This will make more sense if you have read the previous episode.
Chloe, her ‘decency’ restored by pulling the little bandeau up over her breasts — the nipples still tingling with mingled pain and arousal — makes herself once more put out her tongue tip and bob her head towards the proffered chocolate morsel, knowing that now, having explicitly accepted this humiliating little game, she must work on herself, learn to play her part with at least the appearance of pleasure.
What shocks her is how easily M has her playing along for real, as she teases Chloe, offering then lifting the sweetie out of reach, smiling, a corner of her mouth turned up, lips together; amusing herself.
Frustrated, humiliated, Chloe finds herself desperate to cover up her distress, feeling such a strange mixture of shame, pleasure, frustration and arousal, hears herself letting out a high-pitched, girly giggle as the sweetie is once again twitched out of her reach, her head jerking foolishly.
A sense memory flashes into her mind, of being teased by three older boys, aged 13 or so, them pulling at her bag, at her hair, smiling and laughing, having fun, but it being very clear at the same time that they were being sexually assertive with her, pulling at the buttons on her blouse, flicking her skirt hem up, while she, unable to run away — not wanting to run away — wanting them to stop humiliating her,not wanting them to stop; caught up in the sensation of being the sole focus of their attention, her whole body tingling with excitement, her crotch warm, heart pattering, chest heaving …
It had been so incredibly intense at the time that she had cried herself to sleep that night, felt strange for days afterward, but she had buried it, forgotten it until now, here, being toyed with by M, the reality of last night’s sexual violation raw in her, this game part of an obvious campaign to render her submissive, to entrap her; fear at what such entrapment will mean, fierce pleasure at having been chosen for such treatment, shocking need for M’s attention.
The giggle is at the same time nearly a sob, as M teases her again.
“You have such a cute giggle, pretty; I like it — and so will our clients — so I want to hear it more. Yes, I know it’s a little embarrassing to come across like that — to sound so silly and stupid — but don’t fight it, let yourself feel — let yourself be embarrassed, let it show in a cute way — show me how helpless you are, how weak and vulnerable and silly you feel, how much you want to please me, go on … show me that it frightens you, knowing that I can see it — that you are letting me see how pathetic you are, because you want me to know that I can use you, enforce my desires upon you, have fun with you — that you are as excited as frightened at the prospect of this.”
Chloe fails at this, knows she has, it being impossible to disguise the actual sob which breaks from her. It’s all just too much. But it doesn’t stop her trying. Trying to please M, until at last she is allowed to take the little thing between her teeth.
“That’s it! Now, let’s have a little more fun, shall we? Don’t swallow it now, don’t chew it, please — just get it onto the tip of your tongue, then open wide and show it to me — stick your tongue out a little — and now, you wait. Wait for me to let you swallow it. Wait until you get a signal. Even if it’s an hour — do you see? Of course you do, clever girl like you — you know exactly what is going on here, and you’re playing along, just as you ought. Letting us do it to you. That’s good. Very good. Remember, will you, that that’s how we like it?”
“That’s the way to graduating from being a guest — to being allowed to stay — so keep it up. Keep trying, keep paying attention, keep learning, keep trying to get it into your head that nothing matters apart from what D and I think of you. Nothing else.”
“If you can manage that, you might just get what you want. So keep trying your pretty best, girly, keep trying for us.”
A long pause; Chloe trying and failing to meet M’s gaze, feeling utterly ridiculous listening with her tongue out, the little chocolate drop slowly melting on the tip, waiting still, in the silence, for permission to swallow; heart tripping over itself, belly squirming inside, knowing this is wrong, not wanting it to end.
M grins, then;
“Good girl — you can swallow now. Straight down mind! No enjoying yourself. We are not at all in favour of you having pleasure that we haven’t chosen you to have. That’s something to remember, too.”
Then; “Come, now!”
And Chloe can only follow M, heart pitter-pattering in her chest, across the hallway into an elegant dining room, with a long dark wood table, polished to a high sheen and set with two places.
There is something slightly strange about there being only two settings, but before she can start to think about it, her attention is claimed by the arresting sight of Madame D, engaged in just such a cruel and teasing manipulation of the maid Ginny’s pretty, pink-lipped sex as she herself had been undergoing at M’s hands minutes before — except that Ginny has been made to put one knee up onto the dining table, so that her pussy is lewdly opened, spread wide. D has one hand twisted, tightly into Ginny’s hair, the maid’s head bent back at a painful-looking angle while D is apparently speaking directly into her ear, her tone low, sweet and sneering, audible without any words being distinguishable.
