You will want to have read Moving her On, Pt.4 before reading this. Trust me.
At the door to the living room, Chloe remembers something important, but is unable — simply unable — to put it into words, so dreadfully shaming is it.
All she can manage as Norah reaches for the door handle is an urgent squeak, which gets the woman’s attention;
“What?”
Carrying the tray of the smorgasbord supper that Tabby has left for them (which has been making Chloe’s mouth water), Chloe can find no way to indicate her problem by signing, and, with a deeply felt cringe, realises that she will have to shame herself, for she dare not risk annoying Norah.
Her voice is very small and quiet, but perfectly clear;
“He … Master … I … I … I’m supposed t-to … to b-be … wet … wet for Him.”
She is beet-red, breathing in panicky sips, gripping the tray like death for fear of dropping it, biting her lip to keep from crying. It’s such a pathetic, stupid little thing in a way — but on the other hand unutterably awful. She’ll have to get Norah to wait while she goes into the loo, or something — and then Norah will — know …
Norah is laughing at her — openly laughing;
“Oh my! The poor little rape dolly finally begins to understand what it means to be nothing more than a thing that gets fucked! And I … I forgot to tell you before! Hilarious!”
“Tell me, was he cross? Did he punish … Hah! I see that he did!”
For Chloe has cringed again, helplessly acknowledging that He had indeed hit her — and that, clearly, she had accepted that He could do so.
Among women, in the last few decades, acknowledging to another woman that you have let a man hit you has acquired a different meaning. Throughout history, men have beaten their women, and women have been shamed by it. But between women, there used to be a certain degree of sympathy, of sisterly support. Since the rise of feminism, however, admitting that you have let a man hit you has become truly terrible — because a modern woman is not supposed to accept it. If she does, she is clearly exceptionally weak, and to be pitied, or a whore, or a masochist — possibly all three. Norah knowing that He has hit her, and that Chloe has not complained, has not left, is therefore deeply shaming.
Norah smiles at her — a very knowing smile, and Chloe drops her eyes, unable to stand it.
“Rapedoll Chloe got her arse smacked because she had a dry pussy for the Master. It’ll get to you, you know, when you’ve time to think about it — the idea that the intimate condition of the inside of your pussy is his business, not yours.”
Chloe is not finding any of this at all funny, feeling her heart tearing itself in her chest at the awfulness of this being her life now, at the agony of this trap that He has snared her in. She tries, tries hard to think about the nearness of the ‘get-out’ option, but that only makes things worse as other parts of her mind threaten worse melt-downs at just the idea of leaving Him — thoughts of the gaping emptiness of life away from Him immediately raise nameless, horrid feelings in her core that will not be ignored.
The time to have left was weeks ago, when He had first started with the ‘whoring you out’ talk. For what is to be gained by leaving now? There’s no purity, no decency, no dignity to be preserved or regained — not any more — all of it ripped, shredded, stolen, fucked, whipped out of her already — she knows now that she’s a slut, that whoring herself does something to her, deep in her groin, something that makes her throat catch and her hips loosen. Leaving now would be the worst of everything. All sense of her old self hollowed out — made ridiculous — and all the new intensity she has learned to find in His world gone, too.
All that staves off collapse is the iron certainty of His expectations, which somehow have attained a status in her mind that make it unimaginable that she will fail Him — and that therefore she is going to have to do something, right now, about getting herself wet between the legs — no matter how Norah might laugh at her, despise her; no matter that she’s dying of shame.
How can it be that she simply will not let herself fail to fulfil an expectation of His — especially such an unreasonable one? It seems to her that in fact this has been true for a long time now, that He has cleverly arranged things so that it has always been pleasant to please Him, so that it had always seemed to her that what she was doing for Him was exactly what she wished to do in any case, becoming what she wished to become with His help, until it has become central to her life — although from her new perspective this has clearly been a machinery of entrapment carefully embedded over months, not just the last week or two.
