You will want to have read Moving her On, Pt.2 before reading this. Trust me.
After a while, it’s quiet. Her knees are screaming from the gravel that is grinding into them — they’ve been screaming for some time, she realises, without her paying attention, so lost has she been in the aftermath of her degradation — the hurt in her mind blotting out everything else, the shame sending her into shut-down.
She’s ruined, she thinks. He asked her to ruin herself, for his entertainment, and she let it happen. No-one could want a slut who allowed herself to be used that way — not as anything but a cheap whore, at least. No-one could look at her again without feeling disgust, shame — pity at best.
She feels disgust, shame and pity for herself.
Maybe she deserves the pain.
A low, soft wailing, gradually growing in intensity, ragged edges in the sound making it ugly — some strange machine? Wild animal? It’s distressing in its rawness, intensity; if you let it be an emotion you were hearing you would imagine the person had been subjected to some unimaginable horror — something beyond processing, beyond resilience, something scarring.
My god that’s me. Me, making that terrible noise. Me. He’s killed me. Might as well have done. He’s gone. Left me here. Doesn’t want me any more. Why would he? I don’t want myself. Dirty whore.
Gradually, then, the tears come, and the wailing fades.
A little later, the sun lower in the sky, the tears subside. She has moved a little, to relieve the pain from her knees, but somehow, blindfolded, wrists locked at her back, naked but for high heels with ankle strap, tear-stained, hair matted, thighs sticky with half dried come, she is too ashamed, too defeated to move far.
After a while, there was nothing but emptiness; any thought at all was going to be painful; the peace of the large garden as afternoon drew on, the darkness imposed by the blindfold, and the helplessness imposed by the cuffs, all were strangely welcome.
She was nothing, worth nothing, could do nothing, and would be nothing.
Men would fuck her — use her softest places in the hardest of ways, and she would do nothing to stop them; in fact, she would open herself for them. They would hurt her, too — for sport, for fun; make her scream, cry out, degrade herself. This too, she would accept, it seems.
Best not to think about it.
Perhaps an hour, a perhaps longer passed like this, in vacancy, without hope — yet another new and hard experience for Chloe, whose life until now has always been composed of joyfully felt incident, of liveliness, of looking to the next moment with interested anticipation and welcome.
It is new to her to be so still, to have been stilled — to simply exist, anticipating nothing, and looking forward to nothing.
It is awful — because at the heart of that nothing is fear — fear of what new infamy another moment might bring — of the feeling that her life has been given over to infamy — that she is now, by her own consent, subject to unending degradation, and that she will never find the strength — or even the desire — to ask for her life back; to move again towards hope, light, the possibility of joy. That she has chosen instead the route of pain, of shame, of infamy, all in the service of that sick twisting need in her belly.
At this thought (for of course thought has crept back in by the back door, as it always does), it occurs to her that her position is ugly — slumped. Had she not vowed to herself earlier that day never to fail to do all she can to present herself as desirable — as fuckable? Since this is what she can do, even if all else has been somehow disallowed (just how is it, she wonders, that she has been so comprehensively, so effectively disempowered, in so short a time, and without a struggle?).
She pulls herself together, up onto her knees, pulls her shoulders back, opens her thighs, ( make my tits more obvious, open my cunt ) and bites back the tears that immediately threaten — the consequence, just as she had foreseen, of thinking (and the renewed fierce pain at her poor knees — curiously welcome). After a few seconds, she decides, also, to open her mouth, and use her tongue tip to wet her lips. She knows there is no-one there. It just seems necessary. This is what my life will become.
And now, into the silence, come the sense memories. The helplessness as she was mounted onto the car’s hood ornament; the atrociousness of being whipped with a cock deep in her throat, the vile spreader forcing her jaw open; the terror of being fucked and threatened with drowning at the same time, the brutal hands making her struggles useless; the awfulness of being trapped naked in the gym room, come all over her face, the outcome of a sex act that was the opposite of love-making in every possible way.
Also (and, really, different in what sense?), the fierce eagerness in her body for sex after the degrading kissing session; the glorious, shattering delirium of her orgasm the night before; the sweetness she had felt this morning as the fat man had raped her throat.
Knowing that there are people in the world, people whose names she does not even know, who saw her respond that way.