Ginny is desperately trying not to cry, trying to conform to the position D demands of her, but she is neither in control of her hips, which alternately jerk — presumably as a result of pain, and writhe, clearly in search of pleasure, nor her throat, from which emerges a continuous breathy whine of mingled stress, shame and pleading as the long, bony fingers work at her sex, relentless, stroking and pinch-twisting at the girl’s engorged clitoris, which is very obvious — slick and hot pink, almost glowing.
M stops, clearly unsurprised, and, from her smile, briefly shared with Chloe, entertained; happy to watch and wait until D should be finished.
And so Chloe, too, watches, mesmerised, horrified, all too painfully aware that roles could have been reversed had D taken it into her head to enter the living room on her arrival, that it could have been her (and all too obviously will be in the future) who would have had to endure not only the sharp shame of allowing herself to be so manipulated, but also to know that there is an interested audience to that humiliation.
Quickly, though, Chloe finds herself not just shocked, embarrassed, but hotly engaged with the scene. The sight of poor Ginny being so treated is not just piteous and disturbing, but almost immediately utterly compelling, heavy with erotic charge, Chloe’s belly tightening almost in time with the movements of the girl’s hips, her jerking, her eager writhings.
Chloe realises, with a sick lurch inside, that M is looking at her, not at the scene; openly smiling — smirking almost — at her obvious fascination — and knows herself once more betrayed by her own body; revealed as a slut, a wanton; her cheeks redden, but there is nothing, nothing to be done but drop her eyes to the floor, and endure. Endure the shame, patiently endure the wait, while another girl is sexually abused in front of her, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary as a before lunch activity.
And then D is straightening, casual, a pleasant smile on her face as she greets M — as if what she has been just doing is not more worthy of notice than if she had been surprised adjusting a stalk in the magnificent floral centrepiece on the table. She ignores Chloe completely, absent-mindedly pushing Ginny to her knees with a hand still tight in the girl’s hair, so that she can offer her sticky fingers to the girl’s rosebud lips (Ginny immediately commencing to lick them clean);
“Ah M, you’re here — this silly one seems entirely to have lost her mind — couldn’t manage to form even the simplest sentence to a straightforward question. But I see you have things well in hand. The pretty looks lovely this morning, I must say — she does blush so obviously, doesn’t she? A definite plus point that we should emphasise in the marketing.”
And then, to Ginny;
“Off you go now, little ninny, and tell Mrs Krells that we’ll have lunch directly, if she pleases. And don’t forget to curtsey properly to her, or there’ll be more than pink showing on your bottom tonight, but deep red stripes!”
With lowered eyes, the girl leaves the room through a door at the far end, her feet toeing an imaginary line, her steps short, hips switching, skirts emitting an audible swish, heel tips tap-tapping. Chloe is mesmerised by the blatancy of the girl’s presentation of herself as an invitation to sexual usage, blushing again at the intensity of a vision of herself walking like that, with strangers watching, knowing that she is available for rent. Wanting it, shamed at the depth of her yearning, appalled and excited at the implications.
How can she have been brought to this, so quickly, so easily, so willingly? How can she be so in love with the vulnerability she feels, naked under the skimpy dress, so close to D’s hard and manipulative hands? She doesn’t feel emotionally engaged with D in the way she does with M — just frightened, awed, and weak-kneed at the prospect of being in her power — but in a way this is a more powerful, more urgent connection.
They are laughing at her, both of them now, she realises — soft, gentle laughter, full of smug self-satisfaction. They know they have me, thinks Chloe; and I know it too.
“You could at least pretend to be pleasantly surprised to find that little Chloe here chose to stay — even though you never doubted she would — just to be polite!” says M, smiling broadly;
“But once again, I bow before your unerring intuitive powers. It’s a good job I’m happier talking to clients, or I’m sure you’d have no use for me!”
D smiles back;
“Oh, I’m sure I’d find one or two of them eager to pay for access to your lovely pussy, darling, if it came to it.”