And she sees how the processes of that mechanism will now bind her ever more tightly — for if what rescues her from collapse at times like this — times when His demands upon her threaten to overwhelm her — if all that gets her past the overwhelm is reliance on this now deeply ingrained requirement that she not let Him down, then this will be what she needs to get her through her days, even as the act of meeting His demands makes her own needs for legitimate, ordinary things like self-respect, dignity, pleasure, and freedom seem increasingly ridiculous.
The implications of this are too awful to contemplate, and she faces a rising tide of black despair. She can’t give in — she must find a way! Why? So that she can bring Him his dinner; so that she can enter the room with her pussy wet for Him, as He requires? She will shame herself for this? Is she to undermine her own her self-image, degrade herself in front of Norah, strengthen the machinery of self-debasement she has just understood, simply not to let Him down, over such small things? Things He doesn’t even care about! It was clear from His attitude before that He will enjoy himself whether she complies or not — that for Him it’s all entertainment, whether she ‘behaves’ or not.
And yet … and yet … if … if I fail Him … , He … He will judge me…
And that’s it, right there. She can’t bear to have Him judge her to have failed Him — no matter how trivial the issue, no matter how little He cares.
Her heart breaks, again, as, yet again, she straightens herself, makes herself smile.
So achingly sad, that smile, so telling — Norah recognises it and has to set her jaw, so desperate is the emotion it conveys, so clear the message about the devastation in the heart of the sweet girl whose intensity of feeling is continually raking up the agonies of her own breaking in, so many years ago. Norah suddenly wonders how it would be to have this girl for herself, take away from him — not to free Chloe, of course, but to keep for herself — to tease, to train — yes train, just as Chloe will be trained by Him, just as heartlessly, but for the sweetness of that pain to be of her making, to have it be her, Norah, that is the centre around whom Chloe’s downward spiral revolves. With a twisted grin, Norah laughs at herself, but it’s inescapable that this girl is getting to her.
Lost in a whirl of emotion that she knows is dragging her down into darkness, Chloe bites her bottom lip and manages to take charge of herself; sets her tray down on a small table in the hallway and turns to set off for the loo, only to be brought up short by Norah;
“Just where do you think you are going, little cunt?”
It takes a mental effort for Chloe to accept this, but she does; ‘little cunt’ — how could this not be an acceptable label for a girl who has allowed everything which Chloe has allowed? Why shouldn’t she be called ‘little cunt’?
She stops, turns carefully, deliberately, controlling herself — letting Norah see that she is accepting the woman’s right to speak to her like this.
I’m destroying myself — right here. Every minute, I’m destroying myself a little more — letting them treat me like this. They know what they’re doing to me — and they know that I know — and so me letting them do it is as good as me asking them to do it more — to double down on having me destroy myself for Him…
Chloe nearly loses it then, nearly falls to her knees; alternatively, she thinks, she could start screaming — lash out at them, tell them what disgusting excuses for human beings they are — emotional cripples — dangerous psychopaths — to do this to her — her, who has wanted nothing but to bring joy and sweetness to this house; her, who was innocent, who was naive, nervous, willing. She, who allowed herself to be offered for torture and rapine to five strange men without a murmur of protest; she, who gave herself so willingly to those men again this afternoon — allowed them to chain her, whip her; put her on … on that fucking … car … allowed herself to … to be fucked, by fucked — Fucked. By. A. Fucking. Car!
She is screaming to herself inside her head, her knees are shaking … She can’t … she can’t hold it together — she … … Abruptly, something gives in her mind, and she really can’t- not any more.
“I … I … can’t. “
… is what comes out of her mouth, in a soft, weak little voice, as she slowly sinks to her knees, biting at her lips, shaking …
“I … I … I’m sorry … I … I just … Oh oh oh oh, OoooOOh, I can’t … can’t do it… just … just not …”
And her voice trails off into a series of little vocalised panting noises, as if she has reverted to the animal, lost her language, on her knees, breathing disordered, eyes unfocused, shaking.