And then, most powerful of all — most difficult to accept, the feeling of lust that had stirred in her groin as she was being ass fucked, the metal Jaguar rampaging inside her sex, hurting her at random, the shame of them seeing her move for it, that they had known just why she was moving so, the knowledge that the experience was in some sense wonderful to her. That it was her, sweet little chirpy Chloe, who was at the boiling centre of that event — that it was her who was being destroyed, that her submission was what gave the event its focus, its meaning.
The reality that a part of her wants to made to come like that, watched by strangers, whipped, taken all the way, forced to show just what a slut she really is, to be destroyed by a public orgasm under such conditions. That there would be a kind of glory in such debasement.
That she has even allowed this thought to exist in her, that she knows it carries a truth brings on fresh and desperate tears, and she is about to curl into a foetal ball once again, when there is a sound.
Footsteps in the gravel.
Immediate and horrible fear. Pain and shame have followed every change for the past day, and Chloe, blindfolded, chained, naked, cold, on her knees in that degrading pose, has to muster her few remaining resources not to crumple and cower from whatever is coming.
She is horribly conscious of the dried tracks of come — and probably blood, too, that she can feel tightening the skin of her thighs, and of the wreckage of her hair and makeup. The idea that she has nothing, nothing at all in this situation but her sexual invitation, and that that invitation is currently low grade, grinds into her.
The desire to give way to tears is all but overwhelming, and she trembles visibly as the footsteps arrive at her side, forcing herself to stay upright, to control herself.
“Well at least you’ve made some attempt — but really, you’re a scummy mess, girl. Come, up with you! We haven’t long before He wants you presented, and there’s much to be achieved, if He is not to dismiss you on sight.”
It is Norah, and once again her powerful certainty and instant command are some sort of lifeline — the price of which, of course, is instant compliance, and so from somewhere Chloe finds the strength to stand.
Norah doesn’t see fit to remove the blindfold, or provide any scrap of clothing, so that Chloe is steered back to the house by a bony hand in her hair at the nape of her neck, just as she is; naked, filthy, trembling, stained with both come and tears. The act of walking flexes the skin of her buttocks, and pain blossoms there — sharp at first, then deeper, more intense as she walks, and she imagines the disfiguring weals which must now mar her skin, the story of degradation and shame that they tell.
She finds herself pathetically grateful to be controlled — not to have to choose what to do next; at the same time, she is horribly humiliated at having fallen so far, so fast, that she is being controlled by a servant, that she has accepted that she has been made to march along in such a state, without even a murmur of dissent.
The idea that He wants her to be presented is at once terrifying and glorious.
She has had in the back of her mind the idea that the atrocities He has arranged were perhaps a way of announcing the end of their relationship with extreme finality — that perhaps she would be bundled into a taxi, sent away; disposed of. Even if that is to happen, it seems that she will see Him at least once more.
Now that she knows she is to see Him, a desperate urgency grows in her gut, to do all that she can to convince Him to keep her, worthless as she is — to agree to anything, any outrage, any debasement, any conditions, if He will consent to keep her — for even a short time.
It’s crazy, though, surely? To want to be with Him? Even if He didn’t actually do this to her — didn’t force her, it is still certain that He has carefully, over time, manipulated her so that she would accept, would entrap herself, would make it impossible for herself to escape this terrible violation, this destruction that has been wrought upon her.
So why be with Him? Surely nothing but further degradation can come of it? But then, slut that she is, will she not glory in degradation? And in any case, is degradation worse than infinite grey nothingness? A life spent in the state she was in, kneeling in the gravel, desolate — a life to be spent in the aftermath of a cruel public gang-bang and whipping, without resources with which to move on?
Oh, but the unbearable thought of further humiliation!
It’s all too hard; tears threaten, her knees wobble. Panic rises — gives her the energy of necessity. She cannot fall, cannot collapse! Not now! It’s too dangerous. The need for Him is real, even if it is insane, self-destructive. It seems as if she is surrounded by pain, fear and confusion, and she lacks all strength, has lost faith in herself. He is the one person who knows what is going on with her — knows it better than herself, evidently, since He has been able to bring her to this unimaginable position so smoothly…
Again, she wants to fall to the floor, curl in on herself and wait for death. It’s too hard! The shame is too much! I’ve been raped and whipped, and I didn’t fight it, I’m naked, hurting; I’m scummy, blindfolded and cuffed, being taken into some part of the house by Norah — who it turns out is not a friend at all, and I’m so fucking confused and why … why doesn’t He come?
