Candyfloss Pt 2

You will want to have read Part 1 of Candyfloss before reading this.

The paralysing dread I had felt in the corridor doesn’t return, as I fear it might, but instead everything begins to seem unreal. I’ve read about it since — people in appalling circumstances, facing things that overwhelm them, begin to dissociate — step outside of themselves — some sort of defence mechanism. I’m used to it now, but then, I wondered if I was going crazy. How could I have let myself be brought to this place? This condition? These circumstances? It just can’t be the case that I am here, so extravagantly and provocatively costumed, presenting myself as a victim for the perverted desires of a man I don’t know.

There are four men in the room, sitting in leather easy chairs, widely spaced around a large fireplace; they’re all old. My heart stops as I see them turn their heads to look at me; despite what he had said to me, that day, on Jason’s ‘phone, despite the tormenting visions of many men using me, it turns out that I had unthinkingly been expecting only him — Sir Oliver — alone.

The sight of the four of them hits me; hard — like a punch in the midriff — and I sort of freeze, although I totter a few more steps, the servitor coming into the room behind me until he can close the door behind us.

I am like a puppet with cut strings; holding onto myself by a thread, having almost completely lost it in the corridor, only a minute or two before this, I am once again left without resources to cope with the waves of emotion, legs weak, belly flip-flopping horribly, breathing deep, erratically; it’s impossible to hide my fear, my distress, no matter how much I know that to show weakness now is to invite …

… to invite, what, exactly — beyond what I have already been told?

Nothing makes any sense any more; I’ve totally lost any grasp on why I’m here, why I agreed to this, what my life means if I don’t do something — right now — to stop this impending car-crash disaster that I have somehow offered myself up for.

But since none of this makes any sense anymore, my brain unable to string two ideas together without some crashing irrelevancy intruding, derailing all rationality, I can do nothing — nothing except follow the urgent dictates of my body, which are powerfully insistent that I present myself as well as possible — not to seem any more obviously vulnerable than is unavoidable.

It’s a pathetic picture I present; clearly a girl who has lost any capacity for independent thought, who has no clue at all about how to handle this situation, nor either the slightest hope of extricating herself — but nevertheless, I do everything I can — straighten my posture, pull my shoulders back, my belly in, straighten my neck, try to achieve a calm expression, somehow even manage a weak, trembling approximation of a willing smile. My primitive survival instinct, perversely, in this context, driving me to make myself more interesting to those who will entertain themselves by destroying me…

Silence extends; they’re all looking at me; looking me over, in fact, in the most obvious way, with no attempt at disguising the nature of their interest in my legs, my breasts, my lips, openly leering, not sneaking glances as men so often do, but looking me over, thoughtfully — blatantly assessing me for my sexual utility. It is me that is ashamed, today, me that feels dirty. Because I know that I am not going to run away, that the force which brought me here is going to make sure that I get what’s coming to me, what I deserve for playing along with Jason’s games, my own dark urges.

Two are beginning to grin, two are straight-faced. One of these is Sir Oliver, off to one side a little, his back to the bay window, so that his face is in shadow.

A pre-hysteria sensation is building in me — a fizzing, buzzing need for something, something to move the situation forward; to get past this desperate lack of any ability to predict what will happen next. It’s fear, yes, very much so — but it’s also desire. Not lust — I’m not feeling in the slightest turned-on — but a yearning for … I can’t find the words … for a catharsis, for an intensity that will resolve the increasingly unmanageable knot of paradoxes that have put me in this insane situation.

I find myself showing my need to Sir Oliver, begging with my eyes, begging him for some release — which he does not grant. Along with the others who continue to look me over, without any strong reactions beyond sly, smug smiles and muttered comments, he looks calmly into my needy eyes, a question in his — reminding me of Jason’s comment about him only keeping me for long if I pleased him. I am not only in this shameful position — I’m on test.

None of them looks as if they intend to speak; either content to look, waiting on Sir Oliver, or deliberately torturing me. Whatever the intention, torture is what I experience.

It can’t be me, here, now, faced with this; can’t be good little Chloe — such a hard worker, such an over achiever, so well-behaved, so willing to do a good turn, so quiet, a deep and careful thinker, always doing what is expected of her — it can’t be that Chloe, facing this — this horror.