From their smiles and easy tone, this sort of banter is normal between them, and they pass immediately on to taking their seats, talking more seriously about some problem that needs attending to;
“Broken three of her fingers, has he?”
“Yes; slowly, one after another, fifteen minutes between each, his cock in her throat, her ring-gagged, his own girl working her with her tongue and some hi-tech vibrator, so that she was near to coming each time he did it — so that her scream would massage his dick — the third time he came off, otherwise he’d have carried on. He’s very pleased with himself, but was a little nervous telling me. I reassured him, of course, told him he could break all the others if he wishes, as long as he realises the excess clauses apply. He said he had only done it because it was on a list he’d made when he had that brush with cancer a few years ago, that he had enjoyed it greatly, but had no desire to do it again. He’s more than happy to pay the excess, but doesn’t want to be down to only one girl for more than a few hours.”
“So let’s send Alina in the private jet this afternoon, do you think? I can tell her all about what he did to Jenny, of course; she’ll be ever so eager to give total satisfaction, I imagine.”
“That sounds perfect. Good. Only leaves us with the problem of Jenny.”
“Well, given that the jet will be there, why not send her on to Brazil? Dr Figueres can do that labia trim, and sort her fingers out at the same time. We should think if there’s anything else we want done to her while she’s there.”
Chloe can hardly breathe as she realises just what it is they are talking about so calmly, that she feels herself already almost inevitably committed to giving herself to these terrible women, can’t even imagine how she might go about backing out if she even wanted to, can’t think about what it would be like to deny herself this — extraordinary — new life that is being dangled in front of her, but at the same time is utterly terrified by the intensity of it, the shame of it, the cruelty of it, the smooth, smiling ruthless savagery of these two, and she is overcome by a terrible shaking, nearly falls to her knees again, only holding herself upright by dint of insane determination.
Determination? For what? Why should she try so hard?
There is no doubt; it isn’t even a question; she knows.
She tries so that she does not disappoint M. So that she is not to be thought useless, so that she will not be rejected; so that, one day, it will be her, not some Alina who is despatched by private jet to subject herself to the tender mercies of a mad sadist with money to burn, having been deliberately terrorised so that she is eager to give total satisfaction; she whose plastic surgery options will be casually discussed by these two over lunch without the slightest consideration for what she, Chloe, might think about such intimately gruesome things being enacted on her softest, most intimate parts.
It’s insane, and yet it has her transfixed, breathless. Somewhere, she knows that what is at this moment an unreal, unimaginable fairy-tale, a fantastical, intoxicating trance-vision will be unutterably destructive to actually live through, should it ever become real for her. And yet, and yet, she cannot make herself come to her senses. Does not want to. For some other part of her wants to know, wants to be in Jenny’s place, wants to know how it would be to be used like that, to be helpless, disposable — a sex-doll that can be used without limit, fully available, broken at will, should breaking be found entertaining. A sex-doll that is worth nothing more than money. A sex doll that has freely given herself to be used like this. A creature only, for which the money means nothing.
And all this time, a small voice at the back of her mind has been wondering how it can be that she is to have lunch when there are only two places set at the table, only two seats pulled out?
“Look at her! Isn’t she cute? So easily affected! Do you know, this morning, she was on the verge of giving herself to Fawzia, just on the strength of some teasy little conversation? She’s so bad, that Fawzia! Such a cheeky flirt!”
“Needs some sharp discipline, this one, if you ask me — and she’ll get it too, if she makes the grade, I can tell you. Far too free with her emotional body language.”
“Oh enjoy it while she’s a guest, D — you know you do. You like this part just as much as I do, you old fraud.”
They are so casual, speaking about her like this, as if she is nothing, a toy already. It’s cold, cold and hard, the feeling that comes over her, and she’s suddenly infinitely sorry for herself. That she is going to used by these two who care nothing, nothing at all for her, except as cruel entertainment and potential rental product. While she, she is still responding to them as she had in the bar, that first conversation — as if they are still cosseting and flattering her, so terribly eager to please, to show them that she can be sexy, be subtle about advertising herself as a slut.
It is hard to breathe, for a spell; she feels dizzy, but she makes herself simper, and bob her whole body in some pathetic, girlish curtsey — some sort of thank you. A thank you for what? For being described in patronising, demeaning terms.? Yes, yes for that. That’s what she is grateful for; needy for — for any attention at all, frankly. Filled with bubbly pleasure. Grateful. However stupid that is, it’s true.