Norah stands, watching with amused disinterest (knowing from long experience that there will be many little crises like these; that each is an opportunity for further crushing of a girl’s spirit — as were each of her own crises so callously used to further crush her own hopes and dreams of a life that could be meaningful away from her Master), while Chloe seems to enter into a cocoon of dissociation, withdrawing, kneeling like a little girl, hands on her knees, breathing gustily now, making sad little comforting sounds to herself — as if she has lost her mind, almost.
After half a minute or so, Norah walks over to her, kneels down beside her and — very gently — cups Chloe’s left cheek in her right hand, then slowly leans in, until her mouth is close to Chloe’s right ear — as close as it can be without touching.
Her voice is soft and slow and conversational — thoughtful, calm; almost motherly — right in Chloe’s ear, her breath warm and soft.
“What you need to think about, little girl, seeing as you’ve come this far, is this. What’s lower, in this world, than a slutty piece of cunt? The answer is; a slutty piece of cunt that is unwanted. That’s what I want you to think about for a minute while I take my tray in. Then I’ll come back. And then, you’ll ask me to help you become worth keeping around here — as a slutty piece of cunt. Or, I’ll call you a cab, and you can leave — an unwanted piece of cunt. OK sweetie? It’s your choice. I’ll be a couple of minutes. Take your time.”
“Oh — and don’t worry — you can’t make a wrong choice — not from his point of view, at least. You can’t let him down. You see, nothing that you do really matters from now on. You sort of ceased to matter — as a person, I mean — last night, around about this time, when you went into that room and took your clothes off for them. That’s when you let your existence as cunt — as holes to fuck — become what defines you — everything else fell away then; gone — you let yourself become meaningless.”
“So don’t be under any illusion that anyone’s interested in your answer, pretty. You’re choosing for yourself. No-one else cares — unless you choose to try to be wanted — in which case you may manage to become interesting as cunt — assuming you try really hard, and don’t fall apart along the way. Because here’s the dirty secret about becoming cunt. You tell yourself that you’re something special — that most girls wouldn’t do such things for him; couldn’t — and that you must be precious and interesting because of that — of course you do. But that’s just what you tell yourself. In your gut, you know it’s the other way around — that there’s competition everywhere — because, frankly, it’s not hard, not hard at all, to give up on yourself, to smile at men, and open your legs. It’s only that you’re a middle class girl, educated, head full of entitlement, dreams, self-respect, dignity, all that shit, that makes it fun to take you down.”
“In the end, though, you’re just another cunt; wanted — or unwanted. Useful — or not so useful. That’s the difference.”
Of course, Norah doesn’t believe that this is how it is for all girls; life is more complex than that. But she has remembered it, almost word for word, from when it was whispered in her ear, twenty or so years before, by the Master, and it had worked on her. Two decades later, it is still working on her — still applies to her, in her own opinion, truth be told — and so it might as well be true for this little bitch as well. She smiles to herself — a tight, bitter, despairing smile — then picks up her tray and opens the door.
Leaving Chloe smashed.
Norah’s words are indeed working on Chloe — working like burning acid — no train of thought she tries to pull together can withstand it — it’s as if her very mind is occupied by Him, by what He has done to her — so that she is reduced to animal feelings, deprived of the capacity to think.
After a little while, it occurs to her that she is not crying. Not feeling like crying. That she is not upset.
The burning down, in her mind, of so much about herself that she has considered important, kind, lovely, precious; the shutting down of any hopes of bright and interesting futures — this is brutally harsh in its relentless, unarguable logic, and the experience is devastating. But it isn’t causing her to fall apart.
It is deeply, heartrendingly sad; the loss — loss of so much that she had not even realised was dear to her — not simple loss either, but ruthless suppression, cruel excision. This is an agony. Worse, an agony that she knows will be continual.
