Law Firm Whore Pt.2

You will find that this makes more sense if you have read the previous part

I survived the evening by using all the different techniques that had got me through seven punishing years of law studies; never a natural, I had achieved high grades — and even some honours — through relentless, insane discipline, suppression of other needs, unbending focus.

This was not to say it was easy, or even terribly effective; it took work — constant work, at times — to keep myself from reliving the afternoon, from trying to imagine what my future might be, from hating myself for my weakness, my foolishness, my sluttiness.

Every time these thoughts began to whir inside my head, I made myself do something different, something intense; I ordered exercise gear from the hotel spa shop on room service, then went to the gym room and burned more calories in a session than ever before, forcing myself until even lifting weights so heavy I could hear myself grunting with the pain of it couldn’t stop the images burning in my mind.

I tried the sauna next — no relaxing in the steam heat, but simply back-and-forth — direct from the hottest to the coldest pool, plunging each time, then back again; shocking my body, trying to purge the tumult from my mind, until that too ceased to work.

Then I made myself run home, all 6 miles, arriving home both physically exhausted and crying, as the last mile or so had not been enough to keep despair at bay, and self-hatred was eating me despite the physical pain of forcing myself into a final attempt at a sprint.

I was shattered — physical exertion was no longer possible, and, after a freezing/hot/freezing shower gave me no relief, I collapsed, shivering, on the bathroom floor.

But hoplessness was not an option either, it turned out; agitation grew inside me as I huddled there, trying to cry myself to sleep, until suddenly nothing would do but to jump up, striding around the apartment, legs trembling, brain seething, utterly incoherent, but unable to keep still. I was going mad, I thought — and at that, some shred of self-preservation kicked in, and I started thinking, thinking like a trained lawyer, for the first time since that outrageous question.

For an hour, two hours, four hours, I scribbled and researched and tore up notes; wrote them again, speed-read maybe a hundred cases, opinions, textbooks, blogs, judgements. I was going to nail the bastards.

Except, of course, that I wasn’t.

Oh, I had a ‘case’, alright — #meToo was a thing in law firms, just like everywhere else; a powerful man — my boss — had suborned me into letting important clients have rough sex with me, two of them at the same time; very definitely, prima facie, a case.

But as any lawyer will tell you, ‘having a case’ does not mean ‘likely to win’ — in fact it doesn’t even mean ‘a reasonable chance of winning’, let alone ‘certain to win’. All ‘having a case’ means is that the court will agree to hear your complaint — that it won’t be thrown out as frivolous, nugatory or vexatious.

But here, even with something that obviously looked like ‘a case’, I had to have regard to the circumstances, because, as that old legal cliché has it; ‘circumstances alter cases’.

And ‘the circumstances’ here were bad. There was no chance of a criminal case; bad as it was, there was zero chance that a rape or sexual assault charge would stick. I had as good as said Yes; I had voluntarily gone with Weiss and Lvov, in front of witnesses, with it abundantly clear what they were expecting of me. I had not fought with them, not screamed out, not called for help on the hotel phone as soon as they had left.

I had been willingly whored.

This would have to be a civil suit for damages.

And in prosecuting that suit, I would be accusing a well-established, rich, smart and aggressive law firm, of something that might well bring them down. They would spare nothing, and risk much, in their fight to survive. And their best, most obvious route to achieving that would be through destroying and discrediting me as a person — and, necessarily, as a lawyer, too. Of painting me, directly, as a helpess slut. They would fire or suspend me immediately they heard a case was in preparation, and say that the only reason they had not done so before is that they had been hoping to be able to ‘help’ me with my ‘issues’ through some HR procedure, that they valued me as a talented lawyer, and so on.

And to be honest, I thought they would find that approach successful.

It would begin right at the start — with the need for me to convince a court that I did indeed ‘have a case’. If they could get my application for a civil trial labelled as frivolous or nugatory, then they’d go free, with minimal publicity, and I’d lose big time. Worse, if I then pressed harder, they could go for vexatious and I’d lose double big time.

I couldn’t take the risk of using a local firm, either. Even the ones that hated my bosses (and there were several) would think twice before taking on a case that could ruin them. They had to work in this town.

And, before you start thinking that, as a lawyer myself, I should argue my own case, you should stop. Any hope of winning this case would depend upon access to the deep and broad resources a powerful law firm has — investigators, researchers, friends in high places (and low places, too) — and my network was almost non-existent, since I had only been in the state for less than two years.

And that state just happened to be Nevada, so that ‘local’ was, of course, Las Vegas — the only city worth mentioning in the whole state. So if I went for a non-local lawyer, it would either be some Reno second rater, or one from out-of-state. Neither of which made any sense at all; a second-rater wouldn’t stand a chance, and — even if I could afford the enormous extra costs of an out-of-state lawyer (and I was pretty sure I couldn’t afford a decent lawyer in any case) — Nevada laws on sex crimes are notoriously different from those of other states, and Nevada common law in that domain even more divergent.

After four hours of furious effort, during which I had indeed distracted myself from the reality of what I had done, what had been done to me, how I had responded to all that, I had arrived, once again, at the end of a blind alley, with all the feelings, all the fears, all the self-loathing, and the despair, the fear, the shame rushing back like a tsunami, about to tear me apart. Only now I was utterly convinced that I was powerless to do anything about. That they would get away with it.

I had gone along with it, all the way through; almost nothing had been said where any witness could possibly report it, not that that really meant much — everything significant would come down to my word against theirs. My repeated washing and douching meant that I had almost certainly destroyed any DNA evidence, and my behaviour in the bar had been openly, scandalously provocative.

