You will want to have read the other parts of this story before reading this. Trust me.
She wakes again, arms and wrists sore, only the most urgent of the sorenesses and slow-burning pains that her body demands she pay attention to — many sited in parts used to being kept safe, protected; her nipples, her sex, her anus. Her throat, too, is raw, feels swollen, her arms and elbows bruised from being harshly gripped, forced; her buttocks terribly tender where the whip has cut into her.
She is not, not for the moment at least, distressed by these pains, although they are very definitely hurting. For they are all of a piece with the new understanding of herself she has been trying to build through her repeated rehearsal of the litany of insanity that is the cruel, degrading roll-call of her acceptances. In fact, these hurts are strangely welcome, as they are definite, real evidence that what can easily seem like unhinged, depraved nightmares in her mind have a strong connection to her reality (begging the question, of course, as to whether it is her reality that has become unhinged).
She understands, too, that pain (mental, as well as physical) is something she must somehow learn to accept, to expect as a constant factor of her existence if she is to manage to live this new life for any length of time before the destruction that He has told her will befall her.
This story — that of her inevitable destruction — is one of the hardest of the hard things that she has convinced herself she must accept, since it means that, in some sense, she is already finished. Condemned. But to what, exactly? He hasn’t been clear. She has, several times over the last days, thought in welcoming terms about death — well, at least, about not having to live any more, not having to walk this agonising path, not to be forced to negotiate the terrible paradoxes He has made it impossible for her to ignore.
Somehow, though, she is sure that He does not mean her death — even in His newly revealed heartlessness toward her, she does not believe that He wishes that for her. So He must mean destruction in some more psychological sense — a mental collapse, perhaps? But that might be worse than death!
It is hard; very hard, not to give up, not to dissolve into tears, into self-pity, into despair, but in the cold, uncomfortable hours, in the recital of her acceptances, in the many flashbacks to the many moments of astonishing intensity that have punctuated her life in the last thirty-six hours; from her body’s insistence that she confront these, her refusal to reject them as nothing to do with her own choice, from her refusal to blame Him for what has been done to her — from all this, something has begun to grow inside her. Something that wants it. Wants it all — even the eventual destruction — or, even if she doesn’t actively want it, there is something undeniable in her that at least wants to know, is determined to experience what He has promised her; more, too — she understands that she cannot do it by herself. That she needs Him to be her strength — to make it impossible for her to back out. And knows that, if He is to deliver this experience to her, she must make it entertaining for Him — however terrible that will be for her.
It is not that she wants pain, wants humiliation, wants sexual degradation, wants to be this thing He calls a Rape Dolly. Inside her, still, is Chloe; a young woman; a soft, sweet-natured young woman, who had love and hope and aspired to joy and a fulfilled life. If this girl is to be destroyed — such a heart-rending betrayal of the Chloe she was until a few days ago — then it must be for something; it must be to experience the ultimate — that destruction. And if she needs Him to get there, then she has to be worth His attention until she is, finally, destroyed — not cast aside beforehand, her potential exhausted, her use-value vitiated, before He has taken her to the breaking point.
Something like this — as soon as she has formulated the thought, she’s in doubt again. Much of the time her thoughts, her logic seem like the ravings of a lunatic.
No matter what, though, through it all, through the awful night, through the tortuous mental wrestlings with impossibility, with stomach-churning despair, with the continual struggle against allowing herself tears (alternately hating and in love with this ever-present, self-imposed emotional and physical straitjacket) — through all of it, the deep, gut-felt certainty remains in her, an unrelenting demand, to continue with Him. And from this comes the need not to give in to the despair, to the fear, to the horror, the shame, the sadness that constantly pulls at her.