They want her, are casually certain they will get her. And Chloe is helplessly grateful beyond anything she could express in words.
A noise; the old housekeeper type — who must be Mrs Krells — followed by Ginny, her eyes red, but her mouth smiling desperately, with trays. There are delicious smells, a champagne bottle in an ice bucket, mist curling from the neck. Chloe is starving again; the prosaic question as to where she will sit, where her place setting is, suddenly demanding her attention, her body language telegraphing her expectation, her uncertainty, to be met by laughter from M;
“Oh my! Silly Chloe! You aren’t imagining you get to eat with us, are you! What were you thinking? You’ll be fed later, I’m sure, at some point. Mrs Krells, we’d like her on the table, please — can you help her, and pin her skirt up, too? Thank you.”
And without there being even a second during which Chloe can wonder whether she is willing to go along with this, distracted as she is by the unexpected gut-punch of shame and despair that attends this really rather mild humiliation, she finds herself being helped up, to kneel on the table, several feet away from her ‘hosts’, the skirts of her dress unceremoniously flipped up and somehow pinned in place that way, her thighs manhandled casually by strong, gnarled hands so that her sex is spread wide, on show, the hands under her naked buttocks now, Mrs Krells insensitive to her little ooh!s and ah!s of shock and embarrassment, pushing her bum upward, making it clear to her that she is not to sit back on her heels, but to raise herself up a little.
Hands at the bandeau, then;
“Oh yes, please, do get her titties out, we’re enjoying them. Lovely. Thank you Mrs Krells; I believe I’ll take tea in the living room in half an hour, please — Ginny can bring it.”
“And I’ll be in the study. Perhaps you could bring my coffee through — a little later? If I have to wait for M to have had her way with Ginny, I may die of thirst! Oh, and bring this one with you at the same time, please.”
For the next hour or so, Chloe kneels like this, on the table. For the first twenty minutes, M and D are there, too, eating, talking business — practical details now, banal, ordinary, so that Chloe zones out rapidly, finding that it takes an inordinate amount of mental effort to keep her hands ‘loose and pretty’ by her sides. She has never realised how automatic it is to ‘park’ her hands — rest them somewhere, clasp them together, fold the arms — anything, not to have them floating around freely. Holding her arms ‘free’ at her sides as she kneels there keeps her constantly unsettled, uncomfortable, unsure.
It seems obvious that this is exactly as intended, and once again she is humbled and unnerved by the refinement of their art which these two demonstrate at every turn, increasingly certain that she will not escape them.
Since she cannot imagine herself managing to leave of her own accord, the only way out she can see is to displease them so badly that they reject her — which is the one thing she knows she desperately does not want to do. Within an hour of meeting them, it was mysteriously true that having their approval had become the one need in her life that overrides all else — the thought, even, of deliberately acting against that need quickly brings powerful physical sensations of fear, of despair, urgent demand within her to do something immediate that will appease them.
There’s no arguing with these feelings. Perhaps — perhaps there is some sort of ‘cold-turkey’ approach — if she were to get away, get back home, immerse herself in her real life again, try to pretend that this never happened …
But there it is again — the feeling of cold dread in her stomach, heartbeat going crazy, breathing speeding up, her mouth opening for more oxygen, throat tightening, so that her breathing will be audible, soon, her distress impossible to hide if she doesn’t …
Desperately, Chloe works to calm herself, to tell herself it’s alright — that she is here, safe here …
Safe?! Naked, kneeling with my legs obscenely splayed, my tits out, displaying myself for these cruel, manipulative women like a harem slavegirl?! — Yes! Yes! This is it — this is what I must embrace — this IS safety, however topsy-turvy it seems. M’s eyes, just now, lingering, looking directly at my open pussy, even for a second; the reassurance her attention gives me — that’s it, that’s what I want. Heaven help me, but I want it soooo very much.
And so Chloe stops looking for ways to free herself, and gives in, yet again (each little battle within her another defeat for the voice of reason, of sanity, of normality, which gets weaker and weaker each time).