There was no chance. I was a loser, before I even started, and could only lose more comprehensively, more devastatingly, if I did start.

I had to get out of the apartment; I had to be with some other people. And that meant going to a bar. In ten minutes, I was in a short, tight clubbing dress, high heels, fancy underwear, and in an Uber, headed for a loud, fast, upmarket bar that was at the same time a notorious pick-up joint. If I was a slut, then maybe getting fucked in the normal way would be a good idea (if a desperate, alcohol-fuelled one-night stand was normal).

It worked, for an hour or two (at least, I can’t remember anything of that time at all, until I was on my knees, throwing up near neat spirits in some guy’s bathroom, dress hiked up around my waist, no panties, bra ripped apart, crying hysterically).

And then I was home, for yet another freezing shower, yet another cold, wet crying jag in the bathroom, and then …

… and then it seemed to be morning. I was all aches, all bruises, all headache, my pussy, my throat, my poor ass all sore — that last the worst of all, still screaming at me about what Lvov’s fat cock had done to me there.

I felt dead inside. No more did the memories of the previous afternoon clamour to be relived, to be obsessed over, agonsied over, despreately cast and recast in different lights in a attempt to find the least awful.

That morning’s me just didn’t care. I simply felt numb.

Numbly, I tended to my basic needs; showered yet again; soft, warm water this time, gentle washing, being tender with myself in a slow, sloppy way. I dressed in comfortable terry cloth pjs, slowly and stupidly made myself a child’s breakfast - all sugar and dairy and chocolate; ate it huddled in front of kid’s cartoons on the TV, my brain viscous, slow, each thought soon dampened out of existence; nothing but comfort mattered.

I’ve spent a good period of the last two years in that state; it’s where I go after every outrage. No anger, no resentment, no despair, no shame, no judgement. Just a little girl, doing what she can to feel comfortable, to feel safe, to hide from the world, from the harshness and cruelty of it, singing little songs to herself.

I used to tell myself that this was bad — that I must, absolutely must, begin to take some active control — at least of my life between the parts where I’m being used, the times when I’m not required. But lately, I don’t bother pushing myself like that, not since North figured out that he can come to me when I’m in that state and — if he does it right — I’ll stay in little girl mode while he fucks me, all giggly and vulnerable and cute, even responding to cruelty with breathless helplessness. It’s sort of become our thing — deeply, horribly shaming to some buried part of me, but also the source of the most devastatingly shattering orgasms, even if they are followed by inconsolable crying fits. North really gets off on it, too, and I love to feel him, way beyond his normal controlled self, feel him, too, beyond his limits; fucking into me so hard it’s as if he’d like his dick to drill right through me, have it come out the other side; hear him shout as he defiles me. Yes, I love it. Sometimes I catch myself thinking that I love him. Which I realise is nonsense, of course. And then starts the crying.

I know, I know — this all sounds like mental illness — as if I’ve completely lost the plot. But I haven’t — I really haven’t; I’m fully in control. I can even roll out the lawyer version of me when they want me to.

I haven’t lost the plot; what I have lost is any fixed point of navigation, any North Star (yes, I know how inappropriate that metaphor is - a Freudian slip, pretty much). I’m coherent enough, in control enough, just adrift from what most people would call normality. Which might be your definition of mental illness, to be sure, but from my point of view, everything makes sense; it all adds up, and makes perfect sense of my existence as a company whore — a wholly owned, fully controlled, thoroughly annexed subsidiary of Abbas, Degrada and Destrier Partnership, LLP (known to everyone, jokingly, as ‘Abuse, Degrade and Destroy’; little do most suspect just how truly the nickname applies).

And I have zero ambition to be anything else. Not any more. The very thought terrifies me. My world has shrunk; I know it has.

If I think about it — and I do, sometimes, I can feel the deep, terrible, desolate sadness of it. But it is not, no matter how painful it can be, when I let it get me — it is not a tragedy.

I’m a degraded, diminished human being — just a cunt; a creature to hurt, and fuck, and humilate; a creature that will smile at you through the pain, and the buggering, and the humilation, and tell you she loves you, if you want to hear it, ask for more, if you want to hear that, or let you hear how wretched, how devastated she is by despair, if that’s your preference.

But still, it’s not a tragedy. I was — am — in many ways, happy to be made, to have been made, cunt; overall, I’m grateful. Grateful for my amazing enhanced tits, for my pretty clothes, for my jewellery, for the comfort and ease and luxury of my existence - but most of all, grateful for the regularity and thoroughness with which I am fucked, for the lack of choice about when and how I am fucked. Grateful, honestly, for the lovelessness of how I am fucked; for it to be inescapably obvious that it is abusive.

I like to fuck, to be fucked hard, and without love — I really, honestly like it.

Being hurt, being degraded, are hard, of course; treating me that way wouldn’t give pleasure to my betters — those that use me — if they weren’t, but somehow they are sweet, too — they, like the fucking, take me away from the sadness, and into the intensity that sears me, cleanses me, that saves me.

In the end, and more to the actual point, of course; I consent. I always consent.

I will beg for it, if you want me to; go down on my knees, and smile, sadly (but genuinely) at you; open my thighs, wide — so very, very wide — stick my ass up in the air, my hands on the floor, out from my body, palm up, loose, helpless, then put my head down; down near your toes, and kiss your boots, and then, staring at the floor, my voice soft and low and sincere, I’ll beg for it; beg to be fucked, beg to be hurt, beg to be degraded. And mean it.

