Jessica Pt2— a Naked story.

This story was on Substack for a while for paid subscribers only. It is now free there and here.

Read the previous part of this story

The next episode is live only a few hours later. The same girl, presenting as she was before; naked, in just her body jewellery, walking just as provocatively, comes in through the door. This time, though, her arms are bent up, behind her back.

As she installs herself onto the plinth, elegantly and naturally, almost as if displaying herself so degradingly for the cameras, for the unseen, unknown eyes that she knows are watching, that she knows she must please, is a pleasure and a privilege, it becomes clear that each wrist has been cuffed, and is linked by a chain to the opposite side of her choker/collar, so that her arms are crossed behind her shoulder blades. The weight of them pulls her shoulders back noticeably; her breasts, yoked together by the piercing rod, have been positioned so that they are just a little wider apart than they would naturally hang; they move just a little more obviously than they had; the eye is drawn to them, strongly.

Picture: Jessica on the plinth

The other novelty is more shocking; her belly, breasts and inner thighs are marked with livid weals; she has indeed been cruelly whipped, it seems.

It takes her the longest while to be able to speak; her lips quiver, and it is clear she is making a supreme effort to appear calm; her eyes glisten and her eyelids flutter, rapidly; she is clearly desperate not to permit a tear to fall. The small, desperate movements her body makes, though instantly suppressed, are evidence that she is experiencing inner turmoil, that presenting herself so is costing her a great deal; the wait is not at all boring.

Her voice, when she speaks at last, rather quietly, soft and low, has the slightly nasal and hoarse quality that is sometimes described as ‘tearstained’. Although she smiles, as prettily as she had in the earlier episode, her eyes are full of pain.

I’ve been asked to talk about the whip.

Although … although I had to accept, early on, that I am a natural submissive, although I found it shamefully easy to lean in to that side of me, so that now I respond helplessly and very obviously to being ordered around, kept naked, humiliated; to being roughly manhandled, and to violent and aggressive f … fucking— all that … that stuff does … does turn me on; but I am not a masochist.

It took the longest time for me to be brought to the understanding, the deep acceptance, of how necessary, how kind it is of my owner to whip me, to have me whipped, how it helps me in the never-ending work of understanding the depth of my worthlessness.

She is quivering, visibly, but her face retains its smoothness, even as her chest rises and falls as she breathes, evidently deeply; she is clearly experiencing strong and deep emotion, and working hard to ensure that she presents herself attractively, nevertheless.

There. I’ve said it; out loud; in public, on camera.

I … I need to be whipped. It is right and proper— important— that I am taken past the point of any possible control of myself, in dire and shameful circumstances, routinely— outside of any context of the sexual entertainment of others, or of punishment for any of my endless failures; right and proper that I should be reduced to helpless, shameless grovelling, to the extremes of despair, at regular intervals.

She is shaking, quite powerfully, controlling her voice and pose with great effort, as she says this; tears glisten at her eyelids, but she manages to smile, and jiggle cutely enough, and ends with a high pitched, breathy little giggle of mingled shame and emotional excess.

It … it is … extremely difficult for … for a girl like me … born … born into privilege; wealthy, successful parents, a loving and supportive home life— a popular girl who enjoyed and succeeded in many ways, and went on to a good school and did well there; a girl with ambition, opportunity and eventually a well paid job— it is terribly hard for such a girl to understand, to integrate into her self-image, that she has ceased to have any value, except as a means of sexual entertainment for all-comers.

Being … being whipped, heartlessly, routinely whipped until all dignity, any ideas of meaning are … are snuffed out, brought to understand the depths of my own complicity in becoming what you see … being whipped helps me be better cunt.

So … so, thank you.

I have been asked to ask you whether the cameras, the lighting, work together for you, so that you can see the marks on my inner thighs, on my breasts. A different whip than the usual one was used on me today— lighter, skinnier, though it felt very stiff and springy, too; the weals are narrower, deeper, and have left darker marks— I hope they are clearly visible for the camera. There is a feedback tool on your screen where you can comment.

She nearly breaks down, then; the mundanity of her final paragraph— the heartless pragmatism around the satisfaction of the viewers, their enjoyment concerning the suppression of the weak shoots of hope, the tiny graspings at agency which are inevitable in a girl who is still interesting; this must have stung her particularly, like the curling ss…ss…whhiCK! of the weighted tail of an expertly wielded whip. It takes her long moments to recover, to bring back her smile, now heartbreaking in its complexity, but, it is, at last, a genuine smile, though her eyes are still bright with unshed tears.

So.

