You will want to have read Moving her On, Pt.3 before reading this. Trust me.
The tears are still wet in Chloe’s eyes as, nervous as she has ever been - almost unable to get her hand to operate the door handle, she steps into the large living room where He is sitting, relaxed, a glass of wine at His side, the dog next to Him on the sofa, the fire lit, a weighty hardback in His hands, His reading glasses on - a picture of comfortable, wealthy domesticity and self-assurance - almost jarringly ordinary, considering what had taken place in this room just last night.
When He looks up, she knows, He will see her in the skimpy little sun-dress she had worn to the picnic at which they first met - although she had paired it then with tennis shoes and a comfortable white bra and panties, rather than the vertiginous heels and the painfully tightly-laced corset she now has on; neither had her lips then been quivering with the effort of holding a cauldron of conflicting emotions in check.
“Well aren’t you a fuckable little thing? Good enough to eat!”
He is acknowledging her, now, smiling, perfectly natural, as if the last 24 hours had not even happened. Is she to get used to this, too? Radically different treatment depending upon context? It makes a twisted logic, she sees; since she has no real status, He is free to treat her as suits Him at any time, since it is her role simply to accept, not to expect.
She has wondered if she could meet Him without anger, without seeing in Him the cause of all the agonies of the last day, if she will be able to keep herself in check - shaming though that will be - or whether she will be screaming at him.
What she has not anticipated is finding herself so desperately happy to see Him, so ready to feel joyful at being greeted kindly - so eager to take His compliments at face value despite every awful thing that has been done to her at His wishes.
She feels her spirits lifting - a hot-air balloon lightened by the flare of His smile, the warmth of His words - and even though she knows that everything has changed, that she should not, she allows herself, for these seconds at least, to believe that it has all gone away - that she has Him back, that He wants her back.
It’s pathetic - she knows she is ridiculous, stupid; she feels girly and shy - rather as she had been at that picnic; only now overlaid with both the immense respect she has for the power and force of His personality and her own new and desperate insecurity. Has it really been so easy for Him, to reset her whole existence so that she will put up with this? Even more - so that she finds herself grateful that He will treat her so?
It isn’t even a question, she realises - her body has already answered - it’s a fait accompli. Their old relationship is gone, and she has been doing everything she can, from the first moment of waking that morning, to fit into her new place; it’s a capitulation, a total acceptance. He has her where He wants her, on His terms, totally unsure of herself, dependent upon Him for everything; powerless. It’s undeniable that there is something glorious in feeling so thoroughly overpowered, so completely held. The idea of sinking into the embrace of such control is strong, even in full and recent knowledge of just how cruelly He will use His power over her.
Seeing Him now, she understands, with a lurch that she feels deep in her belly, that it is this knowledge of His capacity for cruelty, for humiliating and degrading her that is the hook on which she has been caught - knowing that He will take her to unimaginable places, places of His choosing, places where He can’t take just any girl; that by letting Him take her, she can be somewhere special with Him. That this is why she couldn’t leave, because however terrible that special might be, it will be a place where only the two of them are real. Where they are most real; He because He is able to be completely free with her, no matter what pain He causes, and she, because she submits to Him, allows Him to hurt her.
As a perfect example, this moment - this moment when she remembers that, as instructed by Norah, she is going to take her skirt hem in her hands and curtsy to him; pull the short, floaty skirts right up until she bares her pussy, then deliberately move her feet a little further apart - invite His attention to the opening of her thighs, her sex.
It isn’t ‘nice’ to do this, it isn’t ‘easy’ - so different from their morning ritual that makes a joke of it; for this is real subjugation; a ritual of submission, an offer of power over her sexual usage, of access to her most intimate places.
It is, though, heart-stoppingly emotional - two violently contrasting feelings boil up in her in an instant; a sudden burst of anger; rage at Him for what He has done to her, for the appalling insults and cruelties that have been inflicted upon her, accompanied by an equally intense flood of sexual heat. Together, they have her trembling violently, so that as she opens her legs for Him - operating on some sort of autopilot - she cannot contain a short, hissing moan, or stop her hands from shaking visibly.