But her episode has not gone unnoticed; to her consternation, D lifts a finger, and M draws her sentence to a close, turning to look at Chloe’s face. Chloe cannot look at them directly, she finds, managing only to flicker a glance at a mouth, a hand, not the eyes of either of them. She cannot suppress a deep, gusty breath as she tries to settle herself, disguise the depth of her turmoil, but she knows she has failed.
The sense that D, in particular, can effectively read her mind — sense her most intimate thoughts and feelings, but that that sense is used for one purpose only — to deepen control, to know when to push Chloe hardest, to know just how to push — this sensation takes a strong hold over Chloe then, and the notion that she can have no privacy from these two, even in the depth of her own mind, burns into her psyche, making her feel ever smaller, ever weaker, like a helpless child in front of a smilingly omniscient guardian — a guardian who holds every card, holds the key to torment or happiness, who controls her absolutely.
When, weeks later, in a rare moment of relaxed, intimate conversation with Fawzia (which has followed several hours of equally intimate, but not-at-all-relaxed sexual activity, characterised by unrestrained selfishness on Fawzia’s part, and sweetly helpless, agonised submission from Chloe), Chloe, hesitating, knowing it is a terrible mistake even before the words tumble from her trembling lips, tells Fawzia about this recurring feeling — how small, how foolish, how ignorant, how utterly exposed, how powerless she feels with M and D, how she reverts to some small child mode when they exert their control, gives up everything of herself to their certainty, their demands, their expectations of her; when she hears this, the woman claps her hands in pleasure, confirming Chloe’s fears;
Oh you cutie! That’s just so daaarling! Oh, I knew it already, but they really are going to be able to take you all the way, now, you pretty little thing. You are soooo over! They’re going to lock away every single part of the old Chloe that they don’t want in a little metal crate, put strong chains around it and drop it to the bottom of the ocean forever, leaving just this delicious body and all the lovely sex-toy cutie bits, and that will be you, done. It’s so fun to get to watch it happen. I’m going to buy you, once you’re reduced to that. Once you’re nothing. I’m going to buy you — they’ll lose interest then, you see — and I’m going to be very, very hard on you, and you’re going to do nothing but smile and suffer, and cry and scream, and have a wet pussy for all of it, and then you’ll thank me sweetly and ask me for more, until I’m bored with you, too. And then I’ll sell you for lots of money to the nastiest fat old pig I can find so he can use you as a dungeon toy.
Just look at you! You’re smiling at me still, like a good girl! Oh, but you’re crying too! Yes you are — I can see those tears, you naughty puss — no crying without intentional pain, remember! Oh, I’ll let you off, this time, you’ve done such a good job holding yourself open for me while I said all those mean, mean things; let me kiss your pretty eyes, kiss away your tears. But I am going to push my fist right up into your tight little cunt again now, I think, and … and probably be quite cruel with you, princess, I’m afraid — because it got me very turned on to tell you what’s going to happen to you, to know that you know, and that you’re so lost that you never once stopped moving your hips for me. So … so this is going to hurt, and I’m going to enjoy it, a lot, watching your face, making you come again even though it will hurt so much, and you are going to stay just as sweet and soft as you can while I hurt you, aren’t you, pretty? Because, quite simply, there’s nothing else left for you any more, is there? I think we’ll make a little film of it, actually, for M and D. Maybe they’ll even put it on the website, if we do a good one.
Kiss me now, make it a long, soft, sexy one, and then tell me how sore your poor little pussy is, and how much it will hurt you if I fist you again, and then tell me how much you want me to make you suffer, and how happy you are to be made to scream for my entertainment.
On the table, now, trembling, Chloe feels their attention as both torment and glorification, the conflict between the two rendering her helpless, able to do little more than hold herself, but otherwise a void, waiting.
D speaks, then;
“Pretty, you should know that while your inner turmoil can be entertaining to see, the limits of tolerance as to letting what’s going on inside you affect your appearance are rather tight. As you’re a guest, I’ll let it go by, this time, but please, do get used to controlling yourself, to taking care to let only those aspects of whatever is going on in your pretty little head which you think might be entertaining become visible; OK?”
