Read the previous part of this story
The next episode comes after a break of several days. Her presentation is the same, but those who binge-watch later notice that the whip marks from the previous video have partly faded, overlaid by newer, sharper lines of pain and shame, but there is something else different, too; harder to see— perhaps a lighter, looser feeling to her movements.
She settles herself, as beautifully and elegantly as before, goes through her routine, opening her thighs with servile generosity, even though she is very obviously blushing, too. There’s a pause, and then a shockingly sweet smile shows itself for a second; a smile of real happiness, before it is suppressed;
I’m … I’m to tell you that, since so very many of you are kindly watching and approving of these little videos, I’ve … well I’ve been fucked quite a bit more than usual, and , and very … hard … too; which … which has been wonderful. Thank … thank you for watching. Of course, you’ll see from my breasts and … other places that I’ve just been whipped, too— only an hour or so ago. That … that was very hard, too. Just … Just as it should be … although … it was …
Her voice loses all strength, quivers;
… it really was terrible … But … but it will help me tell the next part, better, I think. At any rate, I’m to be thoroughly whipped before each session from now on.
Her expression is hard to read at this point; talking so honestly, on camera, about her relationship with implacable, impersonal cruelty, inflicted simply to keep alive in her the awareness of her degraded condition is clearly very hard. There is a long pause before she speaks again;
I … I… this … this … cunt.
This cunt started to talk about Jessica— about the girl this cunt used to be— in the third person last time, and … and this cunt has been told to carry on like that. Because Jessica is gone. There’s only this body, these holes and jiggly soft bits, now. Only this cunt, this body, now.
I hope you like it— this body, I mean, with the whip marks and … and everything else… Some of you will get to fuck it and hurt it; soon, apparently. I don’t know how, but I’m sure you can find out. I know you’ll be hard on me. Please don’t hold back. I’ll do everything I can to open myself to you and to please you. Hopefully lots of you; that’s what He wants. He wants you to fuck me hard, use me roughly, hurt me cruelly, abuse me without mercy. And so … and so I want that, too, please. Thank you.
She is blushing hard by the end of this, and her hips are rolling too, her eyes half closed, her tongue tip peeking from between loose, trembling lips. The chain between her legs tightens and loosens, tightens again, as if she is deliberately pulling at it, delivering senstation to her sex, clearly radiating both sexual need and deep shame. The sequence gets lots of replays and also gets her raped by the servant who collects her after the session, a man normally jaded by the constant availability of naked, sexually trained and needy slavegirls.
Anyway, I’d better … better get started… So…
We’d got to the part where He had just told her— Jessica— the girl I used to be;
“When you’re working with me, in here, after hours, I’d like you to be naked.”
And broke her world.
It took forever; it seemed to, anyway, but when the words had finally landed in her head, they still made no sense. Her body though, was way ahead of her brain, for a torrent of mixed-up emotions had already burst inside her; she felt as if she was overheating; fear, glory, shame, despair, relief, gratitude, all at once, in an impossible jumble; she was trembling; she had dropped her eyes from His face as soon as any meaning had formed in her mind, and she could not decide if it was the most delightful thing in the world that He could see just what He had done to her, how powerfully He had affected her, or the worst thing ever.
For He was watching her— she could feel it; watching her and waiting, perfectly calm; interested, but not apparently expectant, during the seconds which stretched out, seconds in which she had not responded as she obviously ought— with outrage, but at the same time, had not complied either.
She knew that outrage was what she should feel, urgently told herself that, demanded it of herself, but there was nothing— nothing, in all the maelstrom of emotion, nothing that felt in the slightest like outrage, nothing with any conviction in it at least; and as her thoughts began— just— to be able to follow on, one from another, the line they were following was a knife edge, with yearning, gratitude and relief on the one side, fear and shame on the other. Outrage was not in the picture.
Thinking back, it is hard not to wonder whether, somewhere in that mindstorm, over those few seconds, right at the start of this, there had not been some perception— incomplete, foggy, for certain— but nevertheless, some idea of how it might go, of how far Jessica might fall, should she say yes to His shocking suggestions.
Whether that’s true or not, the reality was that fear won— just; when Jessica could believe that she she could speak in a voice not too choked with emotion, knowing that He had seen, must have seen, just what a rollercoater of feelings He had imposed on her, she stumbled over her words, but managed to say;
“I … please … thank you … but … I … I don’t think I could …”
Her chest was rising and falling so much that she knew her breasts must be making themselves very obvious, but she was at the limits of her self-control, and could manage nothing more.
Again, He left a silence, through which she suffered mightily, full of anxiety, with no idea what might come next, fearing she had done something stupid, something that would get her fired, wreck what she had begun to value so much.
But His voice, when it came, was calm, and full of acceptance.
“Very well. I respect your choice, Jessica. Please, do think about my preference though— we can discuss it another time.”