The moan turns into a long, soft, wail, very quiet, but very intense, that lasts and lasts; it’s under no conscious control, issuing from her like some force of nature. If she makes it stop, she feels, she will either start screaming at Him or fling herself onto her knees and crawl towards him.
Her eyes are closed, trying to reduce the chaos in her mind, only shocked out of her seizure by His voice, soft, very close; to feel Him touch her cheek softly;
“Chloe, lovely Chloe; you know this won’t do. Boyfriends are supposed to be tolerant of emotional outbursts, to take an interest, to wonder if they’ve done anything wrong, to play the emotional game. But you know - you know that you know, that we’re beyond all that, now. Your emotions no longer matter; they have ceased to have the slightest relevance outside your little head. Unless, for my own pleasure, I express a wish to see your emotion - times when I may wish to see sorrow, humiliation or pain in your eyes, for instance - you are to thoroughly and consistently suppress all emotional expression. What is required of you is a smooth and vague expression of pleasant willingness at all times.”
“Now, why don’t you go out and come in again, and do your little curtsy right, like the helpless little fuckbunny you know you are? Unless you’d rather I sent you to Norah for some advice?”
This mild but pointed little speech breaks Chloe’s heart (Chloe will discover that hearts can be broken hundreds, if not thousands of times, before they give up - and that each time can hurt just as badly), for it makes it starkly obvious that there is nothing, nothing at all left of their relationship; not in His mind, at least, for she sees that He is totally sincere. The idea she had fostered that He was still her lover, but had finally decided to trust her with His secret kink - that somehow beyond that it would still be He and Chloe, friends and lovers - just with the odd interlude of wild sexual excess - that idea dies, stillborn, and a cold hand tightens on her heart. He really means it. The ‘moving on’ is absolute - a total rewrite.
Numb, blinded by pressure of tears that she cannot allow to gather, she turns and goes out into the hallway. There, only a few feet away, are her bags. The envelope of money.
A get-out clause; a way to stop the pain, the turmoil, the constant oversetting of every hope, the agony of shame at walking, knowingly, into degradation and abuse - of accepting the weirdness in her that is fascinated at the idea of what it means to be treated so heartlessly, with such relentless, cruel greed, the weakness in her which makes it impossible to resist.
She contemplates the get-out. It can be so easy! She could just go over there and sit on the bags. She wouldn’t have to speak, or even look at anyone. They’d understand straight away. She’d be out of here in half an hour, and he’d be on the ‘phone to the Czech girl.
At last, she finds herself smiling - a tiny smile, to be sure; a sad, infinitely sad smile, certainly; but it is a smile.
She turns back; shakes herself, hard, blots at her eyes with the backs of her fingers, takes a deep breath and opens the door. She doesn’t feel turned-on in the least, but there’s a buzz of apprehension at the base of her belly, and her nipples are tightening.
There is no emotion this time - it’s as if that part of her has died (If only! like her heart, it will regrow, to be hurt again, and again; in part, this is why He has chosen her - because He can see that this strength, this deep urge to try for happiness, will provide endless entertainment - endless opportunities to see the hope die in her eyes, to wilfully and casually impose bitter despair, time and again, onto this sweet and lovely young woman - a woman intelligent and sensitive enough to fully experience the agonies of the conditions He requires her to accept; this, after all, is His kink - one which He has learned fully to embrace), so she is able to seem calm as she lifts her skirt - smile, even; a small, bleak smile, as she opens her legs that little bit wider, feels the shame rise, and does her poor best to embrace it like a friend.
“Very good, pretty - at least; you will improve, never fear.”
“Now, will you turn? Lean against the wall - hands high - yes, I will keep your skirts up, never fear - it is good, though, that you thought of it - that you feared displeasing me. Uncertainty, fear - I like to see these in your eyes - except, of course, that they should never seriously delay obedience or acceptance.”
“Oh, I know - believe me, I understand ..”
.. for He has noticed Chloe’s head dip, her forehead now against the wall, too, knows that she is feeling a new wash of despair at His words;
“Lovely girl, I do know how awful it is to hear me speak so - to hear me lay out for you the cruelties of your condition - to hear me so cold, so heartless - and with you in such a degrading position. I could say ‘you will learn’, to comfort you, perhaps - but you must learn not to expect that, for I will rarely comfort you again - it is not reassurance or comfort that I offer you, if you choose to stay, but instead continual doubt, ever-present fear, horrid uncertainty in the context of cruel and arbitrary requirements, savage treatment, all coupled with an absolute requirement that you present as sexually enticing at all times.”