So perhaps … perhaps it is … Candyfloss?

This has just been Jason’s demeaning nickname for me, something private between us, until at the beauty salon, they made me say it in public. I know I don’t have a split personality — it’s nothing like that, but … maybe ‘Chloe’ isn’t able to … to be here, to accept this aspect of me?

But I don’t have any capacity for complex thoughts right now, and, whoever it is that I am, whoever is here, is either going to find something in herself that will derail the train that leads to being fucked by these four old men in the most degrading way, or …

” uuhm, Hi?”

That was my voice; Chloe’s voice, almost unrecognisable in its weak and tentative warble, the cringing upward lilt at the end making a question even of that simple little word, as if Chloe isn’t even sure of that; advertising her weakness, her stupidity, her neediness for, her openness to someone else’s certainty — so lacking is she. A vessel waiting to be filled — needing to be filled. Holes, available for fucking; utterly lacking the ability to suggest that she might be anything else, that she might have any other value, her desperation for some sort of acknowledgement, some response beyond increasingly self-satisfied grins on the faces of the three strangers, calm impassivity from Sir Oliver, so urgent now that she would do almost anything to provoke a response.

If she could actually do anything at all, that is, beyond tremble and stare at Sir Oliver’s long, bony hands, strong looking; hands that would be touching me, holding me, grasping my breasts, pushing in between my legs; finding them horribly fascinating, wanting to look away, but utterly unable to look into his face, to meet his eyes.

There’s no response — no change — just more silence, during which I begin to experience the overt assessment of my body for sexual use as if it were physical — strong sensations of vulnerability at my breasts and belly, a feeling of intense exposure and powerlessness. I hear myself giggle — pathetic, the silly noise providing a window into my weakness, my neediness, my mounting hysteria, my incipient sobbing.

Of course, this just makes everything twice as intense; the giggling is accompanied by a ridiculous, shameful wriggling — like a little girl desperate for the toilet — not all all sexy; but my hips move, my breasts jiggle, and there is more grinning and chuckling.

I no longer care about anything other than that this cruel setup is resolved. At that moment, the thought comes into my head that I even would welcome something crude and aggressive, like the servant behind me ripping my clothes off, pushing me down and simply fucking into me in front of these well dressed old men — that such a traumatic experience would at least be simple, understandable, instead of this agonising uncertainty.

Perhaps I am simply not attractive enough — not sexy enough, for him? Perhaps he is about to dismiss me — send me away, ‘found unsatisfactory’? I feel as if I would die if that happened, and again I am impelled to speak, just to deal with the impossibility of the feelings;

“P … please … ?”

This time it comes out as an abject begging, limitless in its neediness, in its submissiveness. Promising anything for at least some resolution.

And now a tear drips, almost tipping me into hysteria. Jason hates crying. Tears were acceptable to him, in moderation, but not sobbing, not weeping, not crying. I must not, must not let tears overtake me!

My hands were flapping — so humiliating, not to be able to put two words together; me who at work was so cooly articulate, so in control of myself, to be at a loss, to be distracted by hearing a couple of words (’… those titties …’) — knowing that it was my body that was being referred to so, that my breasts were fair game — that I had offered them as fair game for this sort of demeaning remark — that this was what I was here for, to let men like this use me this way; (my nipples were electric, tremblingly sensitive), having to force myself to say … something … anything;

And then, at last, his voice — deeper, firmer, younger sounding than in my memory;

“You’re the whore — Jason’s whore?”

It’s like a slap in the face.

At the same time, it is perfect. Something in me responds. He’s the man. He knows me, knows how to do me. He’s going to have me; I’m going to give myself to him; I’m going to be lost in him; I’m going to die, I’m going to live for him.

My voice, when I hear it — I am not aware of having spoken, of having thought about what to say, even — my voice is low, breathy but clearly sincere;

“Yes. Yes, Sir. I’m Jason’s wh … whore.”