Then, too, there is — almost impossible to accept, but very real — there is the dark, chest-tightening anticipation, the neediness in her belly, for the promised fuckings; for the hard fuckings, fuckings from strangers, humiliating, painful, cruel fuckings, hurtful and frightening fuckings in her ass and throat as well as her pussy, fucking accompanied by hitting and whipping and painful man-handlings, degrading fuckings, mostly not even pleasurable, orgasms explicitly forbidden her — but fuckings nevertheless. Fuckings that some animal part of her wants … needs … desires! And that part of her, too, which is either new grown or — always present — has been recently released from long suppression, is deeply, powerfully grateful; grateful to Him for having opened this path to her — this path where she is required to advertise herself at all times — advertise her body, at least — for sexual use — for sexual abuse. There is some new freedom here — freedom to let her body ask for what it wants, to get herself fucked — without any heed to social restraints — freed, at the cost of her dignity, her future, her self-respect, her sanity, perhaps, if that is what He means by destruction — but a new and greedily seized upon freedom, nevertheless.
In the pink-grey tinge of early dawn, shivering, naked, sore, chained, mentally exhausted, she brings herself up onto her knees and, thirsty beyond belief, in need of a pee, lets her eyes close for a few seconds only as she builds the resolve — built from nothing, nothing at all but that insane logic, then begins the crawl to the bathroom.
A ridiculous internal debate about whether it is right that she should drink from the stale water in the pan, and only then pee, or whether she should pee first, then flush before drinking occupies her tired brain for long moments, until she laughs at herself — amazed that she can laugh, after such a night, even such a small, pathetic laugh as it had been — and then, simply, without hesitation, shuffles forward on her knees and pushes her head into the toilet to drink.
She will deny herself the relief of peeing — let Norah control her pissing as well — why not? The more completely she can suppress her own needs, the more completely she can become His creature. His Rape Dolly. It seems to make sense. As much sense as anything else, at least.
She had once had a doll that could pee, as a child. But it had peed only when she made it pee, never otherwise.
Drinking from the toilet pan was disgusting, humiliating, yes, but it calmed her, too. She had been without control for hours, during the night — alone, nothing but her thoughts when she was awake, nothing but the dark. She had felt, building inside her, a loss of connection, that dissociation that had assailed her yesterday, in the car-park. She — it’s ridiculous to think it, but it’s true — she needs to be controlled. If she is to continue with this ‘acceptance’, then she needs to be controlled. She can’t do this on her own — it’s too hard. She is too weak. Even though it is her body that demands that she follow this path, she needs Him to keep her on it.
Otherwise the obvious madness of accepting a life as a Rape Dolly gets more plainly impossible, the sane and reasonable demands of ‘the real world’ begin to raise themselves, and the internal conflict becomes harder and harder to bear, threatening breakdown — the premature breakdown she is determined to avoid.
Forcing herself to drink from the toilet, deciding to let Norah take charge of her peeing, brings just a little of that external control back into her reality. It’s pathetic, she knows, for this to calm her down. But then, allowing herself to accept the offer of becoming His Rape Dolly is also pathetic; shameful beyond imagining, so why should she not simply accept this, too?
And she laughs again, as she carefully arranges herself, on her knees, facing the foot of the stairs, thighs spread, backside lifted off her heels, hips flexing, chest pushed forward, eyes on the floor. She opens her mouth, and puts the tip of her tongue out. This is hard to do, here, on her own, in the pale light — seems especially degrading — also, she knows already, it condemns her, if she wants to keep it there, to endless little adjustments, remoistenings, lickings, flickerings — it is impossible to keep her tongue still for long, if exposed to the air; and the knowledge that she is thus attracting attention to the invitation to use her mouth so continually is a continual humiliation.
A little smile at herself, this time; for, of course, this is exactly the point.
Her body’s need to get fucked, her own desire to please Him and invite Him to use her, her need to feel His control even though He is not here — all require her to embrace the difficult feelings that unambiguously inviting sexual usage generates in her — accept the squirming shame in her belly, the tingling at her nipples, the vulnerability at her sex, the apprehension at the idea of either her swollen, tender throat, or her sharply painful ass (perhaps both) being fucked again, hurt again, and soon.