Of course, there is no answer, no help, no respite. There is nothing to to but continue.
Norah leads her, not upstairs, but to the back of the house, as far as Chloe can tell, past the kitchen; to the servant’s wing, perhaps?
But when the blindfold is removed, they are in a large, white room — it’s not the servant’s quarters — she’d been mistaken — it’s the spa room; the sensation of disorientation is profound — another rug pulled from under her, another deep doubt as to the validity of her perceptions sown (not deliberate, on this occasion — Norah had simply taken the route that made sense to her — through the servant’s wing, and then, through a door of which Chloe was unaware, into the health wing. If Norah had removed the blindfold in the driveway, this confusion would not have occurred. Keeping the pretty short of information, as a principle, His father had taught Him, produces this sort of disorientation as a continuing condition — makes it seem, to the pretty, as if her judgement is often faulty, undermining her self-reliance, increasing her dependence on, and increasing her need for, external validation and direction — a key reason for the practice).
Norah is in front of her, looking directly into her eyes, a small smile on her lips;
“I’m going to clean you up, get you presentable again, little slut; and then you’ll have a choice to make. Until then, please, let me help you. Which I can do best if you will simply let me do what I need to do, by complying and enabling me in my work. By serving me so that I can serve Him.”
“More simply; I am taking control of your body now; you will park your ego and your will, and simply do what you can to help me.”
This statement, in the context of the events of the last twenty four hours, is rather mild — but still, in its bald brusqueness, coming from a servant, it seems to require challenging, and without thinking, Chloe looks up, directly into Norah’s face for the first time, and her mouth opens to … to say … say, what, exactly?
Faced with Norah’s bland and lightly challenging smile, her microscopically raised eyebrow, the quick glance downward, as if to ascertain that Chloe is indeed a naked, scum-stained mess, make-up smeared across her face, hair matted with semen, her breasts marked with bruises and by teeth, sex puffy and rubbed raw in places, her wrists still cuffed behind her — faced with all this, Chloe can find no words, and is instead taken over by a certainty that she should be frightened of Norah. Instead, she hears herself say;
“Yes … yes, of … of course, Norah. P … please … … I … I mean … Th-thank you?”
This pathetic, humiliating little speech, which tails off into embarrassed murmuring is, it seems, acceptable — Norah grins at her, sneering a little, enjoying her power, and immediately takes Chloe in hand; strips her of what remains of her clothing and her shoes, but leaves the cuffs in place.
Chloe, who expected that the cuffs would come off, too, something that as soon as it seemed likely became an urgent necessity — so horribly humiliating it is — the continuous urge to use her hands — the constant experience of her movements being brought short, of being helpless, has become so grating that when it becomes clear that she is not to be freed she exclaims out loud, flexes her arms to bring attention to them, jerks her body a little — not much — she dares not speak — but a protest, nevertheless.
Norah laughs at her — a patronising laugh, but not really cruel; she seems almost kind as she reaches out with one hand to cup Chloe’s cheek, and lifts her chained wrists out to the side.
“No, these aren’t coming off yet, pretty. They’ve done a good job, in any case. Just imagine how messed up these nails would be, if you’d been fighting and thrashing against the boys without them. But that’s not the real point. Later, you’ll see, how much harder it gets when He expects you to accept such abuse without the cuffs — and still not use your hands. That will short circuit what’s left of your self-respect, I can tell you. So you should be grateful to be cuffed, pretty, even if it is hard — for there will come a time when you will drop to your knees without a moment’s hesitation to beg to be chained — when it will break your heart to know that you are not going to be cuffed. When you are made to learn to chain yourself — to chain yourself with your own mind.”
It is clear to Chloe that Norah means this with great seriousness — she seems to be speaking from experience, and the images conjured up by her words make Chloe tremble, lower her head, concentrating yet again on keeping herself upright, on not crying, not letting despair conquer her.
The woman is so calm, so in control — she’s seen this before, seems to be telling Chloe that it can be yet more extreme, seems to alternate her enjoyment of power of Chloe with sympathy… Has she? Has He, really, done this before? with other girls? Is this … is this worse than she’d feared? Horrible ideas come to her then from movies, sick, insane shit, but surely what has happened here today is already sick, already insane, so …? Is … is this … kidnap … murder … white slavery?
She begins to whimper, tremble; her eyes ask questions of Norah, wide and frightened, but she cannot speak.