And I am; realising it for the first time. Jason has called me all sorts of things — including ‘whore’, and I’ve accepted it; but it’s always been possible to think of it as just the shitty way Jason likes to talk — that it turns him on to be like that; that it turns me on, often, as well, although it is hard to admit the truth of it. But now, so clearly stated, so simply accepted, I realise it’s been obvious for months, and I am appalled and grateful in equal measure for Sir Oliver’s requiring me to admit it, out loud, directly — even as it sinks me in humiliation.

I am Jason’s whore. He calls me when he wants to have sex with me, and never at any other time, and I immediately go to him, without question or complaint. The fact that swanky dinners and interesting theatre, buying me pretty dresses and drinking cocktails while teasing me with sexually humiliating conversation is what, for Jason, constitutes entertaining foreplay, can’t disguise the reality. Not any more.

I am a whore.

So far, though, I’ve been one man’s exclusive whore, which has also helped me to hide myself away from the reality of my position. But now; now, I am about to become a true whore — willingly fucking strangers as part of some business arrangement between my pimp and his ‘uncle’ (simply, me as a swap for the redhead).

And I must be a whore, because, urgent voices in my head notwithstanding, I seem to be going to let this happen to me. When there is no need — no need at all, to go through with it.

After all, I’m a free woman, under no obligation; a single, firmly worded rejection of the situation is all it would take to save me. Some embarrassment, of course, would be inevitable, but in five minutes I can be in a cab on the way home, texting Jason to tell him we’re done, and this nightmare will be over.

But as a new silence lengthens, I do nothing of the sort; just accept the satisfied-sounding chuckles and soft-voiced comments that are passing between the men, now; insulting, degrading opinions about my breasts, my sexual responsiveness, my sluttiness, speculations about the tightness of my back passage; shaming, awful, but at the same time, perfectly appropriate in the case of a self-confessed whore.

“Your name, whore?”

Why is he asking all these questions? He knows who I am; we both know that he knows all about me, Jason has shown him videos even — though this is impossible the think about — so , so …

… so he wants to humiliate me. To make me rub my nose in my whorishness. To leave me no wriggle room, to pinion me, spatchcock me in front of these strangers, his guest; make me lay out my condition to them right from the start.

He is handling me just as he should. It is almost comforting, knowing that he understands me so well, that he is going to be merciless with me; allow me no possible mystery or excuse for pretence that this is about anything other than me making myself available for sexual abuse. Jason’s way is slick, smooth, subtle, has allowed me — seduced me — into being taken this far without seeing what I have become (what I have always been, I cannot help but realise), but he has not played any tricks on me, not lied to me, not once — what he has done, though, is to make it easy for me to lie to myself.

This man, though, this Sir Oliver, is forcing me to be honest with myself — honest with these strangers (with the servitor, too, standing right behind me). He has made me admit that I am a whore. I know, even then, that this is me, now — that I am his — his much more thoroughly, more completely, than have ever been Jason’s, and it’s wonderful and terrifying at the same time.

“Candyfloss, Sir.”

It has not even crossed my mind to try and use my real name, knowing that, with him, for him, as his, I am nothing, can be nothing but Candyfloss; nothing but sweet, sexy, fluffy, weak, insubstantiality, that nothing else about me matters. Something cheap, uncomplicated, disposable, someone to fuck and forget.

And this phrase suddenly gets me. For it is certain, in my head, at that moment that, once he has throughly fucked me, when all my mysteries have been plumbed, all exposed, all played with, that he will forget me completely, drop me, without even noticing. Not for nothing am I number 87, to be superseded, inevitably, by whichever girl will become 88 (is the redhead number 86?). Certain, too, is that being forgotten by him will be awful, will be a tragedy, will push me into despair, that it will be unbearable, and a new resolve, an urgent need, builds in me — to make that day as far as possible into the future — to give him every reason, again and again, to see more in me — more usefulness, more entertainment value, more fuckability, more anything — as long as it is more. To remain his, remain worthy of his attention — his desire — for as long as possible.