A year out of college, broke and disillusioned with public defending, emotionally shattered after the break up of my 3 year college relationship, I was lost and floating when a friend of a friend called me and suggested I might apply for a position at a small law firm which, on investigation, seemed to punch far above its apparent weight. His father knew a partner there, who had been asking around— my friend had suggested me, and they had apparently checked me out. They never advertised, it seemed.

Their clients, too, seemed to be small firms that produced remarkable results— boutique stockbrokers and the like. It was a million miles from what I had dreamed of. 

But then, as my friend said, when I called her— look at where following my dreams had gotten me.

I dusted off and brushed up my resumé. I had to do something.

The vetting process was long; all kinds of evaluations with different specialists, a full and detailed physical; quite remarkably thorough. In my numbness, I threw myself into excelling.

The final interview, once I got there, was not promising. Very hard-edged, abrupt, light on niceties and heavy on sharp and fairly direct questions— and not just about legal issues, but personality too.

“I’ll be blunt—” she said (my interviewer— one of the Associates) “— we have two main types here. First, the aggressive, tough, super-smart, status-seeking types who like taking big risks; these are mostly male, then we have the self-driven, super-smart details types who reduce risk, who are mostly female. The first kind are the ones who sit with our clients— who are a lot like them. The second kind make it work— produce the careful, cast-iron backing for the ambitious leaps. These are the ones who sit with our clients’ team.”

“Clearly, both are needed. Again, clearly, it is easier to find the second than the first. Still hard, but less so. So they get paid less, and have less chance of significant promotion. Still, by general standards, the compensation is … generous.”

“Also, this second category is slightly safer— many in the first category over-reach, or simply experience bad luck— whatever the reason for failure, these are let go at once; there is no room for failure of that kind here, whatever the cause. Those in the second category, on the other hand, are judged less on outcomes, over which they have little control, but more on productivity and capacity.”

“To be clear, we’re looking at you for the second category. You look good on paper, and great in person, but it’s an unforgiving environment. We offer only unpaid 3 month internships. If we do offer, and you accept, there are no guarantees beyond that. If we do take you on, it will be on a one year contract, subject to immediate termination without reason. Only beyond that might you be offered a permanent position.”

“And, of course, I’ve laid out the gender imbalance. You’ll be accepting that explicitly. The success of the firm, its reputation, the extraordinary opportunity to work with extraordinary clients rests on ruthless pragmatism, not ethics, and certainly not niceness.”

“Do you wish to say anything more about your fitness for the role, having heard this?”

And I did. Something had clicked during that blunt little speech. The role she had described was everything I had told myself I never wanted— a meaningless cog in the machine; a highly-paid, high-functioning cog, perhaps— one of whom it was clear an enormous amount of hard work would be relentlessly demanded, but at the end of the day, a job that would mean nothing to me apart from intense engagement with the detail, huge demands on my time, and a fat paycheck in compensation.

And I knew I wanted it. Wanted to be exhausted by work that had no emotional content, wanted to stop worrying about money, wanted to be absolved of responsibility for decisions, while still using all of my capacities.

So I told her. Told her that I wanted to give myself to such a job— that my experience had changed me— that I was ready, willing and eager to accept the terms laid out, that I was determined to excel.

And I did. I have nothing more to say about it, really. It was as meaningless and enormously demanding as I had hoped, and for the next 15 months I allowed myself to be consumed by it. I still looked like a normal person, still occasionally saw an ever decreasing circle of friends, went shopping, talked occasionally to my family, but essentially I disappeared into my role as a grinder out of clauses, opinions, research, redrafts, crunched numbers, subtly crafted loopholes, dotted ‘i’ s and crossed ’t’s for ADD & Associates, LLP.

He— the man who now owns this body, this sex toy— was a client. One of the risk Associates, known for making very big gambles— which had so far always paid off— won His business from another firm by finding a very clever way to implement an idea of His, which ended up making Him extremely rich. Me too, as it happens, although of course that ceased to mean anything when I gave myself to Him. I think He gave the money to a charity which supports education for girls. That’s all I’m going to say about business. This story is about how He took me and helped me give up on all that, and become this body, which works hard to be nothing. Nothing but hot, wet holes, tits, pretty submission, and a soft, weak smile.

Anyway, I got a call from HR; they were setting up a team for this new client; — Owner (I’ve been told to identify Him this way) wanted to be involved in selecting the back-room team for His project, and I’d been identified as a possible.