Accept … accept.
He’s going to rape and humiliate me, knowing that it will destroy me, and I’m going to do my best to incite Him to rape me, and accept His humiliations as the rules I will live by, and I am going to encourage Him to offer me to His friends so that they can rape and degrade me, and this is my life, now, and somehow, I want it like this, and I am going to try to do it well, and if I am lucky I will get fucked well, too.
Holding the pose is hard, but the click of a door in the service wing has her carefully repositioning herself, heart thumping, suddenly agonised at the impending reality of Norah’s petty cruelties.
Realising, all over again, that thinking about all this, hard as it is, is so much easier in the abstract; the degradation of actually being Rape Dolly just about manageable in imaginary form, if she works at it; but the reality — even the promise of impending reality is much, much more frightening, always close to unbearable; knowing that shameful cruelty and sexual abuse are coming, very soon, her acceptance — of her naked, chained vulnerability, of her pathetic powerlessness, her inability to resist — her acceptance provides only the thinnest of armour against the fear, the despair, the humiliation of actually having to live as … (what had Norah called her?) as a slutty piece of cunt.
There are swallowed tears in her throat, then, as she holds herself in pose, eyes on the floor, not permitting herself to look around to check just how close those heel clicks are, reminding herself, too late, that Norah had wanted to wake her with the toe of her shoe into her mouth again, not daring to move now, finding it all but impossible to believe that she is doing her best to present herself to His servant, naked, on her knees, in chains, carefully preparing herself to let the woman hurt her, insult her, play with her sexually.
Here heart is racing, her breathing is ragged; chest heaving, nipples jiggling, impossible to control — all her energy spent on suppressing tears, suppressing begging, on keeping her position, in the face of a shockingly powerful desire to be taken away from all this — to die, even — simply to be freed from this impossible turmoil, these wrenching contradictions, this agony of apprehension.
She feels no sense of achievement, no pleasure at all in managing to present herself as she had planned — she is nothing but weak, fearful, shame-filled desperation as she quivers now, visibly, before Norah, whose feet are in her peripheral vision — she doesn’t even dare turn her head without being told to. She feels sick; terrified, disgusting. If she knew how she could escape, right now, she would — except that she knows she cannot. She’s been over it a hundred times. Leaving would get her out of the physical situation, so easily that it’s embarrassing, but it would not close the hole in her life that He has opened up. Nothing ever will. She has no option but to go into the hole. Become the hole. Give herself to it.
Only forty eight hours ago, if she had been told a story much milder than her new reality, been told that the girl in question had stayed, had complied, had worked on herself to bolster her own compliance, had accepted such shameful sexual treatment, had she been told that this girl had responded by experiencing perverse desires herself, she would have had no hesitation in describing the girl in strong terms of disgust, disapproval, would have assumed that she must have been some sort of dirty whore all along, would never have believed that such a transformation could occur without some prior depravity, some inherent dirtiness about the girl.
And so she cannot imagine that Norah is thinking in her in any but the same terms, as a dirty, worthless slut.
The shame threatens to overwhelm her, the tears demand to be released; her jaw is shaking, making it completely certain that Norah can see just how weak she is, how helpless, how devastated, how vulnerable, and this knowledge makes everything just worse … and yet … and yet she must — she must hold herself well. It becomes impossible, though, to prevent herself from expressing her overwhelm in some way, and she can hear herself, with each breath, whining abjectly — such a thin, pathetic sound, breathy, desperate; like a beaten, begging dog. The urge to pee suddenly becomes a massive problem, adding to her torment. There are tears on her cheeks, now. It’s too cruel, too cruel, of Norah to stand and watch her in this condition, to wait, as she appears to be, not to have any pity, not offer the slightest mercy … too cruel…
At the same time, she knows that Norah is cruel, and that her own evident weakness will likely encourage more cruelty, and so, she tells herself, she must regain control, and, in desperation, stops breathing, without thinking about why — just doing something, anything, to break the spiralling cycle of hysteria that threatens to overwhelm her. And it works; not all at once, but by degrees, she brings herself back from the brink, one step at a time, until she is in her original position, breathing in only a slightly noisy manner, the shaking mostly under control, tears blinked away, tongue back in its place on her lower lip, still not having turned her head — only aware of Norah as a certain presence associated with a partial image of some shoes to her right.