These thoughts all but overwhelm me with their intensity, their frightening import, the intense urges they bring to life in my body, and I have to fight to stay upright — to present myself for him, to make myself smile, again — smile for him; look up at him, properly, let him see that the smile is for him, let him see my weakness and my need and my acceptance of his power over me. I am shifting my weight from foot to foot, helplessly, telegraphing my weakness so obviously that one of them makes a joke about how desperate I must be to be fucked, bringing a bout of outright laughter at my expense, and I blush, feeling my cheeks hot, tears tingling in my eyes, feeling myself work even harder in the ridiculous, shaming little dress, paradoxically working to look needy, willing, eager to be fucked, to shame myself more, to confirm their sneering assessment of me, heart racing now, knowing how dangerous this is, to degrade myself willingly like this, knowing that it will be impossible to forget that I have acted this way for strange men who see me as nothing more than a weak and fuckable slut. That I have wanted them to think of me this way.

“Tell us whore, what you’re here for.”

Which of course, triggers the memory of his words, that day with Jason;

“I want you to think about them seeing how far into your throat I’m ramming my cock, how docile you are for it, think about knowing that they will all be taking a turn with you, using any hole they like, any way they like, as soon as I’m done.”

And somehow, even though it seems to me that I would rather die than say these words, I hear myself saying, in that same husky, helplessly sincere tone;

“I … I’m here to … to be f … fucked, Sir.”

And then, dragged from me by some insane part of myself that seems determined to make sure that this experience ruins me;

“In … in all my h … holes. Sir.”

And now the only thing that can make sense of any of this is that they take me and use me like a sex dolly, make it impossible for me to think any more, feel anything but their cocks, their usage, lose myself in their lust, because standing here, saying these things, while they sit back, relaxed, sipping at their whisky, making snide comments about me to each other, chuckling, almost losing interest now, one apparently having embarked on an anecdote about another girl, another time, another place, because standing here like this is killing me.

But I don’t die, even though I am made to stand and wait for some further interminable time before he says;

“I suppose we’d better have a look at you then — see if you’re worth fucking. Come!”

He makes a small, lazy, imperious movement with his hand, and that breaks something inside me; my world turns grey. I know that it is a calculated cruelty, but to be dressed as I am, prepared as I have been, made to describe myself and my purpose in such a degrading way, for it now to be suggested that I might not, after all, be even worth fucking kills something inside me, some small bud of hope, of self-regard, some imagining that I have some small specialness, has been crushed, crushed forever. I have not been able to retain confidence in my sexual attractiveness to him for more than a few tens of seconds since those few words that told me that I can never be worth anything to him, that each instant with him is an instant within which I must hope that I can be worthy of his attention until the next instant.

My lips quiver, and now a tears spills from my eye, and once again I must fight to stay standing, so crushed is my spirit. Only the fact that he has commanded me gives me the strength, as I make myself begin walking.

The room seems suddenly even larger, as the small steps enforced by the vertiginous shoes make my progress seem ridiculously slow, the heels clacking loudly into the silence, their eyes on me; greedy, heartless.

As I approach the cluster of chairs in the bay, my heart-rate escalates, my breathing gets panicky and I’m working hard to control myself. The impossible idea that all these old men are going to gang-fuck me is suddenly becoming a reality, rather than an idea, and I don’t think I can cope with it. Somehow I keep moving — it’s better to have something to do than to think about what is coming, what it really means — and I’m approaching Sir Oliver’s chair — noticing, surreally, that he looks unaccountably much more handsome and impressive than my remembered picture of him — although, if anything, even older, in that masculine way which adds, rather than detracts from character in the most virile of types, when something flickers to my right, in my peripheral vision, there’s a sharp, cruel pain at my ankles and I’m falling, hard, crashing knees and elbows, hurting my side on the corner of the table on the way down, wailing sharply, high-pitched, stupid sounding, with the shock and the hurt of it.

I finish in an ungainly heap, arms and legs at odd angles, on the floor, a few feet from him, gasping in pain and then distress as I realise that the man I have just passed — the fat one — has cruelly swung the handle end of his heavy, carved walking stick, hard, into my ankles — that I have been brought down intentionally.

Terrible fear rises in me then, feeding off the pain, feeling the chill of shock gripping me, and anger too. Righteous anger which which wants to be expressed, and which propels me to start lifting myself off the floor, to turn to the man who has done this thing to me and tell him what I think of him, when I hear Sir Oliver say;

“Neatly done, Charles”, and I turn my head back toward him, in time to see his hand flash forward as he slaps my face, hard, knocking me back to the floor, destroying another part of me.