“If I were to reassure you it would be false, in any case, for you will not learn - not really, not ever - because I am capricious, there is nothing to learn - no pattern; what satisfies me one day will irritate me the next - and also, because I am cruel; if I see you have developed some bubble of comfort, of safety, of expertise, I may find it entertaining, one day, to have you experience me destroying it for you - just to see the hurt and despair in your eyes.”
He waits, lets these words sink in, reads with appreciation the small but telling signals her body transmits - the little slump, the bigger slump, the sag, the static pause, and then, so helplessly willing as she is, the little gulp, the intake of breath signalling the re-commitment before she straightens herself again - even arches her back a little, pushing her hips toward Him and at the same time making her breasts stick out.
He leans in, speaks softly in her ear;
“Good girl: your body language is entertainingly easy to read; you are proving to be everything I expected of you.”
“I can’t say whether that is good news for you or not. You see, although I know a great deal about you; about how all this affects you - I have not the smallest idea why you would consent to be treated like this. You can hold onto that, if you like; the knowledge that, however minutely I am able to manage you - and that will be your reality, if you stay - that no matter how immaculate my understanding as to how to manipulate you, you will always have one mystery; your central mystery - which on any given day, might be what frees you from my dominion.”
He steps back and puts a finger, gently enough, to the welts on the otherwise velvet smooth skin of her taut young buttocks, watching her try to control her wince at the sensation, at the pain as He gently traces the contours of a groove which has been imprinted onto her flesh by leather clad steel, wielded with cruel intent.
“These are good - left a deep impression without breaking the skin. It is good to see you properly marked. I have been patient with you, lovely Chloe, because I felt sure that this day would come - that a little waiting would increase the savour. Which it has indeed. But it was time, past time, even, for me to see these welts, touch them. To tell you that you will always be marked while I have you - that your body will always bear witness to your submission with marks of suffering - always some equivalent of these, somewhere on your body, so that anyone who sees you will know how it is with you, that you have been degraded.”
“They are incontrovertible, easily read signs that you are a girl who can be hit - who can be hurt at will, whose holes can be used by anyone who chooses to force her. A girl who has no control over the usage of her holes. A girl who accepts the truth of this. A girl who, however sweet and pretty, however sensitive and intelligent, has been suborned, has been proven to be weak; who has given in to a future shaped by cruelty and subjugation.”
“When you look at yourself in the mirror, marked like this (you will be required so to look), you should repeat that thought to yourself - meditate upon it; that you are a girl who has no control over the usage of her holes, a girl who can be fucked, hurt and hit at will.”
He does not wait for a reaction - His hand moves forward, directly, to investigate her sex. Finding her barely moist, He pulls her labia apart, abruptly pushes one finger into her - then two - hurting her, making it hurt, making her gasp with the feeling of it, the humiliation of holding herself open for this crude and painful intrusion into her most inimate and private channel.
“This is not good. Norah should have prepared you better - or perhaps you have failed to heed her - it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you understand this - that when you are presented to me, you are to be lubricated.”
“We will deal with this matter immediately. Hold your position, now ..”
His voice is mild, calm, and so it is with real shock that Chloe feels His palm smack into her buttock, hard, and cries out, agonised, as the fires from the whip are re-ignited - and at the same time, for the piteous shame of it - for the experience, for the first time (where she has known it is Him, at least), of her lover hitting her, hard, hurting her intentionally, of finding that she is willing to fight with her body’s instincts in order to hold her position - so that He can do it again.. And again .. And again..
I am a girl who can be fucked, hurt and hit at will.
Without pause, then, His hand is back at her pussy, seeking out her clitoris now, as she bites her lip to keep the sobs at bay.
“Up, up on your toes now, pretty, push your ass back, move yourself now - get yourself wet for me. Do it quickly, girl! This isn’t about sex; this is about you being usable cunt. Cunt needs to be wet to be ready for use. You are to be ready for use at all times - or suffer the consequences of failing to please. No need to think about anything - just get yourself wet, little girl.”