And then, then, of course, I will open myself to it, to whatever; open myself, wanton and slutty, or cringe away from it, pathetic and weak, for you to force me, or struggle against it, fight and be beaten down, raped; however it is that you want me; whatever it takes to make it good for you.

So this must be what I want from life.

Mustn’t it?

It doesn’t matter, really, though, anyway, because, no matter what else might be true, this is my reality; I’m nothing more than cunt, trying; trying hard, to be good cunt. There’s no way out now.

And it’s my fault that I am cunt. I know it; can’t deny it — it wasn’t inevitable, this; oh no.

It’s not that my defeat that night — my multiple defeats — the psychological defeat of meekly allowing myself to be humiliated in the bar, then voluntarily accompanying Lvov and Weiss to their room, letting them use me — then the defeat of my ambition to punish them; a self-inflicted defeat through my own research, then the defeat of my own self-punishment, the humiliation of seeking absolution for the crime of whoring myself by offering myself as a slut to some stranger in a bar — it’s not that those defeats crushed me, all at once.

No; those defeats, terrible as they were, destructive as they were to my self-esteem, they weren’t final defeats.

There were more, many more defeats yet to come; each, to be sure, easier for them than the ones before, but they were cautious, careful, meticulous; lawyerly, risk averse, making sure of each inch of ground, before advancing a foot, each foot of ground before advancing a yard; until, at last, when they were sure, they simply took me all. The whole 9 yards of me, I guess you could say.

And that caution, the time they took, their inscrutability, their apparent lack of interest, was just as destructive, just as devastating as the defeats.

For that was the way they played it; without acknowledging that they were playing anything. Until they had me.

And I let them defeat me, each time. And, each time, I stayed around, waiting for the next defeat.

The following day, after a truly awful ‘day off’, having come up with no other options, I made myself get ready for work, made myself get there on time, made myself walk through the doors, smile at the security guard, nod at the vaguely recognised faces in the lift, bound for other floors; I steeled myself for what I was sure would be a sneer on the face of Selma, the receptionist, finding it impossible not to imagine that the whole firm would know of my shame.

When that sneer didn’t come — when, by contrast, I received a genuine, caring enquiry as to whether I felt OK, her assumption that I had been unwell obviously sincere, then the friendly sharing of some inconsequential gossip, then I had to accept it was possible no-one in the firm apart from North and Jarmisch knew what I had done, what had been done to me.

The feeling was bizarre; I had wound myself up so tight, ready to face whatever it was that I would have to face, that this ordinary normality, this friendly greeting, which was repeated, across the day, across the firm; this lack of recognition of what I had been through, was itself hard to face, in a way that I had not prepared for.

North and Jarmisch, it seemed, were away — were with Lvov and Weiss in fact, working on the terms and substance of the deal — and wouldn’t be in much until the following week.

And everything else was as normal as normal could be. My boss was keen to talk about the next case, which was a big one — one he thought might get him a partnership, if it went well; my colleagues were chatting about the partners’ picnic, three weeks away, wondering about the bonuses and promotions that would traditionally be announced there, talking about their lives as usual; lives which meant so much to them, while the meaning of mine had been upended, made empty.

And it went on that way, then next day, and every day that followed. No-one looked at me funny, no-one made even the ghost of a snide remark; nothing. As if nothing had happened, as if nothing had been done to me; as if I had not done terrible things.

It was, in many ways, more difficult than if they had known. For it left me, every night, alone; alone with my turmoil, with my memories, with my wonderings.

Had North been telling the truth? Was that, in truth, to be a one-off — a ‘dues-paying’? Or might the ‘phone ring at any moment — him; summoning me to wherever he was with the Russians, so that I could once again be used as the sweetener?

These and a thousand other thoughts would race through my mind, each evening, torturing me, until I raved, or cried, or drank, or, again ventured out into the night to lose myself in casual, loveless sex.

A week went by, then another, and although the pain dulled, although my mind’s insistence on reliving my shame each night lost its intensity, instead another feeling grew in its place, unnameable, unknowable, except that it was there, that it was hungry for something, until I happened to be walking along a corridor when North appeared, coming from a conference room, alone, walking in the opposite direction. When he, smiled at me, totally inconsequentially, nodded with the exact, socially acceptable, normal amount of acknowledgement, and walked past me. Blanked me, in effect.

Then it was that the tears came, and I almost collapsed in the corridor, felt as if I had been punched in the gut. I had to fumble my way to the restroom, leaning against the wall as I went, desperately thankful that I encountered no-one else, all but collapsed into a stall, and bit my lip to keep from wailing out loud.

The feeling, it was suddenly clear, was need. I needed to be acknowledged. I needed what had happened to me, what I had allowed to happen, the trap I realised they had me in, I needed all of it to be acknowledged. If not by everyone (I was sane enough to realise, no matter how odd those first days had been, that it was good that no-one seemed even to suspect) — then at least by North, the Svengali who had manipulated into my downfall, who had promised me rewards, who had planted the ‘dues-paying’ justification in my mind.

I needed North to admit that he knew what he had done to me.

Needed it desperately.

And I had just seen that he was never going to give me what I needed. That he was confident enough in me, in my acceptance, my weakness, my obedience to simply nod at me, move his lips just enough to form the level of half-smile that showed he wasn’t ignoring me, and nothing more. There had been nothing, nothing at all in his eyes, in his body language, to suggest that there was anything at all of the enormity of what had been done to me, that he was going to acknowledge.