Jason has slapped me many times in a semi-serious, play-sexy way, but only twice like this; brutally, deliberately — making his domination clear. This has been the hardest part of Jason for me to accept, the moments that have brought me closest to finding the strength to end it with him.

For a modern woman to accept such violence from a man — if she does accept it, this sort of treatment — she has to have taken a step back from any assumption of equal rights, equal power, has to have accepted the man’s right to hit her, to hurt her — something which is no longer part of the normal state of affairs, nothing to do with sexism, with the relations between men and women, but something that is specific to him, to her, to their particular relationship. Each time Jason has hit me, our relationship has taken a step into deeper waters, my position of weakness become more open, more explicit.

This man, Sir Oliver, has hit me, almost immediately — hit me harder, more cruelly than Jason ever has, without provocation, and with no pre-existing relationship for context. He has done it in front of witnesses.

The message is stark, and brutal. I am to be submissive, dominated, weak, vulnerable, subject to arbitrary cruelty. I’m not just here to be fucked, I’m going to be hurt, as well. Quite badly hurt, probably; none of them seem in the slightest shocked at what has been done to me. Sir Oliver and his friends are clearly used to the idea of hurting the young women in their power. I need to do something, right now.

But I can find nothing, nothing at all; my anger is gone — I can’t even let myself make a sound, beyond the initial horrified shout of pain and fear. I know I should protest — loudly, immediately, noisily — that if I don’t, it will be understood that I can be treated like this, that I will always accept it. But I can’t do it, can’t do anything; can’t raise the slightest resistance.

Instead I just lie there, panting heavily, suddenly aware of the way their eyes must be on me, on my vulnerability, the short skirts rucked up to reveal my naked thighs, my buttocks jutting from the way one leg is bent, the weakness of the splayed position of my arms, my passivity — for I dare not move.

And that’s it, dead, the perfectly ordinary expectation that a stranger won’t violently assault you, that if they do, it will be unacceptable, will be challenged, that they will be in the wrong, all gone from me. I’ve been in the room less than five minutes, I’m still fully dressed and I’ve already been crudely diminished and degraded. I’m dying inside, lying on the floor, too frightened to move. Pathetic, humbled, I wait to be told what to do. I try to keep my panting quiet, but to little effect. It advertises my fear, my near panic, my weakness. He has made his point, and my abject lack of protest signals my acceptance. He will hit me when he wants to, and I will accept being hit.

Nothing to do with sexy games, with sado-masochistic urges, either. Just naked, brutal enforcement of power. He is strong, I am weak. He will use his strength on me without compunction, as it suits him, and I? I will be beaten. I am beaten. He has beaten me.

No pause this time;

“That’s right, pretty; when you’re put down, you stay down, and don’t come up until you’re told to. Which is now; start to come up — make it sexy, now, let’s be seeing just how easy it would be to take advantage of your vulnerability.”

Nervous, licking blood from my lip, I gather my hands, begin to lift my head, shift my legs, no real idea how to meet his expectations …

He slaps me again, backhand this time, harder, if anything, knocking me back to the floor. The noise of it is shocking, horrifying, and my shout of pain is a shout of despair this time, going straight into sobbing, as I lose control of myself for a few seconds, shaking with distress.

There’s a satisfied; ‘Ha!” from behind me — a plummy, patrician accent; a warm, chummy voice; deep satisfaction at watching a vulnerable young woman knocked to the floor for the third time in a minute. From a man who probably has a good view of my sexy little panties, so rumpled is my dress.

The humiliation is like a physical pain inside me, intense, agonising. All the things which are subliminally communicated to you as a girl, growing up — about modesty, about managing the greater strength of men, managing their lust, about never letting things get to this point — all these things are being violated — and it’s me violating them; it’s me who allowed Jason to prepare me for this, me that took time off work, me that said yes to everything in the beauty parlour, me that convinced the servitor, in the corridor, that I wanted to continue, me that announced myself as a whore, to be fucked in all holes.

Me.

All this is what I want. What I deserve. I can’t bear it any more; but I can’t make myself die.