And as Chloe tries to control her mouth, overcome the trembles so that she can say ‘Yes, Madam”, D continues;
“No, little one, don’t speak. Direct questions must be answered, but otherwise, silence is generally best — no-one is interested in your opinion, only in your body. If you want to signal your acknowledgement — a good idea, after criticism or advice — you can always open your legs a little wider, pull your shoulders back a little to set your nipples moving, nod your head a tiny bit, maybe even bob your hips — a little curtsey of sorts. You’ll find out what gets a smile, and then work at refining that for us. You’re a clever girl — I’m sure you understand what we want.”
They are staring at her, she knows, even though she dare not look; the silence is heavy, demanding. And so, quivering with shame, she tries; tries to do as she has just been told — shifts her thighs a little, opening herself more, raises herself up, pushes her breasts forward, breath coming in small, panicky sips. She holds, waiting, hoping for some response — insanely, finds herself thinking that she might be due a chocolate drop — that she could show D just how good she has become at that little game, how her breasts will move…
But there is just silence, there is the humiliation of not daring to look up, not once — and then their conversation picks up just where it had left off. She has become part of the furniture again.
When they are done with their food, have each consumed a ripe peach, skinning and dissecting elegantly with sharp little knives, impossibly neat, they leave, without more than the odd passing glance at her, and she is alone, worse than naked, kneeling on a dining table, facing two chairs and some used plates, abandoned.
And she dare not move. Dare not even relax her pose to take her body weight on her heels, keeps her bottom in the air, even though her thighs are now in stress, keeps her knees as widely parted, keeps her hands in space, constantly feeling the urge to tidy them away somewhere. Resisting the need to cry from self-pity, controlling her expression, her inner turmoil, her despair.
The waiting — endless, it seems — even though only just more than half in hour in reality — the waiting, waiting, ignored, pointless, irrelevant, left in limbo, unable to do anything, unable even to think clearly, such is her distress — physical, emotional and psychological — waiting until someone else’s pleasure should require her — the waiting eats into her in a way which is almost more powerful than the abuse, than the mental and physical manipulations, the carefully belittling words.
It cements her meaninglessness here. The fact that she is nothing, to be so completely disregarded — abandoned when not being (ab)used; too frightened, too disempowered, to choose to do anything on her own initiative. To know herself to be as lacking in agency as a discarded doll.
Time and again, in those minutes, she tries to work up enough daring to move — to relax her pose, get off the table and stretch her legs, perhaps — telling herself she will get back into position quickly, so that no-one will know.
Each time, she is defeated. Defeats herself. Cements in place her knowledge, her experience of her own uselessness, useless even for herself, even when left to herself.
It is bitter, harsh, awful to endure.
Until it comes to her, that it is also sweet. To be so obedient, so trustworthy, that she can be so simply abandoned, without either of them doubting that she will be where they left her as soon as they want her. To be so reliable as a servant of their pleasure — there is sweetness in that, is there not?
And, since it is more bearable than bitterness, she works on feeling this sweetness, on its features, reinforcing it for herself, picturing herself as being willing to be left like this for hours; being just as ready to be of use at one second as the next, never losing focus, never letting her position be less than prettily acceptable, fighting back the bitterness, the tears which threaten when it gets the upper hand, working, working on herself, keeping her bum up, her hands useless, her face smooth and inviting.
And this struggle occupies her so entirely that, in the end, she is surprised when the door opens and Mrs Krells appears, her surprise leaving her undefended against the shock and shame of realising just how blatant, how wanton is her pose, how exposed she is, how humiliating it is that she has accepted being abandoned so, that she has kept her position so meekly, and another kind of despair threatens to overwhelm her again as the old woman, without speaking, without even eye contact, uses her bony hands to unceremoniously grab Chloe by her sides, lifting and shoving, making it clear that she is to clamber down from the table.
When Chloe, all unthinking, puts a hand on the woman’s arm, to steady herself, the woman stops dead, mid move. Chloe is confused, only realising what is wrong after a confused glance into the lined, impassive face; she has used her hand. Even in such practical situations, it seems, the prohibition on using her hands is to be observed. Wonderingly, blushing at the humiliation, Chloe lifts her arm, and, feeling decidedly silly, positions her hands so that they are of no use to her, and relies on the surprisingly strong Mrs Krells to maintain her balance.
It requires a significant act of will not to use her hands at a couple of junctures, and as the impact of such a seemingly simple requirement begins to make itself clear, a sense of despairing bewilderment, which has been growing in Chloe, flowers, as she realises for the first time, consciously, just how deeply the psychological games M & D play go, just how subversive they could be.