A veil of misery clouds her mind. It’s real; this is real - she knows it is - feels the sharp and dull pains at her ass, feels His lovely hand where she loves to feel it, at her sex, but in such shameful circumstances that she wants to cry, to collapse, to beg and plead with Him, ask Him to see what he’s doing to her .. except, of course, that He knows exactly what He is doing to her - that He is doing it intentionally, doing exactly what it pleases him to do with her, just as He has told her He will continue to do, as long as she consents to be with Him, to stay here..
.. and so, lacking any other options that make sense, she moves her body; shamefully, despairingly, tearfully rubs herself back and forward, mashing her sex against His big, strong hand; bleak, mechanical, cold, dry ..
.. except that, within only a few moves, her body begins to give her positive feedback, begins to have her jiggle a little - just .. so! when His thumb is right .. there! And within a few more moves, she is moving against Him smoothly, obeying her body, working with it, faster now, more urgent; shamefully feeling herself getting wet for him, eagerly getting herself wet for Him, moving more sensuously now, the thought of .. yes .. of fucking crossing her mind, and she hears herself moan; soft, eager, high-pitched; advertising her vulnerability, her neediness shamelessly, hoping He will understand .. Is He ? Will he? OOooh yessss, that’s .. ..
.. and then His hand is gone, and there are more hard, dry slaps to her behind, making her yelp once more, her hands coming off the wall, moving behind her, defensive, so that she has to stop herself, make herself raise them high again, keep herself in position, tears on her cheeks now, ashamed to have been so easy to arouse, horribly disappointed not to have that arousal be worth anything, almost in despair again, the bleak hour (hours?) in the driveway a black hole that draws her down, requiring her ..
.. once again - once again, to make an enormous emotional effort, simply to stay where she is - positioned against a wall, hands useless, skirt up, legs obscenely splayed, hips jutting lewdly back, His hand between her legs..
She swallows some sobs, does her best to calm herself, live with the despair, throw herself into it, embrace it, no matter the anguish ..
His voice is soft, calming - the voice she loves;
“Easy .. easy, pretty. Turn now, go down; to your knees - thank me for the pain, a kiss down there and then up with you, give yourself to me.”
It’s ridiculous, shaming, but when she realises that the words ‘give yourself’ must mean kiss Him - as she had kissed the others that afternoon (he had not taken part) - she is immediately desperate for it, feels like a little girl offered an ice cream after a telling-off. It seems so long - soooo long, since she has been in an intimate embrace with Him (His hand on her bum in the hallway the closest) - and she wants it, whatever the cost might be.
She catches herself, though, as she turns - reminding herself that this is not the intimacy of the day before yesterday (yesterday morning, even!) - that if she does not take care with the little ritual, does not take it as seriously as she had when kissing those strangers’ feet, their lips, that something will go wrong.
It turns out, though, that the business of abasing herself for Him, of preparing to kiss His shoe, is something much, much deeper and more powerful than it had been when doing it for strangers, as a one off, hardly knowing what was happening.
Just the act of kneeling in front of Him is terrible, even though, a few days ago, she would have happily play-acted this scene, enjoyed the fun of calling Him Master - teasing Him with imagined sexual freedoms.
Now, though, He is forcing her to understand that, bizarre as it seems, she will now kneel for Him, in something like the reality of slavery, that she must now look up, hands behind her back, kneeling up, shoulders back, needing to look good for Him (such a desperate, primal need, deeply felt, irresistible, urgent), and say;
“Th .. Thank for .. Thank you for the pain, Master.”
That, B-movie script ridiculous as the phrase is, hurts her soul to say - because He has just hurt her. Because He has had others hurt her, because He has told her that she will be hurt and hit whenever He chooses from now on - that she will always be marked as a result; the implication being that the hitting will be both cruel and regular - far beyond any sort of sex-play.
A deep shudder shakes her, so strong that she feels she must lose her balance, has to hold herself steady not to so humiliate herself further.
When she leans forward to put her lips to His shoe, she cannot prevent herself a little, sobbing cry, piteous.