But there are no tears in her now; she’s shivering, shaking, yes, in agony, yes; but the searing is leaving space — space for her body, for her animal self.
Norah has made it impossible for her to hide from the central truth about how it is that she, Chloe Dainty, a characterful, pretty, lively, well-educated young woman with a supportive family, many friends, prospects and a future, is on her knees, after a day of unimaginable debauchery, mental cruelty and violent sexual abuse, and finds it utterly unimaginable that she should simply stand up, walk a few feet and sit on her suitcase, so that she can get back to that life.
It turns out that if Chloe starts from that stark reality, forces herself to face it, she can manage to think, just about.
I stripped myself for them — knowing that this would be done to me. I made that choice. I didn’t have to but I still did it; and … and I don’t regret doing it, either — not even after what they did to me. and I know that if He asks me to, I’ll do it again, knowing what I know now.
More — worse — I know that if He were to tell me that He would never ask me again, that He didn’t want to offer me to His friends anymore, that I would feel terrible — a failure; an unwanted cunt — just as Norah says.
And that means that, for whatever reason, there’s something in me that needs it. Needs this. All those nice things, those hopes and dreams, weren’t giving me — couldn’t give me — what I’m getting with Him. Somehow all that niceness was — was making it impossible to have — this; to be here, to have been (she has to force herself to make the words in her mind now) to have been raped, to have been whipped, to have been degraded — made to whore myself. I chose this. I chose it because — somehow — I … because I want it.
So, I’m not going to leave. I can’t leave. And I can’t pretend it’s because He has played mind-games on me — He did, but it’s not the point. I stripped for them last night; it was me; and I can’t leave now. It’s me. I want to be here.
But what about … about these terrible humiliations; the pain, the shame, the cruelty? Am … am I a masochist? Is that what this is? It’s not — it’s not, though — I mean I said yes, knowing that … that that stuff — something like it — would be done to me — but that isn’t what I felt shaking me when I showed them my breasts, when I chose, this morning, to open myself up to the fat pervert — to let him fuck me in the mouth, when I went to each of them and kissed them while they played with my pussy; I wasn’t looking for pain or their cruelty — or even their cocks fucking me … so … so what is it?
Despair threatens; she can’t answer these questions — can hardly think straight, shaking, once again feeling tears build, until, all at once, something comes to her — like a lightning flash, suddenly clear; all those moments — all of them — all of those moments were moments of acceptance. It wasn’t that she was asking them to rape her last night — it was that He wanted her to offer herself; it wasn’t that she wanted to orgasm for the fat one in front of them all, in such degrading circumstances, it was that they wanted it; it wasn’t that she wanted to have her throat so violently fucked this morning that she felt she might die — it was that he wanted it.
And she, Chloe — what had she done, each time? She had accepted. She had stopped fighting, stopped resisting — but she had done more than stop resisting — for she could have gone limp, like a rag doll — no, she had gone further — and accepted. Accepted their offer of violent, non-consensual fucking, accepted their wish to see her orgasm while being abused, accepted his desire to fuck her throat as if she were a hole in a wall.
She had accepted their wishes, at some level granted them the right to use her in those ways.
It’s not that acceptance changes what had happened to her — the rapes are no less rapes, the cruelty was no less painful, the shame no less devastating, the degradation just as bitter — but somehow, somehow, with acceptance, they take on meaning — meaning for her — something more than the brute satisfaction of cruel urges by horrible excuses for human beings. Something more than doing it for Him, even (He’s complicated — she doesn’t think of Him as a dreadful person — and yet — and yet He has done this to her … but she can’t think about that now). Somehow, the acceptance makes those dreadful things mean something for her.
None of this makes any logical sense, everything is still insane, but that doesn’t matter to Chloe; what does matter is this notion of her acceptance meaning something — that somehow it makes these terrible experiences personal to her — that this notion is flooding her with relief — she can feel it physically — her body relaxing, knots of tension releasing. Accepting somehow makes sense to her body — and that’s what counts.