Norah sees immediately what is going on; her smile broadens, she lets the moment last, until it seems Chloe will start to struggle, go into a hard panic, before she speaks, reaching out to put a hand in the girl’s hair, pull her head to one side — change the dynamic;
“That’s enough, girly. Stop. Don’t make this something it isn’t. Yes — crazy shit has been done to you; yes, it’s been cruel, degrading and abusive; yes, it’s far, far beyond acceptable. But think; everything that has happened has happened because you went along with it. Wild though it got, you knew what you were letting yourself in for. He told you in advance. Nothing more will happen to you if you don’t want it to. Think about it — did you ever say ‘stop’? Say ‘No — I don’t want this’?”
“In any case — they’ve gone. He wants to see you. You need to have a chance to look your best, to get dressed again. I’m going to help you. That’s all. Then you can talk to Him about what happens next.”
“Your bags are all packed — as they were yesterday morning. They’re in the hall. There’s an envelope there, too, with a big slab of cash. If you want to go, right now, just tell me, I’ll remove the cuffs and call the cab firm. You won’t see Him again.”
Again, Chloe trusts Norah’s sincerity without even thinking about it. The woman is calm, unruffled, obviously sure.
The last thing Chloe feels is calm, but her breathing has slowed, the trembling has reduced, her heart is no longer pounding in her ears. It is a little while, though, before she trusts herself to speak;
“He … He wants to … to talk to me?”
“Yes. Talk. He’ll feed you too; I’m sure you’re hungry…”
Chloe hasn’t thought about food for hours, but as soon as she hears this, she becomes aware of how ravenously hungry she is. But more urgent than this is the idea of speaking with Him — talking. If … if He will talk to her than … then perhaps she can … can find some way of … of making all this … this cruel insanity have some sense to it — it can’t — it can’t surely be what it seems to be?
Deep down, Chloe knows it probably is exactly what it seems to be — perverted, sadistic and abusive sexual fantasies being played out with her as the ensnared victim. Nothing more, nothing less, with all the awfulness such a reality suggests. But … not to give Him one chance — one more chance to somehow explain, justify … ?
She should go. Take the offer. Take it, right now; no more thinking. Take the money. She must go. Go and see a lawyer tomorrow. Have this outrage cleaned up, dealt with, make Him pay. Make this bitch pay, too, for enabling Him. Make those swine pay, too, for raping her, for beating her, degrading her, putting her on that … that thing…
Norah sees all this in the girl’s eyes, sees it; remembers her own many, many similar episodes. She feels for the girl deeply — with her own sense memory, and at the same time, having long ago accepted her own perverted self, she is happy to allow herself to find it deeply pleasurable to be an intimate witness to such agony of indecision, the outcome of which she knows for certain will be the agony that follows on, of weak capitulation, of submission, of the dreadful guilt that complicity in one’s own corruption brings.
As so often at times like this, the savage pleasure of the moment is bittersweet with intense sense memories of Norah’s own upending, her own subjugation at the hands of His father; of her own long and lonely nights of sobbing torment and stone despair.
Had it been the best or the worst thing in her life when, at the age of 25, only just at the beginning of her breaking in, she had been given to Him as an 18th birthday present? Not the real birthday present, which had been a powerful Ducati motorcycle — but as a casual afterthought, offhand; late in the aftermath of the family birthday party, her Master and the birthday boy, talking, slightly drunk, Norah all but naked, on her knees, the Master’s cock filling her throat, her thighs shamefully split apart, her hips pushed up as she has been trained (‘offer yourself for fucking at all times’), Master leaning forward, pulling her pussy lips around, talking to the boy about how he’d have her pierced and tattooed there, how he’d begun to stretch her anal ring, she still innocent enough to feel the humiliation of the son see her used like this burning as if it were hot acid.
Her Master had suddenly pulled her off his cock, a hand in her hair; ‘Tell you what, boy, why don’t you take this one and finish her training? There’s a new crop of interns in the office and the redhead scores highly in interesting ways, as well as being a sweet and luscious fuck — cries brokenly after she comes, the mixed-up little slut; big, firm apple titties on her, too, cute freckles all over them; just made for the dog-whip.’
