You will want to have read the previous parts.
“Any … any way that pleases you, Sir.”
I had said to him; trembling, hot with need, his fingers in my sex, lazily working me, his thumb on my clit, trying to hurt me, not to pleasure me; it made no difference— I was his, begging for it, a newly broken sex-slave, lost without my new God; him, my abuser; fatally undermined, overwhelmed, desperately trying to come to terms with this knowledge about myself; that what had been me— the Chloe I had been— was gone; nothing more than a husk inhabited by this weak, broken thing that nevertheless experienced need; desperate need.
The need to be so desired by a man that he would rape me. A need so strong that I, until recently an adult, serious French woman professional— a formidable person, would shame myself so in a public street without restraint— doing everything I could to make that need evident — anything that is, but for a demand; abject pleading, overt display of vulnerability, of arousal, of eagerness to serve— all of these, but no presumption that I deserved anything but the contempt that was my due as a confirmed degraded slut.
And when he laughed at me and declined, pulling his fingers from me and wiping them on the bodice of my skimpy little dress before stuffing them into my mouth to be cleaned, I died inside; my God had rejected my best efforts at inciting him to rape me; my worthlessness was confirmed.
But there was nothing, nothing else but to continue to serve him with all I had; no other hope— the fear that he might spurn me completely; simply walk off and tell me to lose myself (after all, D. had rejected me and this man was his servant)— was enormous in me and I gave my all to serving his hand, then, letting him choke me, thrusting to the back of my throat, swallowing the retching convulsions that brought, viciously controlling myself, keeping myself soft despite the surging horror in me at this unprecedented, fearful vulnerability, the so recent loss of every last vestige of meaning or expectation of a future.
“Right then, slut,” he was wiping his fingers on a large, very white handkerchief, “… let’s get going before that cop arrests you for indecent display. Walk in front of me; I want to watch you. Off to the left now; I’ll tell you what to do; you concentrate on keeping your tits swinging and your hips switching. Talking of which, let’s corral that lovely stiff nipple, shall we? It would never do to offend public morality now would it?”
I was once again gazing— as I had been trained— at his crotch, actively thinking about his cock, about how it had felt in my mouth, in my throat, when he had raped me— again, as I had been told I must do with a man— focus on what his cock could do to me. A large part of the old part of me was still appalled at this diminution of Chloe— but it was overwhelmed by the new knowledge that Chloe was over, and what was left was so focused on his cock that it paid no attention to his attempt at humour, only to his command; arrested or not, it was all one to a broken whore, but a command— that was something to be grateful for, to commit my all to; for the command to give me license to work to incite lust in men made it doubly so, even if his finger had casually hitched up the fallen shoulder strap to confine my breast again.
It was hard to walk, because my whole body was still weak with arousal, with the devastating impact of the understandings that had crashed through me only minutes before, but the determination to please rode roughshod over all, and I walked; I’m not sure what the effect was— I had practised walking for R., and again in the training week for the various men who had showed up at my apartment to terrorise and degrade me, so I hope I did well, but have no recollection; what I do recall was the incredible sensations. I was a being with nothing; no past, no future, no meaning; all ripped from me, crushed, made ridiculous; what was left was sex, and I felt it, and my body owned it; the body which had led me here, which had so responded to R. that I had allowed him to turn my mind against Chloe, to have me help him destroy her in favour of the hunger in my belly for brute fucking, for being sexually conquered, overwhelmed, used and abused.
That walk was my first experience of being nothing but powerless— truly slavish— nothing but sexual need, and it was astonishing— the wonderful I mentioned before.
To allow myself to be totally the creature which lived to be raped was glorious— and terrifying, too— a permanent, all-or-nothing high-wire experience, utterly at the casual mercy of whatever men were around, the knowledge of my certain total and eager submission to anything at they might choose to enact upon me— that I would not resist, but would rather open myself to anything, any infamy at all, with untrammelled sexual responsiveness and helpless, weak gratitude in my heart.
