Chloe and the Agency Pt.6

This will make more sense if you have read the previous episodes.

There is no way to back out, as Madame D’s uncompromising, casually imperious tones sound through the door;

“Come!”

Mrs Krells just watches as Chloe, jittery, makes a mess of handling both the tray and the door handle, only just managing to get the door open without spilling any coffee. Chloe knows that she looks pathetic, that her fear of D, her anticipation of the sexual humiliation which is sure to be visited on her, that all this is obvious— that Mrs Krells can see her urgently pulling herself together, forcing a weak smile onto her lips as she enters. That the older woman must be judging her, as she judges herself, as some kind of helpless slut, offering herself up, in full knowledge that she will be heartlessly abused and taken advantage of.

At the same time, the memory of D’s fingers in her sex in the lift last night— so direct, so invasive, so purposeful, is strong in her, and she knows she wants to experience that again, would beg for it, even if Mrs Krells is there to witness it.

That’s the crazy thing about this whole experience— it keeps feeling inevitable that she will degrade herself further, that she is continually in the position of needing to debase herself, simply to get them to do to her what she already knows they want to do. They keep talking her into asking for the abuses they want to impose upon her, and Chloe can’t really see how they manage it so smoothly; of course, this just reinforces how in awe of them she is, and how weak and shamefully needy she knows herself to be.

As it is, D does not look up from her screen as Chloe, remembering the housekeeper’s instructions, lays the tray down on a low table set to one side, then, trembling, stands upright, moves her feet to set her legs apart, and then, finding it hard to believe she is once again doing something completely crazy, forces her trembling fingers to the hems of her skirts, and lifts.

Lifts, and keeps on lifting, until she is certain that her naked sex is once again on display.

Still, D has not looked up, and and things get hard for Chloe, as the silence extends, punctured only by mouse clicks and short bursts of precise keystrokes, as both Chloe and Mrs Krells wait; the difference between the relaxed, patient mien of the latter contrasting strongly with Chloe’s increasingly audible breathing, the burning red at her cheekbones, her quivering fingers, fluttering chest and mounting desperation.

She feels ridiculous, weak, pathetic— to an unbearable degree. Except that she is too frightened not to bear it. Too frightened, given the scolding she had received in the dining room, not to keep smiling— however forced and weak the smile is, earnestly trying to remember how she had managed to focus on the sweetness of holding herself as they want her to, attendant on their pleasure, focused on serving them.

It’s just that there is no sweetness to be found here, with the hard-faced housekeeper standing behind her, to one side, her presence all the more powerful for being out of Chloe’s sight— no sweetness at all; only shame and fear and need and …

When D does look up, things don’t get any easier— just change gear;

“Ah! The pretty guest! My, my! Offering yourself to me, are you, Chloe? Is it that you want my fingers in your cunt again? Is that it? I hear M’s been enjoying teasing your juicy little slit already today— hurting you as well as pleasuring, she said. And that you responded prettily to both. Can it be that you want me to make free with your cute little pussy? Get you juiced up, make you sigh, then pinch at your little button with my nails; twist it until you wail? Tell me; is that what you want?”

And there it is— a direct question; un-ignorable— going straight for the heart of the matter, leaving no place for Chloe to hide. Either answer, answer honestly, or fail— when failure would make a nonsense of all she suffered last night, all she has allowed this morning.

The thought does float through her head that to fail might also be the way to escape from this couple’s clutches, to find herself back in normal life, able to consign last night, this morning to a crazy memory, a blip; but it’s as if she’s only allowing herself to think this so she can pretend to herself that she has a choice, when in reality she knows that the thought of failing M, of being ejected from this place is not one she thinks she could bear, at this point. To have to process everything that she has already asked for, allowed, been subjected to, all on her own— for she would never dare tell anyone aven the smallest part of it all; to have to deal with it and try to find satisfaction in her humdrum old ways is a prospect which is somehow worse— infinitely worse, than staying here to be turned into a whore. It makes no sense— but then, nothing, nothing at all about her old life makes any sense, either; meaningless things on computer screens all day, meaningless conversations, meaningless intimacy, even (she realises she has not even thought of her boyfriend once since the conversation in the street the evening before). While here— this, this ever different mix of fear and shame and arousal and pain and pleasure and humiliation and exaltation and ignominy and specialness— this is meaning. Even if the meaning is that she will be eaten alive by these two, at least she will have lived.