All her muscles feel dreadfully weak, the ember of hope in her chest is all but extinguished; it is hard, hard work - emotional and physical, to stand up as He watches her; not daring to lift her eyes to his, feeling the shame burning away at her self-image, her whole body resenting, rejecting this deliberate humiliation, imposed, as far as it is concerned, not by Him, but by her. It’s completely different from the experience with the strange men, earlier - that had been play acting by comparison, never mind that it had been degrading enough at the time.
This, though, feels like a confirmation - a formal acceptance - of her submission, a giving away of all future claims to mean anything to Him beyond her sexual utility, and she finds herself warring with herself - making herself perform, against her own better judgement - knowing, as she does so, that this is wrong, that this a terrible idea, that if she goes through with this - this giving of herself to Him in this shameful manner, that there will be no coming back from the self-loathing - that such self-loathing will condemn her to going along with more - that this is a carefully managed vortex, that is gently - and not so gently - swirling her around now, getting her used to what it feels like; just a little, then just a little more, until the point where it has her, held fast - perfectly free to struggle as she wishes, with no longer even the slightest chance of escape.
She sees all this, as an emotional and psychological truth, without any thinking - it’s just obvious, and yet it gives her no purchase, no leverage. It might be a signpost to despair, but she follows it in any case, holding herself as beautifully as she ever has, determined to make herself sexually inviting for Him, rising like a dancer, smooth, elegant, lovely - sadness in the line of her neck, her head bowed.
And now she reaches out for His hands, murmurs;
“Please ?”
.. to receive them, heavy and hard skinned (he spends hours each week in the woods - managing acres of woodland without power tools, disdaining gyms and exercise routines in favour of constructive labour), places them, (wondering now at her own blossoming emotion); one, onto her right breast, jutting above the little cantilever shelf at the top of the corset, then opening her thighs wide, helplessly acknowledging that, even now, in despair at His cruelty, she - her body - is wanting Him, fitting the other hand so carefully, so sweetly intimate, to the soft curve of her sex - unmistakably moist now; hot, making a little moaning gasp as He grasps her there, everything so sore and tender and so deliciously, so terribly sensitive, tears brimming now as He hurts her, knowing He is choosing to hurt her there, having her know that she is holding herself carefully so that He can hurt her, making it easy for him to hurt her; moaning softly, low and weak, with no note of anything other than acceptance and submissive reporting of her pain.
And then He lifts her - her whole weight on her sex now, on His hard hand, so that she cries out, piteously - not only for pain put in weakness, in acknowledgement of His dominion, of having been conquered, resistance made futile (as if she could any longer even imagine having either will or capacity to do so). She lifts her knees, keeping her thighs open for Him, glorying in His easy strength, trembling at her own weakness, her total vulnerability, her surrender.
The hand that had been on her breast is now in her hair, pulling her head back; in control, holding her ready to be kissed - it feels as if she is about to be invaded ..
“Hands behind your back, pretty - you should not need to be told; always seek to disempower yourself, to make it obvious that you are doing so. You’re a victim now, a target, the weak one, separated from the herd - the one which can be toyed with, humiliated, used and abused, fucked at will; eventually, perhaps, even devoured.”
She whimpers, and obeys, as His mouth closes on hers, and she remembers; “give yourself to me” - and sees, very clearly, that she must do so - do so with every ounce of her being - because she is disposable - just another girl in the catalogue of His conquests, where she will be, too, sooner or later; bereft, destroyed, used up. She sees that she will devote herself to doing what she can to keep His interest, in hope of remaining worthy of being devoured.
Her poor sex is on fire, mashed as it is by His big hand, all her weight concentrated there - but nevertheless she finds a way to move herself, softly, urgently, openly, against him - shamefully obvious in her urgency; to make of her mouth a soft, accepting cunt for His invading tongue, moving sensuously for Him, faster now, as heat rises in her belly and she knows she wants Him, terrible though it is to admit that this shameful, abject submission has her as eager as she has ever been to be fucked - to be fucked hard, and she moves without reserve for Him now, wanting Him to know, not caring how this will leave her - how utterly exposed, making of herself a willing and desperate slut so soon after the afternoon’s terrible outrages - behaviour that should land Him in jail, not deliver Him a willing whore.
But none of these thoughts mean much as she slowly, deliberately, openly makes her body into a request, a begging; feeling the tears still slowly rolling down her cheeks, splashing onto her breasts, soaking through the thin fabric of the dress, panting loudly now.