Knowing that the woman has watched all of this is intensely humiliating — watched her nearly lose control, seen the abject despair and desperation all but overwhelm her, then seen her work so hard to bring herself back under control — for what? So that she can be more easily abused. Knowing that Norah has seen this, that she has been naked the whole time, in this degrading pose, just amplifies the awfulness. And still, it seems, Norah is just watching. Every second, the panic threatens to overtake her again, and the pain in her bladder gets worse.
At last, Norah’s voice comes — expressing cool and disdainful amusement, but otherwise as if this a normal greeting;
“My, oh my! What a performance! Almost as if there was something important going on here, something that mattered to someone. How ridiculous! Seriously, bitch, I never want to see such a display again, unless someone who does matter has driven you to it. How dare you waste my time with your nonsense? Should the question of your behaviour come up with your Master today, you must be sure to tell Him just how useless and pathetic you have been, and tell Him that my opinion is that you should be made to suffer.”
Silence; Chloe is agitated — should she respond, to make it clear she has understood? Or should she be silent, since she has not been asked a question? Could she speak, even if she wanted to, in her current state?
In the end, she goes with silence, which seems to have been the best policy, as Norah says;
“Wise that you kept quiet then, cunt; at least something of what I said yesterday has stayed with you. Not much though — I told you I’d wake you with my shoe in your mouth. And yet here you are, having woken yourself up. No matter, though; since I can’t get at your mouth, your pussy will have to serve.”
She walks forward now, her legs coming into Chloe’s field of view — high heeled courts with pointy toes, as usual.
“Keep steady now, I’m going to kick you in the cunt, and then I’m going to do it again.”
Chloe almost loses it at once;
No! It can’t be — can’t be! She can’t! No-one ever … it just can’t …
Except that, she realises, it can; of course it can. Just because something is unthinkably awful does not mean that it cannot be done to her. The degraded slut. Of course Norah can kick her in the pussy. Why should she not, if she takes a fancy to?
Chloe’s need to not disappoint, her fear of failure, her self generated commitment proves to be such, that even this shock is contained, the fear swallowed, the horror suppressed, and she holds her thighs open — even opens herself a little, reacting against her instinctive tightening, as Norah steps forward, her left foot outside Chloe’s right thigh, now, her right hand in Chloe’s hair, pulling her head into Norah’s crotch, gently, but irresistibly, and the implication of intimacy in conjunction with the impending violence is wrenchingly awful.
And then, unimaginably, Norah’s sharp-toed shoe kicks itself into Chloe’s spread, defenceless pussy. The movement is so soft and slow as hardly to be called a kick, but for all that, a kick it is, and the psychological weight of the idea of being treated so — of allowing herself to be so treated — does what mere pain could not have done; it breaks Chloe’s heart — the agonising horror at being complicit in this too hard to bear, and the tears break through, and not just tears, but weak, abject sobbing, loud and broken, as Norah, uncaring (enjoying herself enormously, it has to be said), begins a slow rhythm; pulling back, waiting a beat, then swinging her foot forward, to put the pointed toe of the shiny court shoe, hard, into the entrance to Chloe’s vulva, gradually increasing the force with each kick, as Chloe cries her heart out, each kick followed by a weak but heart-rending little cry — the emotion of the night and of the past ten minutes pouring out of her.