“Now, let’s talk about the dual hedging sections of the plan; I was thinking again about the liabilities clauses, earlier, and …”
As if nothing of any significance had happened, He walked over the small conference table, where a neat arrangement of papers awaited them, and, still standing, moved smoothly into work mode.
She was fighting a different fight, then; struggling to recover her legal mind, to follow Him, to please Him with her legal skills, if she couldn’t … if she couldn’t …
She kept it up for ten minutes or so (it felt like an hour), knowing she was failing, in turmoil, desperately covering. But it wasn’t that which made her stop Him, mid-sentence (not something one ever did to Him, but she could not hold back)— her whole being had chosen something, something huge, something momentous, and it would not be denied.
“Please, Mr Destry…” (that’s what He had all the girls call Him— in the office at least— the seniors called Him Al, of course) “… I … I … I’d like to change my mind. Please.”
She felt faint, then, overheated again, her heart trip-hammering, her ears roaring somehow, despite the silence of the office after hours. She was blushing fierily, she knew, couldn’t bring herself to look up, to see His face, even though she urgently, desperately needed to see His eyes, His expression.
He helped her, then— it seemed He wanted to see her, too, for He extended a hand, and, very softly, but with casual assurance, lifted her chin with a crooked finger, until they were face to face.
There were tears, then, in her eyes, and she blinked fast, was almost broken by the gentle way He collected them, smoothly brushed her cheek with the same finger that had just tilted her face up to His;
“I understand; this is difficult for you. Very obviously, it’s an abuse of power. Just to tell you of my preference was abuse. Knowing abuse, too. I had no doubt that saying such a thing would stress you, quite powerfully. You have controlled yourself beautifully, as I fully expected you might, but nevertheless, I want to tell you how pleasing your response has been; even the way you excused yourself so politely. You exceed my expectations, pretty.”
She was floored by this little speech. In the age of #MeToo, for a boss to straightforwardly claim His behaviour as abusive, was almost impossible to make sense of. Calling her pretty was definitely out of line (although it also had her weak at the knees), and that was just a small part of it…
He had given no clue, either, as to whether He accepted her change of mind— inside herself, too, there was a war going on— much of her horrified at the words which had come out of her mouth, and fighting a powerful rearguard action to get her to tell Him No — that it was a misunderstanding, that she had not changed her original position.
It made no difference, though, what part of her might prevail, since the weltering emotions within her rendered her incapable of speech again— indeed, she was barely able to stand without crumpling, to look at Him without dissolving into tears, galvanised by His appreciation of her self-control, clinging to it, at least to stay standing, to stem the tears, to be where He wants her, whatever might happen.
What did happen, very simply, was that He walked away from her, and busied himself making drinks— a glass of ice water, and two glasses with a dangerous amounts of some spirit from a decanter.
Abandoned, freed of His attention, she trembled, remaining fixated on Him, suddenly aware of her posture, of the sexualised tension of the situation, demanding of herself that she at least stand like a woman with some dignity, some grace, even if she did not trust herself to take a step, had no idea what could be next, had no ability to even think.
The iced water was shockingly welcome, and she had to exert control over herself not to drink it with the desperation the sight of it provoked in her. He watched her drink, and she felt as if she might already be naked, so powerfully did she experience the impact of His gaze on her, hearing again His voice in her mind, those words; naked … abuse … so strong, suffusing everything, impossible to accept, let alone think about the conjunction of.
When she had done, He took the glass from her, placed it on the tray, smiled— a simple, calm smile, nothing at all special;
“If you’ll indulge me— and I very much think that you should, since, naked, you’re going to be quite vulnerable should I become irritated …” He was smiling at Jessica, laughing, letting her know He was joking, His eyes at the same time telling her that this was all very serious, that He meant what He said about pleasing Him, which made her with delight and fear at the same time … “If you’ll indulge me, you’ll take your panties off first— It’s good that you’re not wearing pantyhose, but I’ll enjoy you in some proper stockings.”
She only realised later that with that assumptive little speech; half joke, half command, He had taken complete control of her. He had decided that she was to strip for Him, and that He would be in control of how she stripped. He had as good as told her she must begin to wear stockings— the kind held up with a garter belt— and He had done it so smoothly that she had simply gone along with it.
She had let the little joke take her— it was so much easier to act as if this business of getting naked for Him, of stripping herself for Him, at His command, was some sort of funny game they were playing, like the little games first date couples play to ease the tension.
But He was deadly serious, and her smile quickly became a silly, shaming giggle and then a cringing which she did what she could to turn into a sexy wiggle for Him as— unbelievably, her hands worked their way under her skirt, one at each side, lifting the hem, exposing her thighs, perhaps her crotch, until she could get her thumbs into the waistband of her unremarkable panties (cursing herself for not having put on something prettier, sexier that morning).