Once again, what she wants is to let her knees bend, and sink to the floor, to curl up into a protective ball, and cry, but with Mrs Krells watching her stonily as she sways, this is not an option, and Chloe makes herself stand straight, trying for what small dignity she can muster.
The woman puts Chloe’s bandeau back in place, then takes some elegant toothed spring clips, decorated like hair pins, from where her skirt hems were pinned up, and smooths the dress down, restoring what little decency the pretty scrap offers. The clips are then discreetly placed in Chloe’s hair — so that they’ll be available whenever needed, Chloe realises.
Mrs Krells must have seen her face move at this, for she offers a dried up smile as she says;
“You’ll carry these like this wherever you go missy, and they’re handy for more than clothing, you’ll find — tongue, nipples, eyelids, pussy lips and even your cute little nubbin, all and more will know the feel of these sharp-toothed little beauties soon enough, I can promise you that.”
The woman watches Chloe’s mouth work as she makes herself take this in silence, a hard grin on her thin lips, then, archly, indicates the tray she has set down at the other end of the table;
“It would please Mistress D, I’m sure, if you were to carry the coffee tray in for me; that is, if you are interested in showing how much you would like to serve her?”
It is one thing having M & D patronise and insult her, and quite another to have this sour old stick of a servant speak to her like this; but on the other hand, there is nothing to be done but to accept it, however hard, and Chloe is beginning to speak her assent when she catches Mrs Krell very deliberately shaking her head, and freezes — unsure for a second what this signal might mean, but taking it seriously in this house of strict and forbidding rules.
A moment more thought, and she realises that the rule of silence must extend to Mrs Krell, too — that since she has not been asked a direct question, so should she refrain from speaking, but instead acknowledge her willingness to carry the tray through submissive body language, as D had explained.
It turns out that acting like a slutty bimbo for D is one thing, and obeying the same rule for Mrs Krell is another. Quite simply, she thinks, she can’t do it. Won’t do it. Can’t bear the thought of humiliating herself by curtseying to this woman. She just doesn’t want to. Deeply, physically almost, Chloe does not want to let this woman see how pathetic she has become.
There follows a quiet, ridiculous little stand-off, which Chloe experiences as a highly emotional, total defeat, and Mrs Krell as an entertaining if unremarkable victory, when after twenty seconds or so of stillness, a psychological eternity for Chloe, struggling to find a way out of her confusion, the girl finally performs a horribly awkward, embarrassed and embarrassing little bob, twitching ineffectually at the hems of her skirts, her knees bending momentarily, so that her breasts in the loose bandeau jiggle, then turns and picks up the tray, cheeks fiery red, fingers shaking with the intensity of her humiliation, feeling rather than seeing Mrs Krell’s easy sneer as she stands, eyes down, waiting for instruction, not knowing what else to do, blinking back tears of frustration, swallowing the sick taste of misery that has risen in her throat.
“Just so, pretty. You’ll get the hang of it, never fear, even though it eats away at you. Into the hall, now, if you please. I’ll be following right behind you.”
“Along to the right, now, second door on the left. Knock and wait to be invited to enter. You’re not required to, as a guest, but a pretty curtsey is always wise with with Mistress D, if you value her approval. Lay the tray down first, and then lift your skirts right up; let her see you move your feet apart — show her how eager you are to offer your pussy for her to play with, if she wants it, then wait for her signal before you cover up.”
The voice is as dry as before, and Chloe has no option, once again, but to suck up the shame she feels at being spoken to in such terms.
She feels the hard eyes appraising her as she walks, nervously, shamingly attempting to match Ginny’s elegantly lascivious style as best she can in the unaccustomed tall heels, knowing that she is failing, her psyche pummelled by the unrelenting pressure of these people upon her, the continued expectation that she work at projecting sexual invitation, the absence of the slightest interest in her as a person, the hunger in her for validation from M and D, the fear of where all this must lead.
And now, now, she is to be alone with D; D, who frightens her so much, whose demands are so hard-edged, who seems entirely without mercy, who enjoys inflicting suffering, who sneers so cruelly, leaving no space whatsoever for self-care, no hiding place for a girl’s self-esteem.
Why then, as she taps, timidly on the heavy, dark oak door, why is her sex so wet?