And it gives her something, too — because, awful as those things which were done to her — will be done to her — awful as they are, with acceptance, their awfulness becomes self-contained. The thing on the bonnet of the car was in her, fucking her, hurting her — she had no choices to make about it; it just was. The anguish of that was the fact of it. But since then, thinking about it — trying to make sense of it — has been horrific — overwhelming.
Acceptance changes this completely. That awful thing was done to her because she accepted that she was going to be their whore for the weekend, and because they chose to do it to her. That’s it. There’s nothing else to worry about.
She can accept that He requires that she ensure she is wet between the legs before going in to Him, or she can tie herself in crazy knots thinking about how shaming it is. Acceptance won’t stop it being shaming — doesn’t change the awfulness of having been — as the little guy had put it — ‘double teamed by a car’ either. She’ll still have to deal with that (and with the other thing she keeps not thinking about — her slutty, sexual responses to those outrages) — but acceptance changes them — from; How could that have happened? What could I have done about that? How should I have acted? How could I have stopped it? into, simply; That happened, because I accepted His offer.
And now, she finds she does want to cry. Because acceptance doesn’t solve anything — just makes it easier to manage. Acceptance of what has happened doesn’t mean that it’s over and done with. In fact, it’s obvious that acceptance is not going to free her — in fact it will deliver her even more fully; acceptance of one demand will just encourage further demands. And the knowledge — certain in her now — that she will accept those demands (because, how not?), which will encourage more — and more extreme — demands; demands which she is also going to accept, if she can — that knowledge is, certainly, a cause for tears — because those demands will eat her up — until there is nothing left of her but acceptance.
And the tears feel sweet, then — almost more than they are sad. The idea of herself as being the person who can accept Him — accept all His demands. Lose herself, perhaps, but fulfil Him — that seems sweet.
Wanting to cry, she remembers the cruel, awful thing He had said earlier — which at the time she had fiercely rejected; the idea that she should actively suppress all expression of her emotions, unless that expression was for His entertainment.
And softly, with a prickly feeling all over her as she lets the thought flow, she sees that, if she chooses this path of acceptance, she needs to stop herself crying, right now. Stop these tears. Accept His cruel requirement. Let it control her — even now — even when He can’t see.
It is such a strange feeling — to be even considering this.
It feels very frightening; very high stakes.
Somehow, she knows that, if she does this, now, then two things will be true; the first, that she will feel bound, as if by an iron law, to honour her acceptance (as she had felt this morning when the fat one had pushed his cock into her mouth) — that this law would be permanent; unquestionable, enshrined, binding her for all time, all places, all circumstances.
This idea is awe-inspiring enough — the thought that, in making a decision here and now, in the next few seconds, she can condemn herself to a lifetime of wilful emotional suppression, has her trembling.
But the second thought is even more humbling — and at the same time wonderful. She has been thinking about His requirements as ‘demands’ — and perhaps that’s right. But they are not enforced; they are not imposed upon her; she has a choice. Norah has just told her that He doesn’t really care if she accepts His demands or not — that what matters is only whether He wants her or not. If she goes in there now, crying, He may demand that she accept a punishment — He had spanked her last time, and no doubt she will be spanked often if she stays here. But that spanking, too, would be accepted by her — or not. She is always free to reject Him, she sees — and to be be rewarded for such rejection with immediate freedom and a wad of cash.
All of which means is that it makes more sense to think of His requirements as ‘offers’, rather than demands. Offers that she can accept or reject. So that what He had done, all those weeks ago, was to offer her the chance to be whored out to strange men. An offer which she had accepted. He had offered her, earlier, the chance to walk into the kitchen with her changed status advertised by her exposure; He had offered her the chance to demean herself by begging each of them to assess her by groping her while she gave them the sexiest kiss she could manage.