It took my breath away, had my heart racing, had me panting out loud, conscious of the way I was working to make the little sounds as sexually obvious as possible, as if I were the soundtrack to some high class porn film; carefully soft, high-pitched, throaty, filled with all the shame and vulnerable neediness I could convey, lost in it, lost in the resounding, astonishing knowledge that this was the sum total of my future, now; to be in versions of this state the best I could hope for, short of being raped; the alternative being the desolation and despair of being uninteresting to a man, left to my own control, to facing the bleakness of my self-betrayal alone, without the help of someone stronger.
I could feel the remains of Chloe being crushed still more thoroughly by the overwhelming intensity of the experience of simply walking— like a permanent tornado, ripping away the remaining shreds of anything which might seek to stand against this new reality of an existence as nothing but a thing which needed to be raped, which would spend every ounce of its energy, of its attention, in service of that end.
Into this came the voice of a man— a stranger’s voice, quickly obviously the commanding, confident tones of a cop.
“Msieu, Madame, s’il vous plait?”
It was not at all a question; we were to stop, and, from nowhere, came memories of scenes from films R. had taken Chloe to see; ‘The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo’, ‘Bad Lieutenant’, both with crooked cops abusing young women— the films more suggestive than explicit, but very powerfully so, so that the scene in my head was immediately both frightening and darkly arousing, and my audible panting became darker in tone, too, as I turned in the direction of the voice— he’d come at us from the other side of the road; a motorcycle traffic cop, by his uniform and helmet.
It was strange, powerfully strange, to make myself stare at the cop’s groin and make myself think about his cock, about it stiffening as he looked at me in my skimpy dress, to make myself think about being raped by him, to make myself know that I would encourage him.
It is no longer so strange, this powerfully degrading imposition on me— one which is impossible to monitor, so that it is inescapably obvious to me that it is myself which has insisted on it, until it has become habitual— not natural, for it remains always disturbing and humiliating, but habitual; if I forget about it for some reason I get deep pangs of discomfort.
There is nothing, nothing for me, any more but to be the Whore, Delicious, even though it takes such continuous effort to stay ‘in the zone’ of such a thin tranche of what a full human takes for granted; to keep myself within bounds, and thus be required to make the most of the tiny freedoms and rewards available to me there. Imagining a strange man’s cock raping me, getting myself hot and moist for him in advance, telegraphing to him as best I can that I am vulnerable, eager, needy for his greed; it is what I have, now.
Doing it for the first time was, truly, astonishing; experiencing myself clamping down on any and all resistance to giving everything to the effort, despite the pounding heart, the boiling shame, the little voice of Chloe the lawyer screaming, almost inaudibly, that any brush with the law would be fatal to her career, and being ignored.
The men were talking, while my pulse thundered in my ears; it was not up to me; nothing was up to me; the two of them would decide, and maybe I’d get fucked. I hoped so.
I hoped so.
It was astonishing to have this thought, to feel it deeply too; here I was, in the street, having let my abuser grope me, put his hand up my skirt, leaned into it, welcomed it, sucked his hand clean, one breast tipping out of the top of a dress that was more underwear than anything else, all apparently watched by this cop— a man of authority, his gun in its black leather holster so close to his cock, his uniform all about power and control, his stance, too, and I could think of nothing more than hoping I’d get fucked. It ate me up, and I gave myself to be devoured by it; gave myself willingly, eagerly, because there was nothing else other than the black void inside me which was cold, grey nothingness and despair.
“Mam’selle?”
The cop had revised his assessment of me, downgraded me, both in his language and his tone, and he wanted an answer. I made an effort, and replayed the sounds of their conversation in my head.
My abuser, astonishingly, had told the cop the truth;
“The young woman is known to me. She is a helpless sexual submissive— a nymphomaniac. She likes to be fucked by strangers. It is a vulnerable condition, and very dangerous, of course. She feels safe with me, so I’m taking her somewhere safe, to fuck her, to calm her down; as you can see, she is desperate for it.”
The cop, not surprisingly, was asking me to confirm these scandalous assertions. If I did not, my young abuser would probably find himself in serious trouble, but his body language was one of confident seriousness and even concern; he was a good actor, I realised.
Whereas I was not; and so I answered, horrified at my words, my voice full of the shame and also with the need that was uppermost in my mind, still, to do everything in my power for this encounter to end with me getting fucked, and so my few words;
“It’s true, M’sieu l’agent. I … would … would you like to fuck me? Please?”
