck, with rubberised plates top and bottom between her molars on each side, that when cranked forces her jaws apart; utterly irresistible — horrible to experience — Chloe wants to cry but again wills herself not to. She is blindfolded, her wrists are tied behind her back (while other hands are at her, belly, groin, mouth and breasts), before she is spun round roughly a few times until she has no idea who is where. Abruptly, without ceremony, she is simply bent forward for a cock to be stuffed between her cranked-open lips, then straight into her throat without finesse. Her skirts are pulled up, tucked into the tie at her wrists so that they will stay up, and …

‘sss-thakkK’ — she screams around the meat in her throat, bucks and jerks ineffectually, held as she is by several sets of strong hands. She wants to bite, to expel the cock, to run from the …

‘sssss-thakkKK’ — from the impossible searing pain of the whip, but simply cannot, as …

‘ssssss-thakkKKK’ — an even more awful blow lands, the men holding her arms and using their feet to hook her ankles apart keeping her in position while the man in her mouth spurts his come, filling her mouth her even as she is screaming, so that she begins to choke, helplessly.

No allowance at all is made for this — they are eager now, laughing, bantering with each other; she is nothing but a vehicle for their fun as she is spun a little, a new cock in her mouth and a new hand steadying her arse for the whip (she has no idea who it might be), and, impossibly, it all happens again…

… and then again.

She is all but unable to breathe now, so much come has been deposited into her throat, and she is full-on hysterical, writhing and bucking, so that those who are holding her need to exert real force (the bruises on her upper arms last ten days).

A bucket of water is brought and her head forced into it. At first she is eager for the chance to drink, to wash out her mouth, but then it becomes clear that there is to be no mercy — she needs to breathe, but cannot — her head is held beneath the waterline, and with her mouth held open, water is constantly threatening to slip into her windpipe. Horribly, then, a cock works its way into her pussy, which has tightened and clenched in response to the whip. It hurts, but whoever it is persists (she can hear him shouting — it’s hurting him as well) — until he pulls out long enough for a spit covered set of fingers attempts to improve the situation and then the cock is rammed back, sawing into her; thankfully for only a few seconds as he comes quickly, pounding against her sore buttocks.

Only then, as she feels she must black out, is the bucket lowered and air restored. The hysterics are gone, suppressed by the fear of drowning, but there is no respite as she is spun again.

“Rip her dress off, will you — I want her naked — see how her tits swing when the whip bites”

The fat one’s voice. Against all reason, she feels safe, somehow — perhaps he is going to whip her, but of all of them, she has had almost a conversation with him, had her orgasm with him. She is happy that he wants to see her breasts, and finds herself holding herself as best she can for them as they rip and tear at the flimsy dress. It’s gone in seconds, her arms are tightly gripped, a hand grabs at her sex from underneath as she is bent over, and two fingers are pushed into her, curling, making her yelp through the jaw-spreader — is he looking for her G-spot?

“Give it to her hard, now — I want to feel it through her pussy.”

Laughter and approving banter, while Chloe feels black dread rising at the thought of more pain, and bucks against the fingers that are rummaging inside her with no more finesse than if her pussy was a cutlery drawer.

‘sssss-thakkKK’ ‘sssss-thakkKK’ ‘sssss-thakkKK’

Three in succession, hard; with no cock in her throat, her screams are full throated but inchoate, the awful thing in her mouth making her sound foreign even to herself, tragic, hardly human even; full of despair and helplessness.

“Did you feel much?”

“Not really — best was the way she would jerk as it landed — I think she probably hurt her pussy on my hand, then — so I guess you could call it value for money, except she damn near broke my hand…”

Laughter.

A hand in her hair pulls at her then; hard, painful, making her cry out — she is dragged — outside, from the change in the air on her body. She is crying raggedly, lost in despair, as, pulled along with her head kept firmly at waist height, her entire attention is required if she is not to fall (she is mindlessly desperate not to fall; in her raw vulnerability, the slightest scraps of remaining dignity are as precious to her as oxygen). Her breasts jounce wildly as she is hustled across the gravel of the driveway, and terror rises as she wonders; where to, now?

A sudden halt, then new outrage impinges; thrown onto a car bonnet, her ankles are pulled up; into the air, backward, apart — she is forced to fall forward until she’s lying, face-down, her bound hands behind her back, the metalwork cold on her belly and breasts, her legs split wide, a terrible feeling of powerlessness and vulnerability as she is chaotically pushed and pulled around (confused orders and advice shouted; excited laughter — an air of slightly feverish anticipation) until, with a horrible shock, she feels slick, cold metal at her sex and shrieks in outrage.

Chloe’s outrage is, of course, highly entertaining and just what they want from her, so that her shrieks bring nothing but an intensification and renewed effort towards their goal; her shoulders are lifted, her hips are clumsily jammed forward and whatever it is enters her at a skewed angle with bruising force, making her shriek, forcing her to wriggle — to work herself now to in order to accommodate the hard, cold shape, which feels so huge and awkward inside her, with the minimum of pain.