“You need to know, Jessica, that … well, not to prevaricate, he’s selected some very experienced older men to lead the team, and gone for the youngest and prettiest women otherwise. If you say yes, there will be some … some evaluation tests— deep personality tests— something he’s keen on. You don’t have to commit until after you do the tests, but if he wants you, we are going to be… well … deeply surprised and concerned about your future prospects here, if you should change your mind.”

“So, if you’d rather not join this team, you should say so right now. Tests are this afternoon. There will be a nice little kick in your compensation if you’re selected— and options, too, he’s told us— all through a blind trust, perfectly above-board.”

Then she had paused, looked at me directly, concerned;

“Jessica; I didn’t say this, and I will deny it to your face if need be; it won’t do your career here any good to say no, now, but you’re well regarded, and I think you might get past it. Career-wise, you should definitely say yes, now— which means you’re in, if he likes your test scores. But … well … I have no actual reason for saying this, you understand? No reason at all … but … well … let’s just say that I would say ‘no’, if I were you.”

It was a warning from a female colleague that was entirely unspecific, but was nevertheless as clear as day. She feared that the client might be a sexual predator.

I— well, Jessica— looked at her, mind blank, for a second, as the months of burnout, the awful months before this job suddenly came back to me, and I remembered; I wasn’t there to care— about myself, least of all; I was there to be kept busy; very busy; not to second guess them, but to work hard, at whatever, and be paid well.

“Yes. Yes I’ll do it. I’ll do the test. I won’t change my mind; if it’s what the partners want, I’ll do it, of course. Yes, thank you.”

Her face hardened, she blushed a little, and then became very businesslike; “Very well; 314 on the next floor down, 2:30 this afternoon. That’s all, thank you Jessica.”

The test was long, and sort of weird, but not obviously anything creepy— at least not any creepier than any of those psych-eval things always are. And the next day I was told I was going to be part of the new team. 

When, ten days after that, work started, it was in a newly fitted out suite in the client’s building— Owner’s building; two floors up from His office, which was on the seventh floor of His slice of the tower. We were two miles away from head office. We belonged to Owner.

And this was fine and good. Although we had the gung-ho Associate there, and the older men as team leaders, everything was just a little nicer than the ADD office, from the views and the decor, to the furniture, to the very atmosphere. Although the work levels were required were even more insane than usual, right from the off— some worries about a competitor with the same idea— there was a holiday atmosphere— at the start at least— we were free from the mothership.

Also, we saw more of Owner. As part of the back-room team, I only usually encountered clients in those large meetings where there are ten or more people, most of whom never speak, and where I was in that class of silent people who only nodded; often not even seated at the table, but standing against the back wall.

But Owner was not only one of those clients with an interest in the detail, He had a head for it too, and since we were only a short jog up the stairs away (Owner is super-fit and very physical)…

Jessica pauses; her head drops a little, her haunches shift, and it is evident— her body makes it evident— that this phrase has aroused her, that, far from hiding, masking such a feeling, as everyone does, she is doing the opposite— letting the feeling have her body, letting it ride her, letting herself become the feeling. The chain from her groin into the top of the plinth grows very tight, as if she is straining against it, then slackens again as her thighs swing outwards, her hips thrust forward; her head goes right back in a sensuous stretch, and the chain from her collar lifts her linked breasts, catching the eye, focusing attention on the metal skewer which links them. It lasts only a few moments, but is powerfully affecting (and arousing in its turn, for many of the viewers). The pause lasts a little longer as she settles herself, blushing deeply, but not altering her position, not hiding herself one bit.

This … the cunt … the cunt is sorry. It … It has been a long while since Owner …

Her hips really surge, then, as she pushes her sex forward, offering it to the camera, painfully obviously offering herself. She holds the pose for a second or two, then resets herself, following a routine; open pussy, make breasts obvious, open lips, head back, eyes down, weak smile, move hips, jiggle nipples, very soft, almost inaudible moan, advertising vulnerability. She does it beautifully, with earnest, sincere care. She really means it. For some watchers, arousal intensifies, to become an uncomfortably urgent need.

Another pause, as she visibly gathers herself, her cheeks flushed, lips trembling, before she continues;

Owner would come up to the team office often, and have one of us girls go through some detail with Him. He called us ‘girls’. Out loud. Often. He would bring a tray of cookies, or a vase of flowers— it was that obvious— but we responded, anyway; we worked very hard to have Him think well of us. He talked to different girls each time. He was calm, and serious, and thorough, was willing to listen and discuss. A couple of girls got taken off the team after not being able to explain things, but He did not disrespect them, even one who burst into tears.