And she had accepted them all. He hadn’t forced her — hadn’t even considered the idea that she might not comply — just as if He had asked her; Would you like to make me a cup of tea? — simply assuming that a cup of tea would appear (but on the other hand, without imposing any pressure to comply). This is His way — she knows it well, and, honestly, she loves it. Compared to the hesitant, tentative young men she knows, everything with Him is clear; wonderfully simple and straightforward.
At the time, when He had first told her about the men, about whoring her to them, she had not fully understood what was going on — been understandably fixated on the central insanity of the idea that she could be rough-fucked by five strangers. Now, though, if she should accept the offered condition of suppressing all emotional expression, with her current understanding, accept it by her own decision — not even in the same room as Him, at a time of her own choosing, recognising that it is her, not Him who has added the idea that this will affect her whole lifetime, that she will consider it to bind her absolutely — if she accepts this ‘offer’ now; then on what basis can she imagine refusing any other ‘offer’ He may make her?
What if He should ‘offer’ her the chance to go to the fat man’s ranch for a week in the summer (there had been some banter about that sort of thing)? She feels it immediately, in her groin. There would be no question. None at all. She would smile, and say she’d be happy to (even though she would be dying inside); and she’d do what she could — she’d do everything she possibly could manage — to have the fat pig find her satisfactory.
A trap has closed on her that is bigger and far more terrifying that the ‘not letting him down’ thing. Because this one is inside her. And it’s too late, now, to do anything about it. She can almost hear prison doors slamming in her mind, one after another — see a domino sequence of acceptances.
And she knows she is held.
She’s really shaking now. But she does not permit herself to cry.
She stops thinking, too.
It’s sort of wonderful; to feel so terribly, terribly sad, so desperately sweet — full of soft and generous tenderness for Him, and so deeply, bodily frightened, all at the same time. But she doesn’t feel lost, and she doesn’t feel ruined. She’s exhilarated — and she’s suddenly aware, too, of a surge of arousal — she’s up on her knees, her hips flexing tinily, rolling with the sensation — tiny, tiny movements, but powerfully felt. The shaking softens into a trembling — she feels alive, electric.
It’s as if her body is rewiring itself in real-time — as if she is changing physically.
The loss! The terrible, gut-felt loss of everything she has imagined about herself, about her future — the inevitable loss of respect from her family and friends, colleagues, of standing in the world, of opportunity — my god, it’s immense — all of it — it’s all gone.
I’m going to get fucked, and hit, and degraded by people who won’t see me as a person, and I’m going to accept it all, accept the offer to destroy myself, let them destroy me — for their ugly and perverted version of pleasure, and I’m going to be sweet for them, smile, encourage them, enable them, open myself up for them.
And they’re going to hurt me — really hurt me, in horrible, shaming ways, and … and I’m going to accept that too, and be as sweet as I can manage to be in taking that, too. How? How can this have happened so fast? How can it be so obviously impossible to escape? And how can it be that I am not running around screaming at the insanity of all this? How is it that a big part of me finds this beautiful, sweet, that it makes sense of me in a way nothing else ever has? That I’m sort of looking forward to it?
She desperately needs to cry, to let this emotional storm have its way with her body. It seems impossible that she is not face down, crying bucketsful.
But in fact, she is (just about) smiling, her face smooth, her posture controlled, hands at her back, shoulders back, breasts presented, thighs parted.
Because, too, it seems ridiculous to her, of a sudden, that she should ever not be making an effort to present herself — present her body — as He likes her — as He likes it. Whether or not He is there to see her.
Acceptance floods her, acceptance terrifies her, acceptance turns her on, acceptance controls her. Acceptance possesses her.
I’m going to be His. I am His. I can’t do anything about it. He’s going to have me, and He’s not even going to have to try; He’ll just tell me what He wants, and I … I will accept. And then I will force myself to be as good as I can be for Him.
Oh Jesus.