At the same time, Norah is impressed to note that, despite her distress, her loss of control, Chloe holds her position remarkably well. True, her buttocks are no longer held up in the air — her bum is resting on her heels now, but her thighs remain open, her hands are not fighting with the cuffs, and her neck is not stiff — it is almost as if she is crying into Norah’s lap — even as Norah teaches her just how low, how unimportant, how vulnerable she is.
Although, to Chloe, this experience seems to fill whole universes, extend for hours, occupy her whole existence, in fact Norah only kicks her six times, never hard enough to produce any real pain, even — the whole thing has been highly theatrical — but no less effective for all that.
In fact, later that morning, when He has Norah tell Him about the morning, He is calmly satisfied with both women — with Chloe’s response, but also with Norah’s management. In cruelly enforcing and reinforcing the requirement that Chloe not allow her own feelings to in any way interfere with her betters’ plans, Norah had done no more than He might expect — but in recognising that the girl’s feelings, especially in these early days, especially through that first night naked and chained, on the cold floor — that those feelings must be given some legitimate release, Norah’s decision to do something symbolically awful like kick the girl in her sex had been totally appropriate.
Chloe’s unrestrained, wild sobbing during and after the kicking — Norah had held the girl’s head in her crotch for a good five minutes afterward, as the girl had vented the dreadful shock and shame that finding herself used so horribly had generated — that sobbing had left the girl meek and docile; sweet even — even as she had been taken down several rungs, had been shown yet again that there is always something which can break a girl’s hard-won feeling that she can cope, can manage herself through this.
Chloe, while not understanding what had been done to her with anything like this level of dispassionate clarity, has nevertheless noticed in herself some unlooked for lightness of spirit as, the morning’s sordid and mechanical cleansing at Norah’s hands completed, dressed by Norah in a scant version of the slutty maid’s costume, without the dress — reduced to frilly cap, white lace choker, tightly laced white bustier corset, a tiny broderie anglaise apron that really only covers her pussy (tied with a bow at the front, inviting quick and easy removal), white hold-up stockings and higher-than-ever mary-janes — as she prepares to greet Him in the morning room (even the discovery that Norah had decided that it made sense to squirt the bland food pap into her mouth while she knelt on the enema table, her belly still trying to calm itself after the forced evacuation — pointing out both the efficiency of the process, since the following shower would ‘clean up any mess at either end’, and also claiming that a ‘poetry’ lay in the counterpoint provided by the introduction of food at her mouth so soon after the evacuation from her rear — even the humiliation at this this crude, utilitarian nastiness had failed to dent her mood).
Again, the stark contrast with the routine of the past weeks makes it clear just how much everything has changed in these last two days.
Even yesterday, she had greeted Him with words, had looked into His eyes, while today she makes ready — as instructed by Norah — to look at His groin, to think about His cock, tell herself how grateful she will be to have it fuck her, to be ready to lift the scrap of apron to offer Him her naked sex — freshly shaven, all but the little vee of tight curls, her pussy both lubricating and sore, Norah having ‘helped’ her get herself wet for Him, before pinching and twisting at her poor clit to cancel out the pleasure that she is not worthy of.
But despite this shaming, the awful conditions He has imposed on her if she is to remain in this house, the terrible cruelties that have rained down on her, Chloe finds herself eager to greet Him. His arrival has been a source of happiness to her for months and months, now, and, if she can, she wants to carry on feeling that way about it — whatever the circumstances — to have some small joys yet in her degraded, hollowed-out life.
And it is, it is somehow a joy, after all the ugliness, to present herself, even in the slutty little whore’s outfit, paying attention to everything — holding her belly in, her breasts out, her feet apart, her tongue soft and moving languorously between opened lips, glossy with a deep red lipstick that Norah had applied, hoping that she is pretty enough, trying hard to be, thinking about being on her knees between His legs, just the two of them in the room, swallowing His cock, His strong, hard hands on her breasts …
And when He enters, remembering the previous evening, when lifting her skirt had been transformed by thinking about nothing but Him, she takes a positive pleasure in pulling up the frilly scrap of apron, in flexing her hips, just a little, slowly, in smiling a small, cute, stupidly girly smile, touching the tip of her tongue to her top lip, shimmying her shoulders just enough as she lifts the apron to set her nipples moving.