He is waiting, watching. My chest heaves. What can I do? There is still nothing in me which wants to fight back. I need him to make sense of me, to contain this, to hold me; even if that holding is abusive. I can’t — simply cannot imagine it — I CAN NOT LIVE with what I know about myself now. Not without this man. Not any more. However terrifying that is.

But he’s not interested in whatever stupid thoughts and needs I have — that’s why he’s so strong — he knows what he wants, and he demands it of me, as of right, with the threat of pain and shame if I fail him. And that’s what I cling to, listening to his words as if they are a lifeline.

“Arse comes off the floor first, slut, legs well apart — make it obvious you’re ready to take a fucking. If you don’t get slapped down, then it might be safe to try lifting your face off the floor.”

It’s like another slap. To be spoken to in such a way!

And yet, and yet… some part of me responds, almost gratefully — yes, yes, no pretence, no veneer. This is it, this is what makes sense of me. I’m a whore, a slut, here to be used. Haven’t I just told him this? What else can I expect? Isn’t this what I deserve? Wasn’t I responding, just a few minutes earlier, to his directness, his honesty about what I am?

And I fold my pain, my shame, my distress away, so that I can try, once again, to please him, to prove myself deserving of his attention, of being controlled by him; of being saved from my pathetic self.

It is hard — so very hard — not to sob, not to break down, although I know I mustn’t, that I have to control myself. Biting my lip, blinking back the tears, I make myself obey — raise my hips and lift my behind, as smoothly as I can, and sexily,too, I hope; face flat on the floor, pushing my knees apart then shuffling them forward to lift my bum as high as possible, feeling the cool air on my naked thighs beneath the short skirts, heart thudding, face burning with humiliation as much as from the slapping.

This position is unbelievably degrading, the need to bring my thighs tight together, to preserve some shred of modesty, like a physical pressure on me, which I resist with great difficulty, knowing that my success marks me as a slut, feeling their eyes on me, hearing their increasingly crude comments, their appraisals of my thighs, my buttocks, making myself hold a pose, let them talk about me, give them what they want, however shaming it feels.

I am scared, humiliated, in pain, working hard to control tears — at the same time, my mind is racing; utterly transfixed by what he has done with me in less than ten minutes. I know that if any one of them were to put a hand between my legs, they would find me shamefully warm, there, warm and wet, and this thought makes my belly flip. It takes everything I have not to curl into a ball of embarrassment, and again time stretches, agonising.

“Very well. Listen, now; your default position, while you are with me, girly, is on your knees. So, let’s have you up now — kneeling; legs apart — wider! Knees wider than your shoulders, bum well off the floor, arms behind your back, push your tits out — offer them.”

I find myself pathetically grateful to be told what to do — shamefully eager to comply — not sure whether it’s from relief from fear and uncertainty, or whether it’s the opportunity to display myself for him, or some toxic mix of both.

In any case, it doesn’t matter, as he says;

“Good — obedience matters for you girly, if you aren’t to be getting slapped about all the time. Remember this position — when not told otherwise, this will be how you present yourself. The default for moving is also on your knees — on all fours, crawling. Your failure to crawl resulted in displeasure. Any displeasure will lead to pain — pain and humiliation. Do you understand?”

All of this is delivered in a calm voice — almost friendly.  It is devastating. Here I am, kneeling for this man, thrusting my breasts forward, breathing raggedly, helplessly thinking about him fucking me now, anticipating it, wanting it….

“Yes . . Yes, Sir” — it is so hard to make myself say this, say it in front of these others — the servant still in the room, moving about, discreetly filling whisky glasses and bringing fresh cigars — and saying it changes me again; I feel it. Another step along a road that fascinates me and terrifies me, that seduces me and then smashes me into tiny pieces. And each step along the road makes it harder to imagine going back, makes my heart beat faster, my pulse beat louder in my ears, makes my senses centre themselves on my sex, on its anticipation of violation.

“For your sake, I hope that you do, little girl. Now …”

He leans over and casually mauls my breasts up and out from the bodice of the dress, rough; hurting me, not caring, so that they bulge lewdly, my nipples shamefully stiff, their dyed darkness eye-catching against my pale skin. I gasp at the pain and the crudity of it, but I hold myself still, letting him do it. He sits back, studying what he has done to me; I’m breathless, devastated, a little hysterical, emitting little panting moans, unable to control myself, however much I hear how pathetic they are.