It’s not ecstasy she seeks, she thinks, but oblivion.
He pulls back, grinning at her; holding her head, looking into her eyes ; she is overcome by a surge of pleasure - joy, almost, as she sees that he, too is flushed, breathing a little heavily.
“What did you used to say, when you were a girlfriend, and it got like this?”
She is deep pink now, speaks in a soft, slow voice;
“I .. I’m not sure I was .. that I was ever .. quite .. quite as .. as needy as this..” she leans back, opening her thighs as wide as she can manage, lifting her knees, splitting herself, head back, making of herself a wide open sexual invitation; giggling, high-pitched, for a second, before groaning;
“OOOooh, Jesus … oh ! OH!..!”
“I .. Would have said Please .. Please fuck me!“
“After I had forced you to overcome your uptight inhibitions, yes, you would. Now, though, you will ask like this; Master, I beg you, please rape me.”
Her eyes fly open - even in her current fog of sexual neediness, this cuts through to her, shocking.
She has been forgetting - forgetting, in her arousal, how things are between them, now, and it all comes back with a cruel smash. Her body reflexively seeks to wrench itself from His suddenly hateful hold, but He is prepared, and grips her, painfully tightly; a little jog and He has three fingers deep in her sex, His thumb mashing her clitoris - sore from its battering on the chrome jaguar, and she yells, writhing, suspended, helpless (but why, she wonders, can she not make herself bring her hands up, up above her waist? She could at least flail at Him; why can she not clamp her thighs tight onto Him, to deny Him as much freedom with her sex as possible? She simply cannot make herself do it, though, and moans in her despair).
He hurts her again, hard, relentless, making her twist and wail; lifts her, to show how easily He can continue to hold her, twists the hand in her hair until she yelps;
“Say it, pretty; ask me.”
His voice is as mild as his expression as He intensifies His grip - he’s in complete control, not in the slightest emotional - doing what He needs to do to break her will in this matter, looking at her with interest, watching her carefully, but without concern;
“Are you going to, or am I going to start biting your lovely tits?”
It’s a genuine question, not a threat, and it makes her thrash again - but that stops quickly as His thumb grinds hard on her poor clitoris, and she realises she wants to say it, wants to say it carefully and slowly, so that He he can hear what He wants in it - to be sure that He understands just what she is willing to give him if he will only stop hurting her, and so she forces her body to relax, softens her neck muscles, lifts her knees high, her thighs falling wider apart with the weight, puts her shoulders back to offer her breasts, swallows a sob and then speaks; soft, low, and with urgent sincerity;
“Master, I beg you, please .. oh god! .. please rape me.”
He is looking into her eyes, and she makes herself show Him her shame, her fear, her eagerness to submit.
“That was well said, pretty - but rather forced; I fear that your regrettable little fit has quite changed the mood of your body; not quite the inviting and eager set of fuckholes that it appeared to be a few minutes ago. You need to get to work, lovely - warm yourself up again. Get your pussy back in the mood. Off you go.”
She looks at Him, aghast, an abyss of despair opening at the coldness, the awfulness of what He is demanding. He leans in, and in a lighter, but no less certain, tone, says;
“You really had me going there, pretty; you won’t disappoint me now, will you?”
And He turns, to perch the end of her spine on the high corner of the sofa, and moves a little more gently for her - encouraging, but without kindness; demanding, relentless encouragement, so that after a little while, appalled, hollowed out once again, dazed, she can see no alternative than to start moving her sex against His hand.
She’s crying, softly, unemphatically, not even aware of it, as she slowly finds something in her responding, and - with a heart like lead, begins to work with it, until her body decides to go where her mind has not, and her hips begin to surge of their own accord; it hasn’t even taken long - tears are still slowly oozing from her eyes, her lips are quivering - but her thighs are spread, obscenely wide, and she lifts herself to Him as His fingers work inside her - clever, remorseless, uncaring of anything save her animal responses.
And now she’s grunting softly, calling out in a low, formless way, and once again He grips her hair, makes her look at Him, and after a little while, she says it, and in her voice is what He wanted to hear - acknowledgement, acceptance of her own need, of his dominion over her needs. Her voice is very, very soft, this time, wondering, and again painfully sincere; her eyes open, wide, her hips move with new urgency and she speaks, soft and low;
“Please .. Master, I .. I beg you, please - rape me now.”