I need to be here! — the thought is insistent, unarguable, and deeply troubling.

Not least because staying here will bring up an endless series of moments like this — where she has to make herself beg, just as she had imagined, beg D to play with her sex— and to do so in front of Mrs Krells.

A terrible moment, yes— but also an incredible moment, an astonishingly intense experience, her whole body on full alert, engaged, expectant, activated. The thought of a life with no more moments like this is not to be borne, whatever the cost.

Last night, everything had been so rapid; it had been night, Chloe had been mesmerised by her talk with M and D in the bar, Lord D and his staff complete strangers, knowing nothing of her— it had been difficult enough, but a powerful, dreamlike unreality had pervaded everything, so that it had been as if it was not really she, Chloe, who had done those terrible things, had suffered such degrading treatment— but that she had been simply been an observer of some other Chloe, as though it were an unusually vivid and disturbing dream.

But right here, right now, there is no-one else that this is happening to but Chloe. It is all very real, immediate, and physical. And there is no time. She must answer. Now.

This is dirty shame. Chloe is offering herself up, to be remade into some shamefully degraded slut, and everyone here knows it; this place exists to degrade her, to have her be a depraved slut, to turn her out as a whore to rich sadists, and nothing else. And she is expected to beg for it to be done to her.

All this flashes across Chloe’s mind in an instant, searing her. At the same time, her mouth is getting itself ready, and then her lips are moving, without her knowing what it is they will say, on autopilot, in self-destruct mode;

“Yes, yes, please Madame; that— that’s what I want. Just— just as you say.”

There; it’s out there, in the world. And Chloe is happy. Happy at the same time as she feels almost physically sick.

I’m a whore now. A dirty, slutty, whore. I’m going to be made into a sex toy. Even the servant knows it. Her belly trembles; she feels her sex tingle, her nipples stiffen, her heart racing. Oh god my body wants it; I can’t help it if that’s the way I react to this kind of treatment, can I? Oh fuck oh fuck this is so dangerous. These women will hurt me— really hurt me; more— they’ll degrade me so that I’ll accept even worse, and then what— ruin me completely?

Blinking away threatening tears, Chloe does all she can to show the terrified happiness in her face— offering herself to D. Her lips tremble, but it is clear to D that the smile is real, and her own lips curl a little in satisfaction. This one will be fun, and rewarding, too. It will take time— she’s such an innocent, she must be carefully handled— but at the same time she is a natural— she will let them do everything to her. Will ask them for it. Must be made to ask them for it— for the fun of it, if nothing else. But, truly, it is a powerful technique, alongside the entertainment value.

It had been a difficult road for both M and D to get to this point, where their Agency (simply known as ’the Agency’— not incorporated or registered anywhere) is known in certain circles (care taken not to let these circles overlap too much) as the best global purveyor of exquisitely submissive volunteer 24/7 slaves— mostly girls, but men, too, if required. Mostly for rent, but also for sale, if the price is right— and since the number of candidates is relatively small who can be taken to the stage where they fully accept that their life is over— ask be totally controlled, even to the point of death— the right price is always crazy high.

It had been hard work; a hard life, too, for D, who had dragged herself out of poverty to become a high-priced dominatrix before she met M, who had been born with money, but never able to be herself. Their meeting had been the beginning of a powerful and tightly committed partnership, but they had endured years of strain and trouble, too, as they perfected their skills and built a reputation, then finally attained a clientele which was so rich it could be completely trusted, so that they could safely take things to the extreme which had been their ambition (their clients had too much to lose to cause trouble— and the Agency, for its part, never caused them trouble).

Having been through these hardships, taken enormous risks, nearly been burned many times, D’s attitude to girls like Chloe was as simple as her relationship to ripe cherries; they were to be enjoyed, and used up; consumed. For sure, cherries were not always available, not always ripe, not always sweet; but when they were, they must be savoured, every last drop extracted from them. On the other hand, new cherries could be found, if you looked carefully, and so there was no hesitation about squeezing a new cherry until there was nothing left but a dried-up stone. There would be another one along soon enough— and each one slightly different, with new enjoyments on offer.

And here was a sweet one; young, yes, but in need of a little ripening only to become a fat, juicy mouthful which might provide satisfaction for a good while.