‘She’ll need concentrating on for a while — a complicated little thing, and this Norah is tougher inside than you might think, seeing her now. The pretties needs work, focus, you know — you can’t hope to get them trained right without it. You’d have to be up for that — never let her have a thought to herself — take her down a notch every day, let her see you do it, let her know she couldn’t resist, let her see what it’s done to her — work at it. Fucks like a goddess, this Norah, no problem there; always hot for it, the little cunt; I’m certain she can be taken way, way down, but there’s a steel core in there somewhere that needs dealing with — needs twisting around until it comes to be what holds her down. Don’t look so doubtful — it’ll be tricky, but you’ll handle her; I’ll talk you through it, and then you’ll have an eager, helpless little cunt eating out of your hand for as long as you want her. Not such a bad present for a boy your age, come to think of it.
It had been worse than ‘tricky’. The next months had been utterly devastating for the younger Norah (hard for her new owner, too, if not quite as devastating). Emotionally, psychologically lost, convinced that she was incapable of having an independent life, abandoned by the greedy demon of a man that had captured her — the man she still thought of as her Master, she was in torment (the Master still occasionally uses her as sex doll on his visits, as of right, without a second thought, if he has come without a girl in tow, and neither Norah or his son make the slightest thing of it — as if Norah, naked, being buggered, on her knees, moaning, whip marks on her breasts while the two men watch baseball in the den is a normal occurrence. Nor is any overt notice taken of the deep depression that grips her for weeks afterward. It’s just something that happens).
She had been given to a young man still discovering His own way, still coming to terms with the savour of cruelty — still shocked himself at the implications of His desires, and inexperienced in acting them out; horribly unsure of how to square His kinks with living well in a world which declared them unacceptable, more aware than His father of the relations between social injustice and personal kink (all women were ‘fair game’ to His father — who cared nothing when he misjudged some young woman whom he hoped to enslave and found she was not the type. He would just write a cheque, get an NDA and move on, leaving the wreckage behind him). His son was concerned not to blunder about the world quite so crudely — to find a way to have what His desire demanded without taking so many risks, without causing so much destruction.
None of this nicety of intent helped poor Norah in the slightest. The young man did indeed focus a great deal of attention on her; He was at that age rather beautiful, well made, and vigorous — she had no trouble accepting Him as a lover, and quickly came to like Him, but the free man/sex doll dynamics were at times excruciating — not because her subjugation was proceeding, but because it was being botched. He was sometimes tender, friendly, entertaining, looking for fun, and then at others crude, mean and sadistic. At times she had contemplated awful things — ending His life, or her own, or both of theirs. He had never given up though; He had listened to his father and, most impressively, He had paid enormous attention to her, to the young woman He was supposed to be the uncaring captain of; He had looked into her eyes, He had studied her when she did not know He was there, He had made her answer countless searching questions, made her talk about sex, about the experience of being whipped, about how it was for her to be whored to strange men, what it felt like to allow Him to deprive her of air with his cock, to refrain from beating Him off with her hands, to not use her teeth on Him, even though her body was reacting as though death were imminent; how it was for her when His father walked in, unannounced, flipped her face down and pile-drivered into her asshole as if it were Saddam’s bunker while all but dislocating her shoulders as he yanked her onto his cock by the elbows.
And He had learned. She had learned, too — until at one point she began to think that it was she who might master Him — that she could see just how to make Him worship her, as she was coming to worship Him, to begin to entertain stupid notions of a life together with Him, as a couple — a strange couple, perhaps; wildly perverse and transgressive, maybe, but still, a life where she might be something other than a helpless possession, a toy whose value depended upon its capacity to entertain, worthy of nothing beyond that.
Bitter, too, the end of those silly dreams, when — as with Chloe this last day — He had arranged a surprise gang-bang for his college buddies — some of whom had brought their girlfriends, too, to watch the show. Young and dumb as the friends mostly were, the gang-bang had been fairly vanilla; distressing, shaming and rough, but liveable with. What broke her was the conversation after the guests had left; when He had laid out just how it was going to be for her. When He had truly become her owner — telling her openly that He understood what she was thinking about, that He was flattered, had considered himself how it might be to accept her as an equal, but that He had decided against it. That instead, she would spend the next semester naked, in chains, whipped daily between her legs and on her breasts, that she would be delivered each evening, in some skimpy dress, to the fraternity house his friends belonged to, where she would be both useful and used for a few hours before being collected and returned to her cell. If she was still wanting to be with Him after that, she could learn to be his housemaid, be on hand to fuck His friends and His father too, as needed. But He’d pay her a proper salary and would not use her himself. He was done with slave girls, He had said — ‘until I catch one for myself’.