When He leans in to take her mouth, she gives herself just as freely as she had before, all softness now - no urgency.
For she is going to be fucked - raped - used, whatever he chooses - in His time, now, not her time - hers it is to be ready, open, inviting - not demanding, needy, initiating.
She is still crying as He fucks into her at last; slow, strong, deep, taking His time with her, pushing Himself hard against her already tenderised mound, rubbing against the raw skin, hurting her, knowing He is hurting her, looking into her eyes to show her that He knows, grinning at her moans, driving her on, driving her until she cannot restrain herself, and - still crying - begins to fuck Him back, to arch herself, grind herself.
He leans in again.
“You don’t get to come, girly. Not this time. Not often, any more, to be honest. Let yourself get close, but not over the edge. If you think you’re out of control, ask me to hurt you, and I’ll save you. You don’t ever want to come without consent again, lovely girl. Never again. You will bitterly regret ever failing me in this, I promise you.”
And with that He is driving hard into her, fast, now, taking Himself where He wants to go.
In truth, it’s not hard for her to miss her climax - everything hurts, badly, and her mood is bleak. The pronouncement about her orgasms has her crying again, so that as He jerks Himself deep inside her, she is weeping softly.
He ignores this completely as He pulls out, and, with both hands in her hair, pulls her mouth towards His sticky, softening cock, for her to clean. She revolts for a beat, two beats, then can find no more strength, no will, and leans in, opening her mouth - and making herself as soft, as loving, as careful as she would have done three days before. Except that today there is a cold grey desert in her heart. She keeps her hands behind her back, as she had for the strangers.
He is a stranger to her now, she supposes. He has taken the man she knew away from her, to reveal this cool, cruel and relentless Master in His place. Her nipples are still tight from the coldness of His threat to bite her there.
When he’s satisfied, He tells her;
“Open the bodice, get your tits out.”
Again, it takes her a beat to swallow her automatic rejection of this rude and crude order, before she complies, making herself do it prettily, show her breasts to advantage, her throat full of tears, and tiny smile nailed onto her lips through determination alone.
“Good, now hold your skirts up above your waist while you find Norah. Get her to give you a quick clean-up, fix your make-up, and then help her bring the food.”
Clearly, she is going to have to get use to being ordered about as if she were a slave. His instructions for Norah and Tabby are always polite and framed as requests. She knows Him to be a man of egalitarian principles. It’s not thoughtless rudeness, with her, but deliberate.
She doesn’t understand, but makes herself accept.
Walking through the house, breasts out, skirts held up, sex sticky with come, she cannot restrain her tears again, and when she finds Norah in the little servants lounge, she cannot speak, but sinks to her knees, sobbing.
Norah stares at her, interested, completely without sympathy, for a minute or so, not speaking. Then she gets up, walks over to Chloe and lifts her up with a firm grasp on each nipple, tugging hard, earning a squeal of protest (but no active resistance) from the girl as she staggers to her feet in the high heels, waving her hands wildly.
Once she’s up, snivelling weakly, Norah takes a step backward;
“Weren’t you holding your skirts up when you came in? That would have been an order from him. Why have you disobeyed?”
It’s a very calmly asked question, with no ‘side’ to it at all, but it makes Chloe jump and scrabble for the hem of her dress, pull it up above her waist, biting her lip, trying to stop weeping.
She feels as if she has cried for half the day. She is so very tired, and so very hungry, and so very sore.
“Well, do you have a message?”
Norah is abrupt, and Chloe realises that everyone is going to talk like this to her, all the time - that she will have to get used to it - or leave.
Norah gets the message out of her and becomes a picture of efficient rapidity, wiping Chloe’s groin with warm damp towels, re-applying lotions, removing tear-stains and smeared lipstick and re-instating the look He likes;
“He won’t have waterproof mascara - likes to see the tracks of your tears, but then He always wants fresh mascara. Of course, as a helpless rape dolly, you don’t get to use your hands to help yourself, so guess who actually deals with the mess?”
“But you do get to help carry - fetch that tray and follow me.”
Read the next part of Moving Her On.