And the ripening, too, could be most entertaining, as M had reminded her earlier.

“You must do better, little pretty. You know that I need you to tell us— tell us both, exactly what you want. We need to hear the specifics from your pretty lips; hear you beg. Because— well— frankly, girl, I’m going to be really quite nasty to you; hurt you and humiliate you; I have to know that’s what you want. You have to tell me. After all, you’re a guest here; it would never do to force something upon you that you really didn’t want, would it?”

Chloe’s throat feels as if it has closed up; it doesn’t matter what she gives, they want more— more explicit submission, more extreme access to her body, more acceptance of humiliation and cruelty, more perfect behaviour. And it is all so matter-of-fact, so lightly handled— as if it is perfectly normal to ask a young woman you hardly know, who is holding her skirt up high so you can see her naked, artfully shaved sex, ask her to beg you to feel free to play with her there, and to hurt her, too.

And yet … and yet … as with M earlier, as with Mrs Fisk before that, as with Lord K the previous night, there was a build-up of breathless excitement inside her— she felt it, as if she were at the top of a rollercoaster, about to be pitched into a steep fall, with no real idea of what would come afterwards, save that it would be extreme. The act of buckling oneself into the seat, being ‘in for the ride’ as the saying went, is somehow comforting; all I have to do is say ‘yes please’, and everything will be done to me. It will no longer be my responsibility, but I can be sure that I will be taken to new places, have new and intense experiences— no longer in control … oh God… I’m going to…

“Please, please … I … I beg you to … to feel free to … to play with … with … with my … Oh God … with my pussy and … and … and hur … hurt me there, too.”

Chloe feels as if she might faint at any second, so hot does she feel, so hard it is to breathe properly— her throat tight, tiny sips of air all she can manage, so tightly wound is she, feeling herself trembling, knowing it must be obvious to both of these women what a state she is in, feeling so small, so young, ashamed of herself for being so obviously weak and silly; utterly unable to imagine any way out of this which was not going to intensify all those feelings.

No decent girl would do this, say such things. I’m losing myself, losing it, for these frightening women, and I don’t seem to be able to stop myself.

But She’s smiling at me! It was an astonishingly pleasant and welcome feeling: D had hardly smiled at her since very early in the conversation in the bar, and it was ridiculous— but certain— how powerful that short, hard little smile was for Chloe, as urgently needed relief, experienced physically as a warm softness spreading from her chest, relaxing her belly and her throat, so that she could breathe again, just a little, and when D took out a little treats box like the one M had, Chloe found herself almost eager to be humiliated, eager to be able to demonstrate her gratitude for that small smile by letting herself be shamed again. Remembering how M had wanted her, Chloe slowly and deliberately parted her lips, licked them, put her tongue-tip right out, not demanding, or even asking, but demonstrating her willingness to learn what is desired of her, to behave, to show that she would wait; blushing furiously and simpering like a little girl; so that she is utterly crushed when D says;

“Oh no pretty. Absolutely not; I’m afraid you haven’t earned your sweetie, yet; that was a good try— very cute, and quite affecting in its own way, but really, almost incoherent. Some pretty hesitation is entertaining, but that was honestly not at all good enough.”

“You need to do much better: ask again, and this time, make it very clear how very much you want me to feel free to do whatever I feel like to your cute little pussy— that you want me to hurt you down there; hurt you badly, if I choose.”

“You need to do more still, though,d to up your game, little cunt. Ask Mrs Krells to get your titties out for me first— include them in your offer— ask her, very nicely, to pinch your nipples a bit to get them nice and perky, then clamp them so they stay that way— I’ll take a little video of you begging, then, to show M; I know how much you care about her opinion of you.”

Of course, the video would be put up on the Agency’s website almost immediately, Chloe’s face blurred out while she was still not fully signed-up; the bidding for first go at her was already underway.

“Seriously, your feelings of fear and shame are a given, here; after all, they are totally justified. But you must not ever let them get in the way of your offering. This is not about you; you are merely cunt, hardly human; your feelings only interesting insofar as they add to any entertainment value you may have. There are many cunts available; each with their own characteristics, of course, but ultimately none is truly special; the point of cunt is that it is interchangeable.”