Bitter it was — soul-destroying; rejected by both father and son, even as they had achieved her submission, but still, He had conquered her that night. In utter despair, she had put up no resistance to the plan, and, without caring, had been finally, definitively domesticated by the fraternity semester, and has been with Him ever since, in one way or another, although He has never again used her sexually. It turned out that the key to the twisting of her inner resilience had to been to get her to fall in love with Him. He hadn’t seen it, hadn’t planned it; it had just happened, but it had done exactly what the old man had said it would — bound her to Him by her own inner core of steel.
Like an old tree blasted by lightning while still a sapling, Norah is tough, a survivor, but deeply, irremediably twisted. She stays with Him for many reasons (not least among them the access to lovely girls like Chloe), but even if all those reasons were taken from her, she would still stay because she is as convinced as the night her Master broke her that she would not last a year outside His shelter, that without His control she would spin out of connection with the world, lose herself in madness, or drugs, or prostitution, or simply end herself. Despite everything, Norah still wants to live.
Norah looks at Chloe, her smile growing ever more twisted, seething with jealousy. For she can see that this sweet thing, helpless and vulnerable as she is at this moment, has her own steel core, and has a feeling that this girl might be the one He has been waiting for; the one He can take all the way.
If it falls out that way, she thinks, she might well take up the Master’s offer — go and be his in his last years. Be needed again. Have a simple life, naked, on her knees — and get fucked, a lot (the old man is determined to die from a heart attack while fucking, and takes the blue pills as if they are sweeties). While here, if Chloe is going to become a permanent fixture, the house guests won’t be as easy to seduce any more; Norah is under no illusions that she can compete with Chloe.
There’s a long silence. Norah thinks Chloe is like a deer after a chase, the hunters no longer nearby; she’s hyper-wary, jumpy, prone to startle at anything, but wanting, wanting badly for the wildness to be over, hoping she can go back to life as it was.
The girl’s eyes close for a long, long moment, then,
“I … I’m sorry. Please … please, carry on with me. I … I’ll try to do what you want me to.”
Norah lets the words hang in the air for a while. Both women feel that something momentous has happened.
Soft, unusually tentative, Norah’s finger lift’s Chloe’s chin; her voice is soft and low, too;
“You are very lovely, Chloe, and you have a lovely soul, too. Your sweet naiveté comes from this loveliness, I know, not from any lack of intelligence or insight … And so I know that you know very well what it will mean for you to stay — not in detail of course — but in outline. I know that you know this.”
“I … I am his … creature. And so I want what He wants — I want you to let Him take you. I … I am a cruel and twisted woman; full of darkness — the opposite of your pretty, golden lightness. I will enjoy seeing you used, seeing you diminished, simplified. I will use you and diminish you myself, if I am allowed.”
“But … but you … you have only one life, and you are so young — you have hardly lived at all. You might be surprised, but girls like us — vulnerable, with a little twist of our own, open to persuasion; women He knows how to recognise and how to take down — we are not so rare, not so hard to find, and He knows how to look.”
“If you leave, now, He will have another one within months. Your heart may hurt, but it will heal, and you will have a chance at life. Perhaps a less exciting life, perhaps missing some spark, but without the crushing of hope. He will not be concerned in the slightest if you leave — He has had great fun with you already — He will learn from you and follow up some other prospects — He met a very lovely Czech girl the other week whom He has already booked for a date and so yo …”
“… stop …”
Chloe’s voice is unsteady, desperate, almost hoarse, but very intense, very urgent, very serious;
“… please. Please, stop … I … I know you … you’re being kind, and … “
She falters, cannot speak; Norah is patient, seeing that, when she had gone against her instinct — when she had thought about Chloe’s interests for once, and tried to give the girl more choice — felt as if she might even be betraying His interests, what she has actually done is entrapped the girl more. Her twisted smile returns, faintly. She begins to understand how He is so good at this.
She waits.
And is rewarded; Chloe’s pretty face seems to register a whole series of fleeting, intense emotions, her elegant hands clench and unclench behind her, her head twists, back and forth, tiny, urgent motions; her mouth works, her jaw, too, and eventually, she manages to speak;
“Oh! … but … it … it is hard enough already, and you’re just making it … harder … so … please can … can you just … c…carry on? Please? Do it to me? Whatever… whatever He wants?”