Norah is aware of the change in Chloe as soon as she comes back through the door, and stops, observing, for a few seconds. Chloe does not look up. Another acceptance; she won’t be acting as if she is a member of the household any more; she knows that’s over.
I’m a rape doll. I don’t get to look people in the eye anymore.
Rape Doll. The words have been used a few times, but they haven’t really meant anything much to Chloe — just an insulting label — and awful enough at that. But saying them in her head, just now, she realises they have meaning; terrible, dread meaning. A doll — a model of a girl — not a real one. One for raping. For fucking as an act of violence. That’s what I’m accepting. That definition, that purpose. That existence. Not a real girl, one with feelings, rights — just a model, a model intended for fucking as an act of violence. That’s me now.
Oh Jesus.
Without knowing what it is, Norah knows that something big has happened with Chloe — that her attitude has changed — and from the looks of her, the change is in the direction He wants — and she congratulates herself for having risked her little speech. Norah will only learn rather later just how powerful its impact had really been, and will find herself being impacted, in turn, by Chloe’s account.
Walking over to where the lovely girl is kneeling — holding herself so invitingly, Norah squats; finding herself emboldened by the girl’s position and body language to put one hand inside the bodice of Chloe’s dress, and the other between her parted thighs, to her sex, she begins to play with the girl’s body — casual and direct, as if she’s done it hundreds of times before.
Chloe is startled; lets out an ‘oh!’, but she’s been preparing herself, too, and she finds herself immediately knowing how to ‘accept’ Norah; leaning forwards a little to ‘give’ Norah her breast, and widening her thighs a little to make it clear to the older woman that she should feel free to do as she wishes at Chloe’s sex.
For Chloe, this is a highly charged moment; the first encounter after her change — and the outcome is intense; powerful feelings of shame and vulnerability, coupled with intense sweet sadness at what her actions say about her; how dirty a slut she is, how wet Norah will find her down there, how stiff her nipple; real, deeply felt gratitude to Norah for taking the intiative.
Her second utterance is a soft, low little moan that contains hints of all of these complex and conflicting emotions. It makes Norah grin;
“Well, well, pretty, I can see you’ve had a little talk with yourself — maybe straightened some things out. As I say, no-one gives a shit what you do, anymore, but there does seem to be one positive outcome — your pussy is wet, as required. I will give you some free advice, though, seeing as you’re looking so sweetly vulnerable, and it goes like this; however pleased you are with yourself after thinking things through, you need to be prepared; because no comfy little story about how you can handle your new status will protect you now, pretty.”
“To paraphrase a military saying; no rape dolly’s self-help story survives the next rape. The name of the game, pretty, is to take you down a little more, each and every day. Don’t be surprised when you find that that hurts a little more, each and every day.”
Chloe doesn’t know quite how, but this comment hits her like a sucker punch, and almost oversets her commitment to suppress tears.
She’s so cruel — and just when I’d got myself a bit better … Maybe, maybe I can’t do this, after all … Bite my tongue, hard; don’t cry! Don’t! Keep my thighs open so she can play with me. I … I have to accept that, too; what she said. That’s how it has to be; Acceptance, acceptance — of everything. Otherwise I’m lost.
“Oh! Ooooh!” — this from the movement of Norah’s fingers, slipping between Chloe’s labia, now — Chloe’s never had a sexual encounter with a woman before, but this is somehow irrelevant — acceptance is universal, it seems, but now she has to say something;
“Thank … oh! Thank you for your … kind advice; from before as … as well. you … You helped me. And … And I’d like to … to ask you to please, help me to … to be worthy of Him keeping me.”
“What a cute little bundle of vulnerabilities you are, to be sure, pretty Chloe. I hope you understand that, if I’m going to help you, my word becomes law for you, pretty. And that I’m going to be exceptionally mean with you — with your pretty tits, and your sweet little pussy and your oh-so-tender sensibilities, too — all in the interests of making it more likely that he’ll want you, of course. Now, is that what you want?”
