You will want to have read the earlier parts of Moving Her On before reading this. Trust me.
Seeing Him again, as Chloe follows Norah back into the living room, is a revelation.
At the doorway, a step inside, at the moment she sees His legs— just his legs, nothing more— the full force of the acceptance thing rises in her. She is in His presence.
The Man whom, for whatever reason (it doesn’t matter any more— all that is done, for her— over)— the Man from whom she has accepted the chance to become …
… become that … thing. That horrible label; Rape Dolly. The label that it seems she will have to learn to accept. Yes, accept — along with everything else.
The price … the weight … the impact of acceptance — real acceptance, now, in His presence, is enormous; shocking, devastating.
Another step and, even looking down, knowing that He has turned His head, that He is looking at her … it hits her, hard, and she stops, breathless.
The knowledge in her that she will not— can not— fail to accept any offer He might make; that, for her own reasons, unasked, she will find that acceptance to be binding— an iron and permanent constraint upon her freedom, which she will police for herself, whether or not He notices or cares— she had begun to understand this in the hallway, on her knees; had found in the idea a sort of salvation, heavy as its implications seemed.
But now, actually in His presence, the reality of what it means grabs her by the heart, by the groin.
She has not had a religious upbringing, has never been interested in ‘spiritual’ talk of any kind. But in the face of the overturning of her whole understanding of herself, over the last day, as to who she is, who she might be, what she might become, she can’t find any other language that works.
It is as if …, she thinks; … as if I have become the possession of an Old Testament heathen God. As if He has become my God— and not a kind or a loving God, but a greedy, capricious, cruel God. A God that demands everything— even … even my soul.
She remembers a phrase from somewhere;
“… fearful it is to fall into the hands of a living God.”
And now— now she has to curtsey. Lift her skirts, show Him (and Norah— she has to do this in front of Norah? Don’t be silly— she has to do this in front of the whole world, now). Show Him her naked pussy, in the hope that He’ll want to fuck her— right here, right now — because, if He doesn’t, what use is she? Unwanted cunt, right?
Trembling, she takes another step forward, making herself smile, making herself, impossibly, put her hands again to the hem of the short dress— such an innocent, pretty, girly summer dress— and lift it up so that she can show Him her much abused, sore little pussy— offering herself willingly for violation. Making it clear that consent is no longer a meaningful concept in relation to her. That it never will be again. Not now that it is His cunt.
Because that’s it, surely— that’s why a rape dolly would do this— in the hope of inciting another rape? So that her existence has meaning?
All of these thoughts follow on, very simply, very obviously, from her realisation, from this thing of acceptance.
And because it all seems more straightforward, clearer, it’s easier, now, than it had been, last time (Was that really only half an hour ago? I have become a new creature in that time).
Yes, the words paint a harsh picture, but actually doing it, now— actually lifting her skirt to show Him (and Norah, and anyone who is with Him, forever)— is filling her with sweetness as she does it. Offering her pussy to Him— in the deeply felt hope that He will want to fuck her— is the first thing she has done that really makes sense since all this began. The first time she has been a whole person. The first time she has understood why she is complying. The first time that the humiliation, the debasement, the confirmation of her sluttiness, her vulnerability, the knot of need that builds in her groin have all added up to something.
Wonderingly, she finds, as she pulls the skirts up her thighs, that there is nothing, nothing on her mind but a soft, sincere focus on what she can do to make the offer of her pussy to Him as complete and enticing as she can make it, and that this focus is, of itself, glorious.
Yesterday, curtseying to Him at breakfast had been a teasing little sex game. This morning it had been a trial of her resilience, as she had fought to keep her head amid the piling of trauma upon trauma. Half an hour ago had been the same, with the desolation of her afternoon and the humiliation of having Norah minister to her overlaid onto yet more trauma.
She doesn’t envy the Chloe of any of those times— no, not even the laughing, happy Chloe of yesterday morning, that ridiculous Chloe who thought she knew what was what in her world, who had (somehow) thought she could get away with an evening of transgressive sex with His business associates before getting back on track as a couple.
The new creature— this rape dolly— is pure by comparison, more honest, less confused, and surely closer to what He wants of her than those other Chloes.
She realises, as she reaches the top of her lift, and begins to open her thighs that little bit more, that all the other times she has done this, she has been thinking about herself. Now, though, she is thinking about Him— only about him; trying as best she can to discern what it is about this degrading little ritual that He likes, and doing what she can to deliver that— just that, and nothing else.
When it occurs to her that letting her tongue tip flicker slowly out of her opened lips and touch itself, here and there, to those lips, she doesn’t wonder if it’s too shaming, too slutty, if it will distract Him from her pussy— she doesn’t wonder at all— she just feels, in her belly, that this will make Him think about fucking her— about throwing her down over the chair back, right now and fucking into her— and knows it is right.