Inevitably, I suppose, since we had probably all been primed by HR as I had been (was she really trying to warn me, or was that part of the psych test? I’ll never know), and since He was making everything very clear to us, things became a little competitive between us girls. Just as being called girls would have caused outrage and quickly been suppressed at the head office, but was mysteriously almost welcomed in ‘the outpost’ as we came to call it; so, too, the dress code seemed to relax.

Girls began showing more flesh— three quarter sleeves, then cap sleeves, skirt hems creeping up from the mid-thigh official limit, heels higher than the 2 ¹⁄₂ inch regulation, hair flowing, not demurely tied back or up, or cropped short, necklines more open— even cleavage on show.

Picture: One of the ‘girls’

Nothing you wouldn’t see in a thousand workplaces, but by ADD standards, it was all feeling extremely loose.

And then, of course, He asked one of the girls on a date. He did it in front of everyone— not that He shouted it out loud, but He didn’t wait until He had her alone— just asked her in her cubicle, and those near her heard her shocked giggle, quickly choked off, and then her too eager Yes. And of course she told a friend that she had slept with Him, and of course, it quickly got back to us.

Picture: One of the ‘girls’

And then He asked a different girl, and that went a little differently, but essentially it was the same.

Picture: One of the ‘girls’

And so on. Competition became fiercer, but the usual trouble that follows— a slighted girl deciding to make a complaint, rivalries between girls turning into morale sapping, productivity-destroying tensions— none of that materialised.

He was somehow more of a cult leader than an office Don Juan; even the girls He had picked up and then put down still wanted Him to come to their desks and discuss serious points of nerdy law (remember, all of us girls were highly trained, highly competent, highly efficient, highly paid legal experts, working under real pressure; but still, we found extra energy to make ourselves interesting and attractive to Him; looking back, it was as if we’d all been hypnotised. The ADD men in the outpost were having a terrible time of it— inter-office romance was an instantly sackable offence at ADD, and although they could easily have ‘comforted’ many a recently passed over or let-down young colleague into bed, that rule was one which stayed solid. And that just heightened the female concentration upon Him).

Jessica— this … this cunt … was, truthfully, not really part of all that. She … she focused on work. It wasn’t that she was unaware of the effect He was having— or that she did not find herself hoping He would come to talk to Her; but that she was too uptight to do much more than allow her choice of office attire to shift slightly in the direction of more skin; but even that was more from not wanting to stick out than with intent to attract His eye.

Picture: Jessica dresses less obviously

It wasn’t that Jessica disapproved of Him; part of her did, of course; He was a sexual predator, and He made no bones about it, and He had set us all up and managed us expertly, and she knew that that was not OK, really. But somehow she couldn’t get worked up about all that. All her highly trained colleagues— the girls — knew what they were doing, none of them were that naive, none of them were really getting hurt. It became common knowledge that He told each girl, on the first date, early, that He was not looking for anything but entertainment, and also, there was no discrimination in terms of work against those relatively few girls who had turned Him down for sex.

What bothered Jessica was that she wanted Him to want her. She wanted Him to want to fuck her. She was as needy and desirous as any of the others, but she simply could not imagine herself on a date with Him, and it seemed He shared her opinion, since He had never asked her. She wasn’t alone in not having been asked; although it seemed a serial thing, out of the fifteen of us less than half had slept with Him after five months; there was a lot of real work going on. Free evenings were infrequent, even for Him.

But Jessica almost shied away from Him because of this inability to imagine herself talking to Him without embarrassing herself, without being obvious— or worse— boring. It got worse with time; if, perhaps, she’d been the first, she’d have just said yes; but with the knowledge that she would be just another notch in His tally stick, she was certain she would make a fool of herself, so she kept her head down.

Of course, it turned out that He had had a plan for Jessica all along. The psych tests had shown Him something about her which had been what He had been looking for— or something like it, as He said to her later. It wasn’t that she was special; it was that she had a special weakness. The sickness.

He was having fun with the other girls, but He was really playing Jessica, with a longer-term goal in mind.

So when He finally did begin to talk to Jessica about one of the really tricky aspects of the work, which she had been tasked with, she was almost tongue tied; did indeed make a fool of herself, tripping over her words, misunderstanding questions— everything she had feared she would do. And all without being even asked for a date; all in the context of a professional conversation. He was patient, happy to repeat Himself, to ask her secondary questions to help her out, but she knew that she had done terribly.

And He didn’t ask her out.

She went home that night convinced she would be recalled to the main office— taken off Owner’s team— the next day, and other girls appeared to agree with her, given the sympathetic looks she got from some, and the fake sympathy she got from others. But it didn’t happen. 