Her heart was in her mouth as she began to tug them down— such an everyday action, made so very different when she was fixated by the question of what He thought of her (everything about what He might be thinking was of desperate interest), by her doing it for Him, how she looked, her body language as she did it for Him, her body as she did it for Him.
It took forever and was then suddenly done, she bending at the waist, finding herself making sure to give Him whatever view was possible of her cleavage, lifting her feet, one at a time, and … there. Her panties were in her hand, her heart felt as if it were in her throat; she had forgotten how to breathe, it seemed, her nipples like stones, her belly flip-flopping inside, her breath coming fast and almost at random, her cheeks hot, her mouth so terribly dry, pulse thumping in her ears, vision misty.
This can’t be happening! — the thought ran through her head.
Except that it was all so very real; she was aware of every tiny detail.
“In the trash, pretty; I never want to see you wearing anything so boring again. Louly will send you some links and a company card. Buy things you think I’ll like. Spend money; there’ll be a bonus allowance for you.”
He was assuming so much, going so fast! It was breathtaking, literally; she kept forgetting to breathe as He directed her striptease;
“Now, the same with the brassiere— do that clever thing girls do— take it off while you still have your blouse on.”
She’d hardly done it herself, but remembered the trick, unhooking the back, then working one arm out of the shoulder strap inside her blouse, so that the whole brassiere could could pulled out through the opposite sleeve.
“Now, unbutton the blouse fully, but don’t pull it open.”
She was breathing heavily and deeply, knowing herself to have reached a place of sexual need, of anticipation that she had never experienced before.
“Lift your arms up, high; now back, so that your blouse opens up a little, pull your pretty tits up, show them off to me.”
“Now, use these scissors— cut the waist of your blouse short— above your belly button.”
“Good— now your skirt— cut it short— micro-skirt short; Now cut slits in it— lots of them, every couple of inches. Nice.”
“Now, dance for me. Not stripper dancing. Dance slow. take it easy, just soft little moves until you can loosen up and get sexier. Dance for me Jessica, until you want to take your skirt off, then dance some more, until you want to be completely naked for me.”
He had done something with His phone, and some smooth but impulsive music played, and she had danced a while, and then, very much because she wanted to, she had stripped herself for Him.
And then He had stopped the music, just as she had begun to feel just a little used to being naked in front of him, He had had her stand still for Him, displaying herself;
“Just let me look at you.”
The knowledge burned in her that she was naked for Him; that He had asked it of her, without insisting or ordering, that she had stripped for Him, that He was now looking at her body, very directly, very openly; something — she realised with soft amazement— that she had never had a man do before.
The knowledge that she was naked for Him, that she was showing herself to Him, hoping desperately that He liked what He saw— it was like nothing else had ever been in her whole life. She was tingling with it, at the same time horribly, desperately shy and unsure of herself, uncertain about her body, certain that this scene was very, very wrong in so many ways, at the same time possessed by an urgent need to have Him approve of her body— to find her sexually attractive, to find her fuckable (the word just appeared in her head). It was not a word she had ever used before— certainly not about herself; but she knew that it was important. It was more than that— it was necessary that He should find her fuckable.
She was blushing and trembling and fighting her hands, which wanted to cover her breasts and sex, fighting her legs, which wanted to cross themselves tightly, fighting her mouth, which kept wanting to babble stupid inanities, fighting her feet, which wanted to fidget.
None of that, though, was anything but a side issue to the fact of being naked for Him. To the fact that it made her feel alive, as she never had, that it made her feel sexy, as she never had. That it made her yearn for Him to fuck her. That she liked it more than anything she had liked since she had become a woman. That she was drowning in gratitude.
That was the first night.
He had her walk for Him, had her dance again, had her climb onto a table, on all fours, spread her thighs for Him, until she had lost control, broken down into embarrassed, pathetic giggling. He had not laughed at her through, but told her she was beautiful, that she was sexy, that He would very much look forward to fucking her. And she had been quickly returned to breathless nervous trembling.
He had not touched her, though. Had in fact reminded her that He wanted to talk about the details He was concerned about, wanted her concentration, and she had, somehow managed to stand near Him, naked, shivery from her proximity to Him, fully dressed, managed to say sensible things about the clauses He was interested in, or at least not nonsensical things, until the gratitude had overwhelmed her again; until she had had to excuse herself;
“Please … I’m sorry … this … I … I just need a minute, would you, please?”
“By all means, pretty; take your time. I’ll enjoy watching you.”