“Not bad, pussy, not bad. I like a nipple I can get my teeth into.”

He pushes his chair back a way with his feet;

“Now, crawl to me — let me see those titties swing.”

And I crawl, obediently, on all fours, feeling my breasts sway —  my hips too. I am crawling to him!

“You may kiss my feet.”

It sounds like a silly cliche written down — but to do it in fact is astonishingly powerful — I have to remind myself of how easy it is for him to hit me, and still it is hard — so hard; I am very slow, but I give each highly polished toe a soft kiss, quivers running through me, knowing they have all witnessed this act of self-abasement.

I wonder for a second what to do next — and then I remember — default position — and panic a little, so that my movements into the kneeling position he showed me are jerky, flustered. My tits jiggle; impossible to hide this, however shaming it is.

He laughs, shortly, entertained, enjoying my weakness, my fear, my subjugation, and the others join in, complimenting him on his ‘no nonsense’ approach, his brutal way of speaking ‘to the pussy’, ‘never giving it a single excuse to imagine that it means anything at all’.

I blush hotly, blinking back tears, staring at his knees, thrusting my tits forward, desperately hoping he likes them, wanting him to be pleased with me so terribly badly, grateful even for cruel laughter. Getting no reaction, I become nervous, and decide I need to open my legs wider. It is, again, appallingly hard to do it, so expressive of fear and submission is it. But I am even more frightened of not doing it, of not pleasing him now, after all this.

He leaves me like that for a little while — he takes a sip or two from his glass, and then;

“Acceptable, for now. Up with you! Stand!”

Again, as if I am an automaton, I obey, standing as elegantly as I can, cheeks burning, feeling the exposure of my breasts to devastating effect, astonished at the depth of emotions coursing through me, unable to stop the deep rise and fall of my chest, that inevitably calls further attention to my upthrust breasts.

“Hands behind your neck. That’s it. Get up on the table, will you?”

It’s low, just a step up, but the sensation of being on display up there is powerful and oppressive; I feel their eyes upon me, feel so slutty and ashamed, at the same time as I know I want them to see me, need them to find me attractive, desirable; fuckable.

“Now, turn; slowly!”

It was terrible to be so needy, so desperate for him — for all of them — to want me. Every fibre of me was on edge to do what I could to help me present myself as a sexually inviting object — because if they didn’t want me, then all of this humiliation and degradation would be for nothing — the rejection would be unbearable. At the same time, every remaining shred of self-respect urged me to go no further with this awful degradation.

As I finished the slow turn, he said;

“Well, you look better in decent clothes, rather than those tight little stretchy things Jason dresses his tarts in.”

And I had to live with that as his assessment of me. Part of me knew that he was deliberately belittling me, but it didn’t help with the humiliation, or the added urgency of the need always to present myself to him as sexually attractively as possible. And I couldn’t escape the reality of my pathetic pleasure at even this slight and mean approval.

“Take off the dress, now, little cunt.”

Jason has called me a cunt, but only a few times, and usually in the heat of fucking. It is hard to bear it being used so casually, so harshly, so emotionlessly, so directly. As if it were my name. Hard knowing that there is nothing, realistically, that I am going to do about being spoken to like this. Hard knowing that there is no real argument I could offer him to say why he shouldn’t use such words to me. Hard knowing that I like being called ‘cunt’, by him.

It takes a number of deep, careful breaths, still, before I can bring myself to this, to making myself naked for these men, but in the end there is nothing else I can do, and I strip, looking for that balance point between prettiness and lewdness that Jason demands — not knowing if Sir O will like it or not, but having no other guide, wondering if, should I displease, I will be hit some more; trying very hard indeed to be pleasing.

The dress falls away pathetically easily, leaving me all but naked apart from the corset, the half-cup bra, stockings, panties, shoes and choker. It’s infinitely worse than being completely naked, this presenting myself in lingerie clearly designed to encourage sexual usage; advertising myself as a slut, an obvious whore. My heart is racing again, Terribly, terribly hot, short of breath, such neediness, such hypersensitivity between my legs at the thought of what is surely coming; on a knife edge between hysteria and begging to be fucked.