The Chloe inside me was screaming in despair, but my whole body was alive, even as my cheeks burned with the shame which it seemed had not been erased. The only outlet for the fizzing, terrified, desperate energy that raged in me was to shimmy, slowly, seductively, brazenly, for the cop, winding my hips and shaking my hair out to make my tits move for him, still staring directly at his groin. I could not tell, in the heavy, loose fabric, if I was affecting him that way, but the tone of his voice was harsh as he berated me;
“Arrěte, salope!” the crude, informal French— not official police-like at all— was almost a different man that before, and my groin surged; he wanted me, was frustrated, was angry with me for arousing him; he might hurt me; it was all good, even though my heart beat with fear.
“Vous, M’sieu,” the cop was clearly making an extreme effort to control himself, starting to sound more like a state official again; “take her away, keep her under control. What you do in private is your business, but keep the streets clean for decent people, or there will be serious consequences. Take the next left— a quiet street, and go straight to your vehicle, comprenez?”
“Oui, m’sieu l’agent, je comprends,” my abuser was compliant and serious, but there was at the same time something in his tone, an edge, which I did not understand.
But what business was it of a self confessed nymphomaniac slut to understand subtlety? She was totally obvious, an open book, a cock-hungry whore, who made no attempt to hide it; the opposite, in fact; she should certainly not be allowed to walk the streets, an offence to public decency, a corrupter of good men.
Still, I walked, again, as I had before, concentrating in my mind on the cop watching me, determined to leave him certain that I was what I had been described as; imagining him, driven crazy with need, following me and raping me; not frivolously, or in a fantasy sense, but trying to feel it, what it would be, to be raped by a cop, his gun always a threat, to enforce compliance, his natural arrogance and trained ability to radiate control and power. It made my hips go soft, even as the high heels made the switch, they also rolled; I could feel it and knew that I was a slut, a public slut, and that this was what I would be, always, and I let it take me, let it have me, even as I knew I was lost.
In the side street, with scruffy side-alleys, nineteenth century Paris never more than a few metres away, wherever you were, unimproved, the patina of street grime, my abuser’s sharp footsteps casual behind me, learning to breathe again, it seemed, after the intensity of the cop scene, there came, after a while, the sound of a powerful motorcycle engine running slowly, and then, in front of me, there was the cop, turning into an alley ten metres ahead, without apparently looking at us. My abuser laughed; a knowing, easy, contemptuous laugh;
“The upholder of public decency wants to impose some punishment on you, cunt, for upsetting him, for making him uncomfortable in his dessous. You’ll go into that alley, and give yourself to him. And, of course, you will be desperately eager to give him satisfaction; show him how we’ve marked you, tell him you like it, that he should hurt you; encourage him, pretty, to go too far, hmm? It would be good if he gets carried away and breaks your jaw or something— it could give me some leverage; always useful with a flic like him.”
“Anyway, make him happy, Whore. I’ll be in that bar when he’s done with you, but wait where he leaves you, I’ll hear his bike go and come for you— probably. Clean yourself up as best you can while you’re waiting for me. He might be watching, so I won’t hurry, in case he decides to come back with some friends and do me over— and gang-rape you, of course.”
And he was gone, leaving me limp and frantically filled with darting energy, all at the same time. How could this be happening? How could it be real? Was this much wildness and danger in every street, at any time? Was it all arranged (I learned later, just how far this was from the truth; how angry D. had been that such chances had been taken with his reputation; I saw my abuser, the cocky young man, only a few more times before he and his crew were sent packing— I know nothing more; no-one tells Delicious anything, still less the Whore).
Despite the enormity of the outrage that was happening, there was nothing, nothing at all in my mind but obedience, performance, revelation; my first experience as Whore, a degrading, sordid prostitution of myself.
I kept walking, kept my attention on the sway of my tits, while doubling down on the thought of the strange cock which was soon to be pushing into me, insane as it seemed, and my body began to do again what it had done only fifteen minutes earlier, when my abuser had arrived; it began to heat up, to loosen my hips, to lubricate my pussy, to slow and deepen my breath, to melt what was left of my mind with lust; it was terrifying, but I gave myself to it; what was the point in fighting myself?