I was going to be expected to swallow it, swallow the outrage, swallow the damage, the trauma, the despair, the uncertainty.

Either that, or destroy myself in the process of trying to force an acknowledgement from him. Something I had been brought to realise, over those lonely nights of self-loathing, of misery, of futile anger, of wretchedness, of desperate jittering — brought to understand that I was not strong enough to do.

I would have rather he had leered at me; grinned openly; said something humiliating about my easiness. At least that would have been real.

I found myself wretched that he hadn’t looked at me with desire in his eyes. I wanted him to want me, like that, I found. I wanted him, like that, I found. Urgently. All of this, that had been building in me, unrecognised, for days, and it burned through me, weakening me again.

I couldn’t, though, find anything to do but carry on. Like an automaton, I made it through the days, and the evenings, the long weekends, now more grey and empty than wretched. I stopped cruising the clubs, stopped drinking. Somehow, my work got better. I welcomed it as a distraction from my emptiness, my neediness; threw myself into it (going in to the office made weekends survivable). My boss got happier.

I let him look at me now, too, no longer interested in manupulating him through making a point of letting him know that I knew when he was staring at my breasts. Although I had no interest in him, he was at least interested in something about me (he isn’t anymore; almost frantic when he first realised that he had access to me, that he could have me do anything, everything he had fantasised about doing to me, wild as he had been to discover that I was eager to please him, intense as his orgasms had been those first few times, he had lost interest almost immediately. I had been more interesting to him as an unobtainable tease than I was as a willing, skilful, submissive whore. It stung, a little, at the time; but really, the layers and occasions of shame soften, over time, so that now, when I see him, I smile at him, softly, shyly, intimate, wistful; as if he were a former lover. Very occasionally, when he’s working weekends, and it gets late, he’ll call for me; have me kneel between his legs and take him into my mouth; I do it as sweetly and carefully as I know how; understanding that I am just relief, nothing more; happy to give it to him, to mean nothing to him, to be naked before him, servile, meaningless, ignored).

It got weirder. Some nights I found myself seriously entertaining the idea that it hadn’t happened — none of it; or that I had experienced it, without it being real — some hallucinatory psychotic episode. Anything, it seemed, was preferable to my mind but the reality that it had been done to me and no-one was ever going to acknowledge it.

It seemed impossible that there could be no follow-on, that it would a single event, never referred to again — that made no sense. But at the same time, the event made no sense, either. Each day that went by made it seem less and less real, the sequence of dreadful, shocking, shaming moments relived so many times that they had become like the scenes in some mediaeval ritual drama — formalistic, iconic, not at all like anything real people had lived through.

Everything was unreal, impossible, inaccessible. I felt I must be going mad, except that each day I seemed to be totally normal — better than normal, even, enjoying my work, talking with colleagues, almost sincerely being interested in what might happen at the partners’ picnic.

And then, of course, came the picnic.

I dressed with care — I had joined after the last one, and the event had built in my mind as the social high point of the company year; the interest shown by my colleagues made it seem more so. Since the outrage, I had been dressing more conservatively — but for the picnic, I chose my favourite summer dress — quite short, low cut, button-fronted; a sexy, but at the same time perfectly unexceptionable dress. Deniable provocation — my favourite look.

I went alone. None of my one-night stands came even close to being considered as a plus one. I knew that this would make me ‘fair game’ for the single men — old and young — but it was a summer garden party, held in the afternooon and early evening — apparently everyone was sent home at 7 — so surely nothing much could happen.

Of course, as always, there was the need in me for something — by this point almost anything — to happen. Anything that would make my experience real, make it mean something — even if that turned out to mean something terrible, I needed it. Equally, though, there was the despair in me that anything, ever, would happen — so solid was the stone wall that seemed to have been built between the events of that afternoon and the daily life of the firm.

I had no possible way of imagining just what would happen within the next few hours.

I wonder, sometimes, what that me — the me of two years ago, that innocent, silly me, so naive, who thought of herself as an irremediable slut without knowing even what the word could mean — what that girl would have done had she known what would become of her if she went to the picnic; if she could see me now, if she could understand.

Could she have resisted? Would she have? Would the prospect of becoming cunt have seduced her, excited her? Or would she have run, as a sane girl must have?

Why even think these thoughts?

I want to think that she would have stayed. Stupid as that sounds. More evidence, if any were needed, that I have ended up as I deserve to be. However dread this life, however dire the possible futures for a creature such as I have become, it is a special existence. It is intense, full of vivid colours, highs and lows, wild contrasts. Meaningless, degraded, this cunt that I am is nevertheless something particular, something to be remarked upon, something rare. Not just another workaholic lawyer.

It was a good party; really good. The weather was excellent; sunny, a light breeze, for once not too hot; the garden was really very pretty — both relaxed and formal — and there was an upbeat, holiday mood. The firm had had a good year, so that there were positive feelings, too about the bonuses — feelings which were well-founded; the partners anouncing generous benefits all round in a spirit of relaxed bonhomie and self-satisfaction.

I had indeed been flirted with by several men — old and young, but perfectly pleasantly. I should have been enjoying myself, except that since the incident, I hadn’t been able to think in any sensible way about a normal relationship with a man; all that, it seemed, was off the table for me — at least, until I could resolve what was going on.