“You need to try to shine, little Chloe, if you want to be accepted here, if you want to stay here. Work at it; be trying, always, to be everything we could hope for, and then a little better. Nothing less will be acceptable. Small failures will bring pain and shame, serious failures will lead to ruthless disposal. No dead weight is carried here.”

If she had been frightened before, experiencing heightened emotions, in inner turmoil, Chloe was on a different planet after this devastating speech. She had been called ‘cunt’ the night before, but the way D used the word, with Mrs Krells as a witness, was destruction, annihilation of all self-respect for any girl who let it stand, who did not loudly protest.

And Chloe knew that she was not going to protest; she might feel horrified, appalled, despairing, but she had just been lectured about the need to suppress her feelings if she wanted to stay, and, insanely, the speech had filled her with a desperate, heartfelt determination to be what was being demanded of her. It made no sense, but it was real, and she worked on herself, urgently, so that she could speak again, so that she could beg;

“Please, Mrs Krells, can I beg you to get my breasts out, and hurt my nipples to make them big, then put clamps on them so they stay stiff?”

Chloe was trembling all over, now, but she held her position with urgent care, and— remembering what Miss A had told her before her second bout of whipping— managed to control her yelps as the horribly sharp toothed clamps bit into her tender areolae at the base of each nipple, making her pain and shame very clear without being screechy or overly loud.

Then, in the face of D’s cold, expressionless expectation, for the lens of her waiting phone, Chloe made herself beg again;

“Please, mistress, I beg you to do anything you like to my sex, my nipples— my whole body, for any reason at all. I … I beg you to hurt me just as you please. I … I beg to be treated as … as cunt, here.”

And made herself smile and bob a silly little curtsy at the end, for good measure, though inside a part of her was wishing she could die.

This time, she waited until D took a sweetie from the box before wriggling and jiggling like a little girl, letting herself be teased about the final position of the little chocolate drop, remembered to leave it on her extended tongue tip until a laconic nod from D gave her permission to take it into her mouth, She remembered, too, no chewing, to just let the little sweet slowly dissolve in her mouth.

Soon, Chloe would be given an understanding that, as with her hands, an Agency girl was forbidden to use her teeth in any way not in service of a superior being. No chewing, definitely no biting; all food liquefied. In addition, gulping was forbidden unless unavoidable (such as when attempting to take a large cock deeply); swallowing must be as discreet as possible - entirely achieved in the mouth and throat, without jaw movements.

Later still, when she in her turn was delivered to the surgeon in Brazil, her jaw musculature would be permanently weakened, so that it was a constant work if she needed to keep her mouth closed, almost impossible for her to bite at all, her speech changing too, as it became difficult to form hard consonants or give clear shape to her words.

Strong experience of permanent physical weaknesses like this very much reinforced the continual psychological imposition of ’learned helplessness’ which was necessary for a girl for whom it was planned that she go the whole way, for a girl who was to completely lose all belief in her right or capacity to determine her own future; for her to sincerely ask to have total slavery imposed upon her; for her to lean in to it with real gratitude, because she could no longer imagine herself as able to live without being completely controlled by another; equally convinced, at the same time, that the responsibility of controlling her must be paid for with total and sweetly eager sexual servitude, since she was a girl who had asked to be rendered useless for any other purpose.

Somehow, the shame was pleasure, the pain at her nipples as D played with the clamps too, taken as welcome, and the fingers at her sex, although it was crushingly shaming to respond so helplessly, so physically while Mrs Krells watched her from behind, that she could not help herself from making her gratitude plain;

“Oh thank you, thank you thank you, please, please do hurt me if you’d like to , hurt m … aaaiiiyiEE! Ah! ah|! Ah! AAAaaahghhaghaghaccckk… … hrrh, herrrrgh, AAAIYEEK!”

The manipulations had ended with a vicious snap-wristed slap, which caught her sex lips and stiff clitoris both, so that Chloe nearly toppled off the cruel heels, tottered, tears rolling from her eyes, lost in pain and shame and defeat, desperately trying to remain in control of herself, to behave, to keep her skirts up, not to let her face twist too much with the pain, for D not to disapprove of her.

All that Chloe earned for this heartbreaking effort was to be ignored as D addressed the servant;

“Bring the tea tray over, please Mrs Krells, then put the pretty on the little table, would you? She can try to be an ornament while I finish up.”