I am so terribly, terribly vulnerable at this point — desperate beyond words for him to like my body, like me sexually — I want him to want to possess me. I need it. But all I can do is to try my best to stand there, legs apart, shoulders back, chest forward, a stupid, weak little smile on my lips, eyes lowered, quivering obviously.

The silence is so long I think I will start sobbing before he speaks, when at last;

“Pretty little knickers — very sexy — but cunts like you don’t get to wear knickers; get them off, now, and never let me catch you wearing such things again. Your pussy is to be easily  accessible at all times. When you are with me, it’s no longer your most secret part, but your most obvious part — the part of you which justifies your existence.”

The crushing implications of this speech burning into me like ice, I am nevertheless prettily obedient. Bending from the hip like a stripper — the way Jason has taught me — to slide my panties — that last little pathetic sop to decency — down my legs, my breasts swaying, I feel delirious.

I try to kneel prettily, legs wobbly, feeling ridiculous and so, so vulnerable, as I open my thighs for him, trembling all over, showing him my sex — displaying myself. If he doesn’t like me now, then I think I will die of despair.

“Juicy enough tits on you, girly; just begging for cruel treatment — pubes trimmed to lead the eye directly to the pussy, another site for pain, as well as hard fucking. You’ll look better once the whip has marked you, cunt, but you’ll pass for now. Young Jason has done well, I think.”

“Gentlemen? Your verdict?”

“I could be better pleased if her tits were bigger, but yes, overall, quite a tasty little morsel. Let’s hope her arsehole is as tight as young Jason says it is, eh?”

“Your methods do always impress me, Ollie, I must say. It’s no wonder my own girls are so cheeky, when I compare my approach to yours. I could only wish I had your iron will — so powerfully effective! I’m sure I’ll enjoy this little one enormously, yes. Only, I think that may have to wait until after tea, now. Something I need to talk to Hoskyns about, and he’s not staying tonight.”

I can hardly believe it, as they turn to discussing, in rather bantering, ponderous terms, whether or not to postpone fucking me until ‘after tea’, which they eventually agree to.

I can’t tell whether this humiliation has been carefully planned, or whether it’s genuine, but it doesn’t really matter, the bleakness which settles on me as they get themselves up and ready to leave is like ashes in my mouth, bitter, caustic. The three friends leave with the servitor, while Sir Oliver busies himself by the drinks cabinet before coming to the table. He’s grinning, seeing my barely contained grief and despair at being spurned so.

“Poor Candyfloss; such a big thing to you to have let yourself be treated so, called a whore and a cunt, slapped around like a degraded slut, made to parade yourself naked, and still they decide that tea is more interesting than fucking you.”

“Unlike the younger men you associate with, none of us are in the least desperate about sex. We enjoy it very much — but all of us here control one or two sluts of our own most of the time, fuck them whenever we feel like it, any way we choose — that’s what this club is about. So you’ll just have to accept that you’re just another eager, helpless little cunt as far as we’re concerned.”

“Although I will say that I’m looking forward to watching those lovely titties bounce around while I choke you with my cock — from what I’ve seen from young Jason’s little videos, you get quite entertainingly distressed when it goes deep in your throat — and of course, today there’ll be a cock in your pussy at the same time, too.”

“But for now, pretty, you need to drink this up. Just a shot of whisky, plus a little cocktail of mild drugs — to get you in the mood, make you weak, make you sensitive. Drink up now, lick your lips and thank me. Then there’s this bag to go over your head. You’ll be kneeling here, looking just as sexy as ever you can, when I get back, or there’ll be pain, understand me?”

A minute later, I’m kneeling, naked, blinded, effectively, by the black velvet bag that has been dropped over my head, the taste of whisky in my throat, tears on my cheeks, struggling to control myself, to stay kneeling in the required position, on the little table, knees apart, bum up in the air, my breasts pushed forward, wondering if I will notice the effects of the drugs as they kick in, what they’ll do to me, fighting off despair.

A whore, waiting.

Waiting to be fucked.