To be totally ignored is hard, but even this she finds somehow comforting. She is just cunt. If He has no need to fuck her, is not planning to hurt her for fun, then she must be happy not to have distracted Him from His priorities. Waiting, ignored, meaningless, is hard — harder in His presence, since she must constantly be straining to be alert for the smallest sign that He may want something from her, without being able to look at His face, but she manages to find satisfaction in this, too. Unsure, since she has been given no command, whether it will be acceptable to lower the apron, she decides, after internal doubts, that she dares not, committing herself to deal with the crawling, growing feeling at the shameful ridiculousness of displaying her sex so obviously for a man who is not looking.
It comes to her that she will be spending long hours in similar conditions to this, but tells herself that, in the past, she had also spent long hours simply waiting for Him to be free to spend time with her; that this will be, in many ways, easier. So much simpler. She will school herself — must school herself, to have no expectations at all of Him — and this will remove one reason waiting had been so hard in the past, when she would torment herself with worries over whether He really cared about her, of whether she should put up with being kept waiting, and a myriad other concerns. Now, of course, she knows; He cares nothing for her; nothing at all. She is waiting, not for His attention, which she used to consider she had some sort of claim upon, but to be ready when He wants to fuck her, or hurt her. She will spend her time walking some tightrope between failing to excite His attention, and irritating Him so that He punishes her.
It is a hard prospect, yes, but so much less muddled than before.
She finds herself asking herself why He hadn’t done this to her months ago, and saved her much anguish (perhaps gained her more fuckings, too). The sudden realisation of the weirdness of this thought strikes her, and she is about to laugh out loud, wanting to share the craziness with Him, when she realises what she has just nearly done, and bites her lip, hard, a dark shadow passing across her heart, as she processes the cruel truth that she will probably never again share a casual joke with Him. Never share anything meaningful with Him, ever, unless He specifically commands it.
It is perhaps her small but audible sigh at this point which rouses Him from the paper, to say two words;
“Eggs, now.”
The signal to go through to the kitchen, for Tabby to see how far she has fallen, in just one day; how deeply she has been humbled, and shame engulfs her little happiness again as she wonders just how much Tabby knows — not that she can’t possibly not notice the weals across Chloe’s buttocks, the bruises on her arms, the whore’s costume, can’t but help noticing that Chloe does not look at her face, does not speak until Norah says;
“Yes, cunt — what is it?”
But still, she is able to hold herself together, by doing nothing beyond what she has been told to do, delivering Him His eggs, then standing by Him as she has been used to do, trembling now, in anticipation — in hope and fear, feeling, in the quiet of Him eating, ignoring her completely, the depth of her vulnerability, the utter lack of defences, of expectations, of hope; a straw to be taken by the wind of His smallest desire, however degrading, however destructive, and somehow managing to believe that this is good, good for her. That she is where she wants to be.
Deliberately, she makes herself experience the full weirdness of this. Standing, all but naked — what clothes she has just exaggerations of her sexual accessibility and display — waiting, as far as she can manage without any expectation of anything, eyes down, not looking directly at Him (a view of His left elbow and knee), but fully attentive to any sign from Him that might help her see how to please Him. Standing, acutely conscious of her body’s hope for sexual contact — a powerful yearning that has somehow been let off the leash, but which is not joyful, eager lust, as it might have been in the past, but wordless dark hunger, knowing through the experiences of the last days (not even two full days, yet, since she had bared her breasts to those greedy, callous men) that any sex will mostly be abusive; selfish, shaming, rough and without consideration for pleasure on her part — but wanting it nevertheless; needing it; shocked by the intensity with which she is hoping that He will touch her, look at her, demand of her in that way. There is no need to remind herself that she must be wet for Him — this yearning has her hips moving, softly, small movements, but impossible to conceal, shocked at her own neediness; making herself accept it, refusing the voices in her that she demand she suppress such obviously lewd and shameful behaviour, slightly losing herself, her eyes closing momentarily, so that she is surprised to hear His voice, calm, soft, amused;
“Do you have something to say to me, cunt?”