Here it is; thinks Chloe; the acceptance trap, closing on me. For here is Norah, making a clear offer of ‘help’ that will be painful to Chloe, and asking; asking directly, whether Chloe will accept.
And only one answer is possible;
“Yes, yes please. Th … thank you.”
The acceptance thing won’t work unless Chloe is sincere with herself — she knows this. And so that’s it — she has accepted, out loud, without ambiguity, that Norah will be exceptionally mean with her, and that her word will at the same time be ‘law’ for Chloe from now on.
All while the woman is — unbelievably — playing with Chloe’s moist sex, and teasing at her hard nipple.
“Very well pretty. I’ll take charge of you, never fear. I know what he likes, and I’ll make sure he gets it. I’m going to hurt your pretty pussy now, and I’ll want thanking for that, too. You see you’re required to be wet — that’s not for your pleasure, though — but his; so once you’re wet, there’s got to be pain — pain at your little clitty, like … This!”
And Chloe is shown that Norah is right about the fragility of her ‘self-help story’, as, in helpless response to the vicious pinch to her engorged clit, Chloe jerks backward, twists away, clamps her thighs together and crosses her arms protectively across her breasts, letting out a hurt wail.
How? How can she accept such nastiness, such spiteful, casual cruelty to her tenderised, sensitive little nubbin?
I can’t … I can’t!
Furious, rapid shaking of her head as Norah looks on, enjoying herself greatly, interested to see what happens (Norah’s entertainment offering a justification, if Chloe had any headspace to be looking for one, for Chloe’s strong emotional expression right now).
I must … I have to!
It is anguish to make herself kneel up again, to push her breasts out, to lift her bum off the floor, to open her thighs, to accept, once again, a direct invasion of her sore pussy (for Norah doesn’t hold back for a second), to open herself for it, to accept, to have the fingers once again take her clit between the sharp lacquered nails, not to flinch; to force herself to smile, to make herself speak in even tones — as best she can, at least;
“Thank … thank you for … for hurting me.”
“Very good!” Norah’s tone is strongly patronising — she’s having fun;
“I think we’ll have it Mistress Norah, from now on, please; and this time I’ll be grateful if you can control yourself properly please — pulling away, protecting yourself from intentional cruelty is simply unacceptable for a girl like you — not in this house. Do you understand me, skanky little cunt?”
accept … accept … don’t … don’t fail…
“Yes … yes I … I understand. M … Mistress N-Nora … AahaaaOH! AiIeeeeHaaaYAH!”
For Norah has again savagely pinched at, then yanked poor Chloe’s clitoris with her nails — harder this time, so that Chloe, later, is surprised not to see blood.
But she holds her pose; and somehow the awfulness of the pain, the shamefulness of accepting it, the dread of it being at her most sensitive and intimate place — all of these terrible things are, somehow, less awful that they were before — even though the force was greater — acceptance does seem to help.
As if there was a choice.
“Now, there’s just one more thing to clear up before we go back in. Just where did you think you were going, when you set off like that? For a start I can hardly imagine that you dared to move without being told to, and in the second place I can’t think where you were headed.”
Chloe feels shame mounting as she realises what Norah wants to hear, and feels tongue-tied by it, until her mantra comes to the rescue.
accept — accept
Accept that Norah will very often speak rudely, seek to patronise and belittle, tease and ridicule. Accept it as an offer of pain, that is to be endured, accepted. Accept. Smile.
“Please, Mistress Norah, I … I was going to the loo in the hallway to … to get myself wet. I … I’m sorry That I didn’t ask, but … but I was too … too embarrassed…”
“If that’s the truth, pretty, then you’re lucky you had your cute little breakdown when you did — because that would have broken so many rules, it would have been almost funny. Lets go in and tell Him all about it, shall we?
Read the next part of Moving Her On.