It’s insane, but undeniable — there is a large, cold, metal something pushing outrageously into her soft, tender pussy; now her whole body revolts; she rejects the invader from the depth of her soul, bucks and jerks wildly, grunting and screeching hoarsely, the jaw spreader preventing her from forming any words, dehumanised, reduced to the condition of a wild animal, trapped, tighly held by strong hands, controlled. Her movements only increase the awfulness of the penetration, immovable and hard as it is, and confirm just how weak she is,in the hands of these brutes,so that very soon, already exhausted from the multiple struggles and atrocities of the last 18 hours, she is defeated, her despair a wrenching agony, hearing for herself how distorted and inhuman are the noises she is making — the hated spreader making it impossible for her to communicate.

Held fast by her ankles, thighs spread obscenely wide, pulled into the front of the car, lying face down over the bonnet, she is appallingly impaled, the hood ornament (it must be) stretching her, hurting her, sobbing weakly, broken.

Hands reach over — at least the awful spreader is being removed;

“We want to hear you scream and beg now, pretty.”

Her weak;

“No… no … please … please get it out of me, please …” is ignored, though, and now the whip comes again, harder than before — laid on with real force;

‘whwhSSSS–thWacKK!’

Her scream is a banshee wail, but elicits no pity; only amused exclamations, approval and encouragement for the man behind her (she still has no idea which of them it might be), who lays it on again;

‘whwhSSSS–thWacKK!’

She is begging, babbling, pleading — the involuntary jerking of her hips, the vain writhing of her body as it attempts somehow to avoid the blows only bringing added misery from the appalling invasion of the metal in her sex — which also serves to fix her in place — so that she is effectively fucking herself on the cold metal dildo of the car while being whipped — and she can’t, can’t hold herself still — her body will not do nothing in the knowledge of another terrible swipe of the whip — keeps on with its futile attempts at escape, so that she cannot stop herself from fucking the car.

One of them makes a comment to this effect and she wants to die of shame as the laughter spreads.

‘whwhSSSS–thWacKK!’

Pain trumps shame and she screams again, begs again;

“Please, please … anything … please … no … no more, I … I beg you … anything?”

“The problem for you pussy, is that you’ve done everything we want already. And right now, this is what we want. Last three strikes though, so it’ll be over soon.”

Another voice;

“Not quite that soon — I’m going to see how she takes it in the ass, held like that. I’ve never double teamed with a car before — still less a Jaguar!”

She realises from the voice that it’s the small man, but before the meaning of this hits her, there’s a cold drip of something at her already torn anus, the hurt from which has been a dull fire all day, and which now erupts into new agony as a dick which feels as if it must be a firehose is pushed into her ass. Later, she remembers that the small man’s dick is small, too — that it was the combination of the leaping chromed jaguar embedded in her sex and the extreme soreness from the previous night’s usage which had magnified the sensation. The explanation does nothing to lessen the wrenching awfulness of the memory — of an experience which at times she feels defines her.

It’s not as searingly painful as being whipped, but the psychic impact is immeasurable.

He fucks her slow, as hard as he can, and this time it’s working for him; his pace increases gradually, as he mouths a continual torrent of crude abuse at her under his breath, working himself deeper and deeper into her asshole, grinding her pussy onto the metal beast that skewers her, she emitting hoarse cries of anguish at every stroke, otherwise silent, keening softly, feeling with dread a familiar warmth building, unasked, unwanted, in her groin as he works her. It’s not that she is going to come — that’s a million miles off — but that she feels a sexual heat at all appals her. She can’t hide it, either — no matter how desperately she wishes she could, the events of the last half hour have left her unable to control anything at all — not even the tenor of her gasps and moans, the movement of her hips, and the change is noted.

“She likes it, the cunt — she fucking likes it — listen to her — its turning her on, being fucked like this. Jesus what a fucking slut!”

He reaches down, then, his fingers clumsy as he mauls her clit — but to some effect — she lets out a soft, long wail of shamed intensity that brings more laughter and a loud wolf whistle.

“He’s fuckin’ it — Neil is fucking it right — and it fucking likes it!” comes a shout.

When at last he comes, bucking hard into her, rapid jerks of his thighs making her cry out as her sore pussy is mashed into the metal cat and his fingers crush her clit, she knows that if he had been able to hold out longer, caressed her breasts a little, been a little more careful with her clit, she might have been unable to hold back an orgasm, and the knowledge eats into her.

Somehow the last three, awful stripes from the whip seem fitting — appropriate — necessary even — even though each has her crying out brokenly.

At last, they let go, and she slumps to the ground, still blindfolded, wrists tied, naked, on her knees in the sharp gravel, abandoned; crying softly, helplessly, almost gently, ignored as bantering goodbyes are said and cars crunch across the driveway. The Jaguar engine throbs to life right next to her and she jerks in shock, crying out, nerves shot, to patronising laughter, and then it, too, is rolling away, engine a suppressed, throaty roar. The car that fucked her.

Read the next part of Moving Her On