In the end, of course, the resolution has turned out to be such that I will not, ever, have anything even approaching a normal relationship with a man. Even if I was released — ‘let go’ — tomorrow (it is odd to recall this, but my formal connection to the firm is still that of an employee, subject ot more or less instant dismissal; probably ‘conduct unbecoming’ — ha!) — even if I were, I doubt I’d be able to look at a man in that way any more (or woman, for that matter — although perhaps one in 20 or so of the people I consent to be used by is a woman, I have often used by these with particularly memorable and degrading thoroughness), still less manage an actual relationship.

I’ve been transformed. More, I have fully accepted my transformation; it has become me. More meaningfully, perhaps, I have become it; honestly, ceased to be a person in the full sense of the word, and become, merely, an ‘it’; a cunt; a fucktoy; a sex doll. It’s OK. It really is. Mostly.

If there was one man there I actively wanted to speak to, it was North, but he seemed always to be on the far side of the garden, in a group which I had no excuse to join.

My inability to join in with the mood was distressing — conversations here were longer, more intimate that those at the water-cooler, and I found myself unable to maintain eye contact, or hold up my end of a light conversation past a minute or two, so that people ended up having to find reasons to escape the awkward silence.

Even then, it was obvious to me that I could no longer simply be ‘one of them’ — I would always be the lawyer who had allowed herself to be whored out to a client — even if they had no clue, I knew, and I could never suppress that knowledge for longer than a brief interlude.

I was about to start looking for the hostess, Sandrine Destrier — the wife of one of the founding partners — much younger than him, in her early forties, a brilliant lawyer herself, working for the State of Nevada, rumoured to be a shoo-in for the State Senate, knowing that a formal goodbye and thanks was important at such an event — when she found me;

“Ah, Ms Dainty; Chloe — I may call you Chloe? Such a pretty name, for such a gorgeous, gorgeous girl.”

She stopped, then, looking at me, a quizzical half smile on her face, challenging me, or laughing at me, or just waiting to see how I would react to her not actually having said anything.

I failed that test, if test it was, for I couldn’t think of a word to say, or even an expression to make. In fact, under her direct and almost insolent gaze, which didn’t waver, I found myself blushing, and shuffling my feet like a naughty schoolgirl; I felt pathetic, and knew that I was pathetic, but there was nothing, nothing at all I could do; so deflated was I by the feeling of loneliness and isolation even in such a happy, friendly crowd, so weakened by the endless replaying of the events of that other afternoon was I, that I simply stood there, staring, now, at an unremarkable shrub off to her side, unable to do anything more than wait, endure her attention until she chose to move things on. It wasn’t that she was pressuring me; rather the opposite; I felt she was waiting, waiting for me to do something, anything, that the ball was in my court. I could say, or do, anything, it seemed, and she would hear it.

Except that I had nothing I could say. Nothing which wouldn’t bring the world down around my ears. Nothing, that wasn’t ‘North whored me to your husband’s clients, and they both fucked me in a hotel room, in all my holes, and I feel ruined’.

Perhaps, though, my behaviour did pass a test; I’ll never know, but sometimes, it seems to me, that it was that moment, not the one when I nodded at North in the Lounge Bar of the Regency, which sealed my fate; that perhaps I passed the test she wanted me to pass. The test which showed I was weak. Weak enough to be suborned, to be broken in, to be kept as a sex slave (for that is what I am, whatever I may be called, no matter that I am well enough paid).

At any rate, the next thing that happened was that she said;

“Very well. Good. You’ll come with me now. There’s someone I want to show you to.”

And, without really knowing why, I followed her, down the side of the garden, and through a small gate in a hedge, to a part I hadn’t realised existed — I had glimpsed the roof of a summerhouse — the one we were approaching — but it had seemed to belong to an adjacent property.

It was pretty, airy and cool inside, despite the glass — well shaded, and with a heavy stone floor and a tinkling fountain in a small pool — very good, and very expensive taste, coupled with subtle but superior design.

But I wasn’t looking at the surroundings for long; there was a man; a famous man — famous to me, at least, as one of the senior judges in Las Vegas — a legend. Rumour had it that he had forged his law career (and his fortune) making backroom deals between the State’s Attorney and various mobsters in the casino trade, before abruptly retiring, then doing pro-bono work with good causes for five years before — his reputation having been ‘laundered’ — he became a judge, achieving a meteoric rise through a mixture of high profile judgements and a style that suited the town. Six foot three, bony but tough looking, with a notably large head; with beetling eyebrows and a shock of white, wiry hair above piercing blue-gray eyes, a jutting nose and a chin that looked carved from granite, he not only looked like a judge; he acted like a judge, he talked like a judge, and he gave judgement like a judge — a Hollywood judge, that is. And not one of his judgements ruffled any of the wrong feathers. He was as dependable as the Las Vegas weather. He was 74, but his suit was snappily styled, as well as immaculately fitted, and he still gave off an air of vigour, despite his great bur-oak walking stick.

More immediately, it was rumoured that it would be he who would sit in judgement on my boss’ new case.

“Chloe Dainty, Geoffrey.”

Was all she said.

He looked at her, mildly, smiled a little, and inclined his great head; rich and powerful as she was, she was dismissed, and left without a sound other than the clacking of her stilletto heels on the stone.

I had no idea why I was there, what he could want of me — really, I didn’t — being in the presence of a living legend who was so far above me had driven even the experience that had trapped my mind for weeks out of my head. I was nothing except waiting. I waited for him, surprised into immobility.

I wasn’t ignorant for long, though;

“Even in the deeply pragmatic State of Nevada, whores can’t be lawyers.”

His voice was just as gravelly, just as firm, each word pronounced as if carved in marble, as it was in his famous judgement addresses.