So that she had had to stand, holding herself for Him, while she grappled with her feelings; her wold, crashing, surging feelings about this unprocessable experience, nothing about it making sense at all…
For Him to have had her strip, said such things to her, treated her both so gently and so manipulatively, for them both to know that this is dangerous, for herself to have remained so passive, so submissive — the word appeared in her head, triggering all sorts of implications in her, half-memories of bad porn, dorm room conversations, horrible men, the weirdo goth girls at school …
For it to be real, that she was naked, in His office, trying to calm herself down so that she could focus on complex and momentous legal questions, while she was obsessed with what He might be thinking about her buttocks, knowing she had been working too hard to take her training runs seriously for weeks now…
It was all too much; and yet , she must handle it, she must. Because if she knew anything, it was that she wanted to feel like this again, that she wanted Him to keep her wanting her like this, for Him to want more, much more of her. And so, somehow, she had managed to get herself under control enough to turn her head, to face Him, desperately, painfully, deliciously shy, stupidly happy to see His eye wander to her breasts (finding her shoulders pulling backwards to emphasis the tilt of her nipples for Him, as if by instinct, without even having thought about it), and said;
“Thank you. I’m … I can continue, if you’d like, I think.”
And it went like that. Work, her naked, occasionally overwhelmed; Him tolerant, amused, not letting her off the hook, though, until He had said;
“Very well, I think we’ve got somewhere. And I need to be somewhere else, quite soon, so I’ll leave you now. Put the scraps in the trash, no need to hide them. You have a coat, I hope— to wear on your journey home? No? Then take one of these— the short one, please…”
And so He had abandoned her, naked, to put on her ruined blouse and shirt, the short thin raincoat He’d indicated, to make her way back to her desk, tidy it as if everything was normal, close the lights and go home.
And understand that normal was gone, for her. That there would never be a normal again.
Shockingly quickly, being naked for Him became the most important thing in her life. Either experiencing it; nakedness in His presence (he was always fully clothed), fully occupied with it— no; more; utterly overtaken by the business of having Him find her fuckable; if not the reality, then thinking about it, wanting it, day-dreaming about it, night-dreaming it. And then, very soon, it became necessary to her, especially during the times when He had not required her in His office (it was often days, but sometimes more than a week, occasionally two, and she had found those longer times increasingly difficult), a requirement for her, to train herself for it, for Him.
Naked, in front of the mitror, practising her walk, her stance, the way her hands moved, the way to kneel, to stand, to bend over a table, to bring her knee up onto the arm of an easy chair, opening herself for Him, managing the sway of her breasts all in service of the pressing, urgent need in her that His attention, when it was on her, would find her as He wanted her, that He would find himself entertained, interested, approving, that His attention might be captured.
Laughing at herself sometimes, feeling foolish, embarrassed even though she was alone, the seriousness always brought her back— the seriousness in Him, and in her too, by then.
“It doesn’t matter what I feel; it’s how He feels that matters; in fact He likes me to be embarrassed, likes to see me blushing, likes to see how vulnerable I am, how open I am, how … how needy I am for Him to find me fuckable. For Him to fuck me. How much I need to know that He is passionate about fucking me; how much I need thim to lose His cool with me; to be rough in His passion; to use me just as He needs to, even though it hurts me. Especially when it hurts me, even…”
Such thoughts, going around and around in her head, would frighten her, arouse her, have her tembling, breathless, any time she let them get out of hand. They frightened her. She was becoming obsessed. She was so vulnerable to Him; her job, everything she had worked for; He could destroy it all in a minute if He wanted. Worse— and immediately she saw that this was the more likely occurrence, too— that she would do something stupid, that it could be her who destroyed it all, with some careless aside, something that implied there was anything between the two of them.
She would be gone; He woud be lost to her. She would be lost, without Him, and quite possibly withouth a job, either. It was terrifying.
He knew all this, she saw, in moments of more calm consideration, her lawyer’s brain picking it apart, looking for the angles, loking for ways through, for ways to escape, ways to get more of what she wanted with less risk. He knew— He must even have some idea of how far gone in her need for Him she was— for hadn’t she done everything, wasn’t she, always, doing everything she could to make it clear to Him just how open to Him, how eager for Him she was? And He saw; He really saw her; knew just what to do with her, when. He knew.
And she saw, then, just how cruel He was; how abusive. He knew just what He was doing to her, how dangerous it was for her, how vulnerable she was, how costly any error would be for her, any lessening, even, of His interest in her. And yet He pushed her ever harder, demanded more from her, expected more.
“And…” she thought; “… I encourage Him; offer myself to Him, give Him more than He has asked for whenever I can, don’t I?”
“So that He is actually kind. Kind to me, giving me what I want, too…”
The girl peters out, her voice having been getting softer. She seemed lost in a reverie, in memories of her earlier, more innocent self, perhaps. A burly man appears in shot and casually manipulates her as he frees her from the stand, then crudely grasps a handful of her hair, holding her so that she must bend at the waist, and drags her off camera, bent double, she scrambling to keep up, not to fall, her breasts jouncing, every move submissive, working to help the man dragging her.