Equally surprised to hear her own voice immediately respond, husky, thick with need, throbbing with humble sincerity;
“Please … please rape me Master.”
Her moan when He puts His hand under the apron to her sex, the way her hips surge forward to open herself, to welcome His hard, invading fingers, the way the pitch of her voice rises, quavering, as He pushes into her, the way her knees tremble — all are glorious and shaming at the same time, as is His laconic comment;
“Positively dripping, the little whore.”
She cries out, soft and weak, when He pulls out of her, then falls to her knees, spreading herself wide, at the single word;
“Down.”
He pushes His fingers into her mouth now, and she makes herself open her throat, inviting Him to push deep, make her gag, letting Him, doing all she can to remain soft, eyes tearing, hating and loving herself at the same time for making herself so easy for Him, welcoming the intensity, the enforced debasement, as it makes sense of her new reality in a way that all the fumbling, groping, despairing mental twisting of the night had not.
She takes His cock, eagerly, as He pushes it steadily into her mouth, then fearfully, awkwardly, keeping her hands tucked tight into the small of her back as He walks forward, over her, bending His knees, letting Him force her head down, back, her knees screaming as they bend back on themselves, splayed out beside her buttocks, down, down until her head bangs, quite hard, onto the floor, helpless, trapped by His weight, Him rocking himself now, lazily, fucking deeper and deeper into her throat, the angles all stretching her, hurting her, breathing difficult, choking against him, fighting to keep herself wide, soft, to make sure that He does not feel her teeth, eyes streaming now, nose crushed, suddenly feeling incredibly overheated, chest heaving, belly spasming as He laughs, contented, pushing slowly all the way now, so that His pubic hair, wiry, fills her nostrils and her whole body writhes to His rhythm, giving herself to Him, His weight unbelievable on her face, her neck; breaking — surely breaking her knees with the strain, her hands, her wrists crushed under her, He rutting now, jerking in her, low growling noise coming from Him that increases in intensity slowly until He is spurting, deep in her throat, some of it forced upwards, burning through her nose, thick, panic rising in her as she thinks she must drown in it, Him not relenting for one second, moving just as suits Him, using her, not seeing her, her face under His hips, her body behind him, nothing but the view of the hills through the window to distract Him from the feeling of His cock emptying His balls into a warm, moist, convulsing sheath.
She must have blacked out, she thinks, at least a little, because the next she knows, His weight is gone, she knows that He is standing behind her, off to one side, calmly on His phone, talking through the morning’s work with His office manager, just as He always does.
She finds herself stuck for a second or two — literally unable to move despite sending the urges to her hurting limbs to begin the process of unfolding herself from the compact smear on the floor which He has made of her with His weight and the ruthlessness with which He has taken His pleasure. A fear of paralysis terrorises her, and she jerks, convulsively, hurting herself now, in her desperation to find some way of moving. The frozen feeling passes after a few moments, but not the fear, as her mind begins to insist upon processing just what has been done to her. He had simply walked His cock into her mouth, then crushed her flat to the floor, folded in half, before fucking her throat as if she was nothing more than a plastic sex doll — she had been almost entirely irrelevant throughout, except in her efforts not to bite him, not to struggle. He had all but drowned her with His come — which was still in her airways, all over her face, in her hair, its odour strong.