But he was talking about me being a whore.

I wanted to disappear; to shrivel up and die; to be struck by lightning — anything, rather than have to stand in front of him with those words in the air between us.

I couldn’t speak; if I had had words, my throat could not have uttered them; if my throat had been working, I would have had nothing to say.

Once again, all I could do was wait; stand and wait. Only this time, the senior judge in the state was looking me over — making no secret of the way his eyes ran over my body, up and down, slow and casual.

It isn’t fair, was the thought that kept running through my head; It isn’t fair. I was used to men being made nervous by me, not for it to be me feeling this weak, this powerless, this vulnerable. I was in agony. This couldn’t be going to happen again, and yet I couldn’t even speak - let alone move, save myself.

I was shaking by the time he spoke again, but otherwise still fixed to the spot, silent, trapped.

“The process of ejection from the ranks of Nevada accredited lawyers is very public. The state appoints you a attorney, whose duty it is to strongly defend your case — the practice having been instituted after some political skullduggery sought to secretly disbar a prominent reforming lawyer in the 1940s. That lawyer was my father. I happen to know the process rather well.”

“For a young woman such as yourself, the experience could be quite devastating. The case against you seems rather well founded — from the little which has been told to me — so that the outcome seems assured, no matter how closely your attorney would no doubt go in to all the specific details of the afternoon in question, seeking to justify your actions.”

“And of course, once disbarred in Nevada, your career options — in law, at least — would be rather limited; I’ll say nothing of opportunities available in the other trade.”

I was sure that I must die, right there, want to or not — it seemeed that my heart must explode, that my skin must catch fire, so intensely did I feel my shame, my fear, my despair, my vulnerability.

I would have run, if I could have moved. Not that it would have done any good. My life was over, and I knew it. All I could do was stand there, head bowed, trembling, waiting for him to tell me what he wanted of me.

“Such a public trial would, of course, not be good for the reputation of the law in Nevada, either. No-one sensible could want such a thing. No-one; no-one at all would benefit. We should try, I suggest, to avoid such an outcome — even if the facts might warrant it.”

“Mr Destrier tells me that he, and his partners — Mr North in particular — are sure that you can be managed. That they can manage you; keep you from embarrassing the legal profession of this great city, this great state.”

He let that hang in the air for what seemed like an eternity.

I was being stitched up, and I knew it. Stitched, neatly and tightly into a straitjacket. And yet I also knew that I could escape. All I had to do was accept that I was finished in the law, finished in this city, that I would be publicly humiliated — be lied about in the pages of the National Enquirer and the other scandal rags (although god knew that the truth alone would be awful enough); that pictures of me in bikinis from high school, from former boyfriends, would be bought and sold, that fakes would be made with my face photoshopped onto pornstars which would almost look real, that my family would be shamed too, that I would lose what friends I had.

It was either that, or agree to being ‘managed’, whatever that might mean. Not that there could be much doubt about it.

“But the question is for you to answer, little whore. And it is this; will you consent to be so managed?”

Again, it seemed forever until I heard a voice; a voice that sounded just like my own, only terribly, terribly sad, and weak, and full of shame; there was nothing else I could do; nothing.

My voice then, saying;

“I … I consent.”

“I believe I’ll need proof of your compliance, Miss Dainty. Will you take off that pretty dress, now? Then your brassiere, too, before proving to me that Mr Lvov is not a liar about your willingness to serve a cock with your lovely mouth.”

He was seventy four, a respected pillar of society, a judge; I was 24, a young woman who had done little else but study and work since she had turned 13 — study and work to put herself on a path towards respectability, toward social standing, toward a decent career in the profession that served justice.

And now; now, I was going to strip off and kneel before this old, old man, and let him use my mouth with his cock.

I knew that I should have felt revolted, disgusted, angry; and, for sure, some part of me did feel that, feel it bitterly, and deeply, and sharply, and those parts of me would surely torture me in the days, and weeks to come; but once again, as it had in the Regency Hotel, it came to me that this was all, rather amazing.

That it should be me; hard-working, good girl Chloe, who was about to do this (for all she might tell herself that she had no choice, she knew, from her ethics classes in school, that there was, there is; always, always a choice; that if I consented to this, if I didn’t stop what I was already doing, tremblingly beginning to undo the cute little buttons of my dress — and there were so many of them, all down the front — that if I didn’t stop, there was no-one, no-one in the world I would be able to blame in the middle of the night, when the shame came on strongest, no-one but myself); that there was, unmistakeable now, something in me that was breathless, transfixed at the notion, at the feeling, at the reality, of opening the dress, of peeling it back off my shoulders, of letting it fall behind me, of stepping forward, in answer to his casual beckoning, to within reach of him, of letting him put his long, hard, bony hand on the flesh of my inner thigh, and slide upwards, his skin leathery, veined, knuckles like naked bone, up at my sex, now, as I carried on, as I had been instructed, unclipping my bra strap, letting my breasts fall free, his face only a foot away, his fingers in the crease of my sex, pushing the gusset of my panties inside me, realising I was not, not at all dry down there, not at all cool, hearing myself make a little gasp which had nothing, nothing at all of resentment or resistance in it.

It was me, doing this. And not fighting it.

Me, going down, onto my knees, between his knees, kneeling for him, bowing my head to his groin, where he had released his cock, not yet hard, not at all large, as I had expected from the scale of the man, shrivelled, wrinkly, old, smelling faintly of talcum powder; me, opening my lips, putting out my tongue and softly; oh so gently, so respectfully, enveloping him in my mouth, while his hands were at my breasts.