After this, Norah quickly becomes rather coldly functional and hard in her treatment of Chloe as she is prepared.
Chloe somehow understands that this is not cruelty (she will, later, experience plenty of cruelty at Norah’s hands) — right now she would find kindness, softness, impossible to bear, so that in fact Norah is making things as easy as she can for Chloe now, by removing all choice from her world.
Chloe does not properly look Norah in the face again for weeks. The woman’s presence always reminds her of this moment. Of her unforced submission, with no possibility of blaming His reality distortion effect. If anything, it had seemed for a moment there that Norah was trying to scare her off, to encourage her to leave, to escape. Norah had seen her submission, had seen Chloe reject her advice, pass up the chance of freedom. In front of Norah, there was no pretence possible. Norah had seen Chloe consent to be degraded. No, not ‘consent’, that was the wrong word. Norah had seen Chloe choose; had seen her make the choice which she knew, deep down, would condemn her to a life of enforced fuckings, whips, humiliations, degradation and despair. Norah, of anyone on the planet, knew how easy it had been to get Chloe to accept this future. For Chloe, looking into Norah’s eyes was unbearable.
After that, the preparations go smoothly; Chloe is all pretty, helpless, compliant meekness.
After a shower, in cold water, scrubbed rather than rubbed, she is first fitted with a collar to match the cuffs, wide stainless steel bands, cut to pretty filigree patterns for lightness, but clearly strong enough and to spare, each backed with soft, resilient black neoprene, so that they can be worn indefinitely without chafing.
Then come light but strong ankle and belly chains, the latter linked back and front to the collar with slinky lighter chains still, two at the front drawing the eye to the girl’s cleavage, one at the back.
Norah, wearing latex gloves, now carefully and exhaustively examines Chloe’s sex, Chloe lying on the massage table (collar clipped to the frame), legs bent double, thighs spread wide, opening herself, heart thumping.
Norah proclaims no damage beyond light contusions and raw skin. Chloe’s groin is shaved carefully — this will be done twice a day, says Norah, first thing in the morning, and late in the afternoon, so as to maintain the neatness of the little lozenge of pubic hair and eliminate the slightest hint of regrowth. Creams and lotions are applied which as promised both sting and then soothe.
Face down, now, on the table (collar and cuffs fixed now), new gloves, hips lifted up, thighs spread, a shaming position that has Chloe sighing in her humiliation, Norah inspects her poor anus; the subject of many crude assaults. Again, the examination is thorough and clinical, with no concession to Chloe’s squeaks and cries of pain — she is pulled, penetrated, poked and stretched, until Norah proclaims that although she has indeed been ripped in two places, no stitches are needed.
“You will, though, need to be cleaned out with an enemas twice daily until you heal — and since the reality is that he’ll likely rip you again before you do, we might as well accept that I’ll be taking control of your evacuations from now on, along with everything else.”
The weals from the whip are pronounced ‘minor’ — making Chloe wonder what a ‘major’ whipping would feel like, skin crawling.
An enema follows — a novel experience; cold, soapy water and shocking humiliation, although Norah is calmly matter-of-fact and very neat about the whole thing. Afterward, bent over, more stinging, soothing applications.
Then it is time for her to be dressed and made-up, her hair lightly styled. All through, it is Chloe the mannequin, Norah the active one.
Rather surprisingly, to Chloe, the cuffs and collar are removed before Norah pronounces her ready, and leads the way, not waiting to see whether Chloe will follow — taking her for granted.
In the entrance hall, coming from the service wing, Norah pauses, waits, turns to face the front door. And there, to the left, a neat little collection of Chloe’s bags and cases, surmounted by a fat manila envelope.
“These will be here for a while, in case you decide you want them.” is all Norah says.
Chloe’s eyes fill with tears, but she blinks them back, biting her lip, hard.
There’s a pause, until Chloe can bear it no more, and, to be doing something, anything but contemplating her insane decision to stay, she turns and walks toward the living room, the scene of last night’s debauch, where she has been told He will be. Norah watches her, breath coming a little faster. It’s going to happen then. At some point she will get to use that girl. She smiles, wolfish, all sympathy gone. There will be no mercy. She can almost taste Chloe’s fear.
Read the next part of Moving Her On.