Her tongue is already in motion, in any case, doing everything it can to convey to Him just how ready she is to be raped. To let him know how dear it would be to her if, right now, He were to backhand her to the floor, pull her hips up until her ass is presented and begin to bugger her.
When, for the same reason, it occurs to her to flex her hips so that her pussy moves a little— forwards, opening the labia a tiny bit, then backwards, so that she can do it all again— she spends no time worrying about anything beyond the thought that it might interest Him in fucking her, and smoothly starts to move.
It is only once the move is complete, as she finds she is leaning back a little, shoulders against the wall behind her now, flexing her hips softly, continuously, needily, and catches a flicker of Norah’s wide-eyed expression, sees Him stand and step toward her, that it occurs to her just how dangerous this is, this acceptance— just how open it has made her, how vulnerable.
There’s nothing to be done about it— nothing at all. This vulnerable— thing— is what she now is (all that she is); so that she has no option but to accept it in full, without pretence, without reserve, or lose what’s left of her mind. She has given herself to Him; given herself permanently; no get out clause— in the deepest dark heart of her being; given herself to a self-described and provenly heartless sadist; she will never be safe again— and the trembling is back.
He is approaching now, and she’s making herself let the fear and excitement that vulnerability brings flood through her, feeling it as deeply as she can, not fighting it, accepting that He holds her life in His hands and letting that be what rules her. She is in the grip of something beyond anything she has ever experienced, and nothing; nothing is going to stop her trying to let her whole body tell Him just how grateful it would be if He were to rape her now.
She can feel His eyes on her, and she is simultaneously more humiliated that ever before in her life and feeling her heart bursting with tenderness— tenderness that comes from knowing that some great hurt must underlie His need to degrade her, from her wish for Him to know that she is happy to sacrifice herself in the service of that hurt, for Him to know that His need to have her desecrated is met by her own need to be possessed— that she is in His debt forever, for having been brave enough, powerful enough to have brought her to this point— for Him to be willing to destroy her, to be strong enough to carry the burden of such that choice, to have carried it out without once hesitating.
And then His hand is in her sex, not crude, but not at all gentle, either. Direct, invasive and possessive, and she cries out, without restraint, since it is unthinkable that she should not let him hear just how intensely she feels at being touched so by Him, just how urgent and needy is her body’s response— and she opens herself to Him, softening herself, welcoming him, her cry becoming a breathy, tremulous whimper, leaning more heavily back against the wall now so that she can let her hips push forward to meet Him— making herself maximally vulnerable.
Her head falls to the side, her mouth slackens, her tongue ceases in its dance, now lolling loosely on her lower lip, and her back arches, her breasts pushing out, defenceless; she has not looked at Him, will not look at His face again, she knows; not ever, not unless He commands it.
He has three fingers deep into her, and it hurts. She has been used too often and too roughly, last night and again today, for it not to hurt— and hurt badly.
But the pain is just a part of everything, and somehow it adds to the sensations, and when his thumb mashes powerfully onto her clit both her feet lift from the floor, all her weight suddenly bearing on her sex, onto his big, hard hand. Her neck twists, sharply, and a long low yell comes from deep inside her as her hips buck and her whole body is seized with a need to give herself still more completely to Him, to this feeling, jerking and moaning, hands flapping out a weak tattoo against the wall, her thighs and belly spasming, out of control (except that she is not completely out of control, but rather— without conscious thought— controlling only those aspects of herself which are needed to maintain His access to her, her vulnerability to Him— those aspects of herself which are now properly His, which she has no right to fail to manage on His behalf).
Does she come? It’s a moot question. She is overwhelmed by intensity across the whole spectrum of her sensorium, as if all the feelings of the last 24 hours are replaying themselves through her body in the space of ten seconds, and, delirious, blacks out.
Read the next part of Moving Her On.
A note from THW
This episode of Moving Her On took me by surprise. It didn’t come out as I had planned it; not at all. Somehow, it wrote itself as you have just read it— and ended itself as you have just seen, rather abruptly. The whole story now has a different direction (thousands of words will have to be ditched).
I am always surprised when this happens— surprised and pleased— it’s a rare thing, and I choose to take it to mean that the characters and the situation have reached a degree of coherence that it is ‘obvious’ in the lower reaches of my brain— the place where feelings rule, and words are second class citizens— that it becomes ‘obvious’ what must happen next— and that only words which follow that path will work when I’m writing. I find myself typing with my eyes closed (and I’m no touch typist), feeling the story as best I can.
So, after all that— I hope you liked it…
This is not to say that this series won’t have further parts. Just that I’ll (probably) move on to another story for a while— let this new position settle, until I see where it might go next.