And yes, I was crying; big, soft tears, coming slowly, easily, sadly; but they didn’t stop me doing my best for him, really, carefully, trying, feeling warm, unlooked for pleasure unfold inside me as I felt him jerk, as I knew I was pleasing him, getting him hot, serving him; shocking myself with my own eager servility, shocking myself with the warmth I felt at my sex, with the urgency with which I made myself take him, all the way into my mouth, angling my neck to make it work for him, feeling him thicken in my throat, revelling in that feeling, his hands on my head now, pushing me, holding me down, letting him control me, revelling in that, too, letting myself go, letting myself be a whore, feeling the dirtiness, letting myself feel it, letting myself be it, even as I knew I was giving away things about myself that were precious, irretrievable; giving them away to save something I had already lost.

“You’re good at it, little whore; I’m going to come on your face, dirty slut.”

He came rather quickly, and rather weakly, too, but his several, sharp grunts at the point of his climax felt real, as did the power of his grip on my scalp.

The shame hit me then, hard and fast, as he pushed me away, and I crumpled, sideways, deflated, horrified at what I had done, what I had let be done to me, how easily it had been achieved, how lost I must now be, how sordid to have given myself to such an old man, naked, on my knees in front of him, so pathetically eager, so weakly willing, and I hated myself more than ever, all of it crashing in on me.

I crouched there, feeble, as he pushed his chair back, stood and tidied himself, fully respectable again within seconds, in his expensive, hand-made suit, while I crouched there, all but naked, his come on my lips and in my throat, sour, stringy; bleakness invading my soul.

“Offering a judge sexual services in an attempt to sway his opinion in a case in which you are a lawyer is not just a disbarment offence, little slut, but a criminal one. Do remember that, girly, at any point where the experience of being ‘managed’ seems unbearable. That the alternative will be even harder to bear.”

And with that he was gone, leaving me, a huddled heap of despair and shame, increasingly revolted by the taste and feel of his come in my mouth, unable to get rid of it, until I remembered the fountain, and crawled to it to drink, like an animal.

The noise of the water must have filled my ears, because without warning, Sandrine was suddenly there, beside me, half kneeling, her hand stroking my hair;

“Those tits are really remarkable, pretty. My husband will be very, very happy to know he’s going to get to play with them just as he likes.”

I tried to jerk myself away from her, more instinctively than with any purpose, but her hand immediately gripped a good handful of my hair, and yanked me back toward her — she seemed seriously strong, and, in my sorry state, I capitulated immediately, letting her drag me into the middle of the room again, away from the fountain, head down, on my knees, shaking (I learned later that she was a regular ‘Iron-Woman’ triathlete).

“Now, let’s see, shall we …” — and her hand was, immediately, directly between my legs, at my sex, unhesitating, investigating me, casually confident, as impersonal and invasive as a gynaecologist.

My hands wanted to reach back, pull her away, defend myself; my thighs wanted to clench, my hips to twist, to deny her access to my most secret place, my vulnerability; but I was too cowed, too aware of her strength, too humiliated to believe that I had any right, even, to dignity, to privacy.

And my humiliation grew, as the feel of her hand told me what it told her;

“Oh my, pretty; aren’t you wet! Really, rather extraordinarily wet, considering. We’ll have to see what we can do about this, now, won’t we? Can’t have anyone leaving my party in an unsatisfied condition, can we?”

“No; no don’t you dare, pretty, don’t you dare tighten up on me! Not if you don’t want to make me mad!”

For I had, finally, found some self-preservation instinct, when she had bunched three fingers and pushed them, very directly, into me — and jerked myself sideways a little, away from her, bucked my hips in a vain attempt to reject the penetration. My resistance was pathetically short lived, though, and her hand, twisting in my hair, hurting me, and her soft but steely warning was all it took to cow me, have me open myself to her again, as she worked at me, now with four fingers, pushing, retreating, pushing into me again, retreating, pushing deeper each time, relentless, but slow; powerful, utterly certain; in total control.

And I was responding; helplessly, as it had been with Lvov; the feeling of powerlessness, of weak vulnerability in the face of casually assured usage was horribly welcome; the knowledge, too, now, of the threats hanging over me, the power they had to wreck my life, made it so very easy to submit, to give in to my weakness; and the act of submission itself seemed to drive my responsiveness, until I heard myself moan, my throat making wordless sounds that could not but communicate my pleasure as much as my shame.

She laughed, then, softly, pleased, caressing;

“Little slut girl. Pretty little slut girl; move your hips for me now, open up; I’m going to take you deeper now, little one, and you’re going to feel it, I promise.”

And I did, I did; I spread my knees, arched my back, lifted my hips; opened myself to her, wanting — wanting something; I had no idea what.

What I got, was her knuckles, pushing into me, stretching me; hurting me, yes, but at the same time bringing about an involuntary jolt of emotion, so that I cried out, softly, desperately; needy, pleading.

She had her whole hand in my sex, then, pumping itself, slowly, but powerfully, deeper, deeper into me, and my whole body convulsed with each push, which I felt opening me more each time, and it was terrible and shaming and glorious and deliriously painful, all at the same time, and I found myself leaning in to the pain, wanting her to hurt me, wanting her deeper, bucking my hips for her, shamelessly mewling my helpless neediness, my submission, all rational thought compressed into some tiny, appalled corner of my mind, there to be suppressed in favour of searching for, begging for, offering myself up to her in the hope of more … more what? I didn’t know; just that I wanted more.