Instead, that afternoon, after she had furiously rehearsed every single aspect of the subject, His questions, her inconsistencies and confused responses, He came to her again. She only just restrained herself from wasting His time with apologies and explanations and half excuses, and just doubled down on being clear, knowledgeable and insightful. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better, and He even smiled at her a couple of times (not that she found it easy to look at Him, so nervous was she, so convinced was she of her fundamental unworthiness).

He came back the next day, too, and things got better, and again, the next.

After a few days, He began asking her what her opinion was on other aspects of the projects— topics which were tasked to other colleagues. She was nervous again, then, but made herself answer clearly— He had built her confidence through His own steady, patient respect for what she said; careful listening, authentic, interested responses, willingness to have His opinion challenged and even changed. And then, hearing her opinions on these other topics, He would call the colleague over, go to a meeting room and start really working, at which point it became clear that He thought Jessica had superior insight.

But He never gave her the slightest hint of any interest other than the professional, so that, while Jessica’s confidence in her work rose, her inner conflict built and built— the conflict between an increasingly sharp need for validation as a sexually attractive woman, and her certainty that she would embarrass herself in any intimate setting with Him as badly as she had at the outset of the professional conversations.

Her evenings became distressing; there was nothing in her life, really, but work and Him; and they were the same thing, but with two completely incompatible faces; her at work, with Him, as a valuable, trusted legal adviser, and her at work, with Him, as a needy, unrequited woman, anguished at His apparent lack of sexual interest in her. 

She worked later, more often, and discovered that He, too, worked late. He would come and visit her, the two of them alone, and talk about every aspect of the project, and things got more confusing, more distressing.

He still hadn’t given her any excuse at all to imagine that He thought of her as anything but a legal brain. Then He asked another girl for a date at the end of one of their meeting room conversations, in front of her, even smiled at her during the interchange; casual, normal, as if this was an everyday thing.

She had a crying fit in her apartment, that night, alone among the expensive furnishings and slick, ultra modern tech that her high wages paid for, that she hardly ever saw, let alone used.

She had taken this job to lose herself in work, and that had happened, but He had awoken a new thing in her, which would not be denied— except that He was denying it.

If she could not, somehow, find a way to tell Him how she felt, what she hoped for, what she needed, she would have to ask to leave the team, she saw; otherwise she would go mad. And she could not; not in a million years, find a way to believe that she ever would tell Him.

And so she must get out, and soon; she’d ask Him, make up some excuse— a sick aunt; something— hoping that He would tell ADD not to downgrade her.

But even this; even this, seemed to be beyond her; every time she told herself she would tell Him, the next time they were alone, that she needed to step back … but she never did.

Inevitably, as she would discover, it was Him who broke the impasse. It would always be Him, until, now, He is everything. Everything.

One evening, she was, as usual, the last in the office, and He had appeared. She was filled with pleasure, and equally, with the need to suppress all expression of it; if He was not interested, she must, at the very least, not compromise His professional respect for her.

It got harder each day to manage herself this way, but she managed it (or so she thought; it became clear, later, that He had been monitoring her real feelings rather accurately; that He knew just when He ought to make His move).

“I need something a little different tonight.”

She had no idea what He meant, but it was said in the same tone as everything else He said; unemphatic, calm but equally indisputable, commanding. She waited, without speaking, as she had learned to do; He did not appreciate interruption; although He would accept it with perfect grace, there would be a cool sarcasm in the next couple of remarks which cut like a knife, however gentle His manner; they had all learned; you waited until He was finished; really finished.

“For a start, we’ll work in my office.”

She had been in His personal office precisely once, on the first day of ‘the outpost’, and that for less than ten minutes, standing the whole time. It was slick, minimalist, and also subtle; all dark tones, satin textures, glass and grey steel and smooth, smooth surfaces; intimidating; she had felt in the presence of a superior sensibility, one that understood the world and could manipulate it with confidence. It had made her feel safe, too; if He could do that, then she had made the right choice to join His team.

It felt the same when she arrived there with Him this time. He was power; ability, certainty. She felt small, uncertain. She knew, of course, that He had hired an interior designer to produce exactly such feelings, that it was all manipulation. But then, that was kind of the point, wasn’t it? All their work was manipulation, and here was a master manipulator. A winner, while she; she was a loser. Her fancy job, her money, her apparent status meant nothing. She knew she was a loser. She had lost. Even Him, she had lost with.

Her mind was driving itself down that track when He said the next thing, and the words did not even register for the longest while; they were in her head; she had heard them, had understood, even, was shocked even, but still, still, they had not landed for the longest, longest moment;

“When you’re working with me, in here, after hours, I’d like you to be naked.”