It is in her, as she struggles to lift herself off her doubled-back legs without making the pain still worse, it is in her to scream at Him, to vent her pain, her fear, her outrage at Him — for this time, she is outraged. It is, she realises — despite all that has been done to her — it is the first time she has experienced Him using her as if she were a meaningless whore, a hole, a cum-dump. Last night’s fuckings had been hard, yes, but they had been couplings — she had been actively involved. This was very definitely a rape, a violation, a dehumanising abuse — the first she had suffered at His hands (knowingly, at least — who knew if He had used her at all, during the whipping session?); brutal in its callous infliction of pain, its utilitarian use of her as a warm, wet hole, and she is angry; angry for the first time since the outrage began.
She discovers, though, that there is something stronger than her anger, something which requires her to swallow it, swallow it whole, rather than sear Him with it. Something which means she must accept it, internalise it.
It is fear. Not fear of him, either (though god knows He has just given her reason to), but rather fear of what she might be left with, now, should she repudiate him, if she should decide, despite everything she has convinced herself of through the dark night, to denounce Him for His cruelty, His despicable treatment of another human being. Denounce him, too, for His betrayal of her, His sick planning of this outrage over months, for whoring her to some random collection of business associates — for all of it.
She discovers, though, that she has become frightened of the idea of reclaiming herself as a free individual — that she can no longer imagine herself as living a life on her own terms. She cannot see how this can have happened so fast, but she knows, suddenly, knows in her gut that she cannot imagine living with the new self-knowledge that has been forced on her — not without Him as her context.
And so she swallows her anger, along with the come she wipes from her face and clothes, lets it turn her belly into a churning mess of despair and self-pity and self-hatred, as she slowly and painfully attempts to pull herself together, to convince herself that she has not, in fact, been irrevocably broken by the force of His usage — that she is only sore, stretched, shamed.
That probably the worst damage (physically, at least) is the added rawness in her poor throat, which has been ravaged more times than she can remember since that fateful dinner.
Not crying, not letting tears fall, becomes her consuming focus as, weak and sore, she slowly gets herself to what seems a safe position, kneeling, staying where she was put, where she has been so thoroughly crushed, so physically made to understand just how degraded she can expect to be, having given herself over to His service.
Her apron is gone; seeing it, crumpled on the table, she sees that He must have used it to wipe His cock clean, since her normal attentions to Him were unavailable while she lay unconscious. For some reason, this small thing, her sex now naked, her only item of clothing besmirched and discarded, almost tips her over the edge, and she struggles, again, to suppress intense emotion — despair, now, rather than anger.
All her pleasure, all her small satisfaction at her ability, her prettiness in her service of Him through breakfast, all that has been cruelly, violently, callously crushed, and she is as if shell-shocked. She is complying, has suppressed her anger (how quickly it had shaded into despair), not because of anything that she had concluded through the long night — not consciously at least — but through simple weakness; fear, through the lack of any belief that she has it in her to become a self-directed human being again, and it burns her.
He has rung for Norah, it seems, for the older woman arrives. He speaks to her; Chloe does not even make the effort to listen; she is only just holding herself together. Numb, clumsily obedient, she allows herself to be helped to stand (the lack of her apron for some reason still intensely shaming), to have the cuffs, collar, chains put onto her, staring at her feet the whole time, wincing but not resisting as her hands are put behind her — new pains at her shoulders and wrists. He has spent most of this time on the phone, finishing His coffee, from what Chloe hears; she has not looked at Him.
She cannot decide whether she needs him to have been looking at her, or the opposite. Not that her feelings matter in the slightest, she reminds herself. She’s just the whore; now that she has been fucked, she is irrelevant.
Norah leads her away; she finds herself making an effort to walk well, to get her hips to switch by lining her feet up with the imaginary line beneath her, but she feels broken.
Back to the spa room, cleaned up a little, naked now, apart from the chains, the choker, the corset and heels, she is told she will be permitted to sleep on the massage couch until she is required. Rather than linked behind her back, her cuffs are instead extended behind her head (she is lying on her back), and linked somehow to the bed-frame. One awful position swapped for another, she soon discovers, but bleak tiredness takes her in any case, and she slips without struggle into the blackness.
Read the next part of Moving Her On.