Instead, I got less, as she slowly, inexorably, pulled out of me.

I was too weak to do anything but pant and make soft, pleading noises — I dared no more. But I kept my pose — my obscene pose, kept my hips moving, slowly, waggling my pussy at her, advertising its neediness, its eagerness to be filled again, savagely repressing all thought.

“Oh my! Again! Again you surprise me, little one; you really are a hotty, aren’t you? And you acting like you are in total control of your body, giving those boys hard ons, then treating ‘em mean. I’ve seen you, oh yes, I have. But look at you now, all wet and hot and needy, letting people you don’t know do the dirtiest things to you, and begging for more.”

“I believe I’ll have to take you to the next level, now, Miss Chloe Dainty — take you somewhere I’ll wager you have never been before, but which I believe you will respond to like the born slut you so clearly are. Hold yourself, now — don’t you try and hide from me! I know you now, you see. I know you.”

And with that, she slapped me, her flat fingers smacking directly into my swollen, wet, tremblingly sensitive sex. It wasn’t hard — it was hardly even a slap — but the psychological impact was instantaneous, and devastating; my whole body jolted — I felt it right through me, and it was, shockingly, glorious; like the first taste of something strange, intense and amazing; sharp and sweet and rich, all at the same time, with the burning aftertaste of shame and fear somehow only inceasing the savour.

My little, squeaking cry must have conveyed to her something of this, for she laughed, then made me wait, before hitting me again; harder this time — just a little — still not causing real pain, but nevertheless, clearly smacking my open, tender sex lips, intending to give me pain. Pain and shame. And I mewled again, and held my pose, and, when she made me wait, I rolled my hips, slowly, helplessly, wanting … wanting.

Smack!

This time, it did hurt — just. And I knew I deserved the pain, and I knew there would be more pain, and I tempered my cry, deliberately, hoping to inflame her, to drive her to more.

Smack!

Harder still, and I let her hear the pain in my cry, this time, but my hips kept moving, and she hit me again, hard, this time, so that it really hurt. And I yelled, softly, and felt the pain mix with my arousal, indistinguishable, and knew I was lost, my head now flat on the floor, buttocks as high as I could lift them with my knees spread so wide, my hands expressively out at my sides, advertising my helplessness to her, wanting her to take full advantage of me, take me … take me … somewhere, I had no idea where.

I certanly had no idea that I would end up as I am, this degraded body, which still, at any opportunity, is eager, happy, shamed and exalted to offer itself up for sexualised abuse.

She really hit me, then, made me squeal, but I held myself open, and got my reward — her hand, fingers bunched, driving, relentlessly, straight into my pussy, unstoppable, inexorable, deep, deeper, deeper than it had been, bringing from me a soft, intense wail of pure emotion, as, inside me, I felt, for the first time, the astonishing sensation of a hand curling itself into a fist, deep in my belly, and I yipped and panted and moaned and began to beg her for I knew not what;

“Yes … yes … please … please … yes … do me! do me!”

And then she pulled out, slowly, then pushed back into me slow but with an intensity of implicit violence which devastated and exalted me; balled her fist inside me again, and pumped it, deep inside me; withdrew and repeated the whole sequence, again, and again, until I was delirious with it, moving and moaning like a bitch in heat.

But I couldn’t come; I was desperate to; so close, but unable to get there — she wouldn’t touch my clit, and when I, involuntarily, put my own fingers there, needing to bring on my climax, she slapped me away, and I didn’t try again — just surrendered myself to her, to her control, to her whim.

She started slapping my pussy again, then; hard, really hurting me, jolting me, and then, carefully, deliberately, reduced the force she was putting into the smacks, concentrating them now at the top of my sex, the join of my sex lips there, and my clit hood, and I knew; I knew, immediately, that she was seeing if she could make me come by smacking my clit, and, mind rotted as I was, I was immediately certain that I wanted to help her do that to me, and began, straight away, to take myself somewhere where the pain at my poor nubbin — and she was still hitting with some force, flicking her finger tips to deliver sharp impact right on my clit hood — somewhere where that pain was pleasure. It was, shockingly, easy to do, and, together, she targetting my poor clit more and more directly, going for repeated impact, rather than real pain, and me, moving my hips, leaning in to the dirtiness and the shame and the intensity of it, letting her degrade me, degrading myself for her, giving her power over me, letting her see just how dirty I was, I took myself to the brink of orgasm, gasping and almost grunting and crying, now, crying big, soft tears as the pain built, until suddenly, I was gone; bucking and jerking, flapping like a landed fish, her hand, tight in my hair, holding my face against the cold, smooth stone, the only constant; my hands flapping wildly, uselessly, hips convulsing.

Even in the middle of that soul-rending orgasm, there was that in me which knew that it was a defeat, a significant defeat; that I had become, in that moment, something less human, to her mind, at least, but, by extension, to everyone at the party.

I had no strength, no inclination, even, to struggle aganst that thought. It was real, and there I was, all but naked, arms and legs splayed, face down on the stone floor, having let a judge old enough to be my grandfather come in my mouth — worked diligently to get him to do so, in fact, and now, let this woman whom I hardly knew show me just how degraded, weak, and perverted a slut I was, and I realised, with a sick jolt, that I was feeling better, in myself, than I had since … since the last moments of Lvov and Weiss’ usage of me.

Her heels clacked away;

“Get yourself decent again, right away, then leave through the side gate. You’re no longer wanted here, little slut.”