This will make more sense if you have Read the earlier parts of Easy’s story
The Chloë who entered Norah’s room only four and a half minutes later was a very different girl than the Susan of only a few hours previously, no matter that outwardly she looked much the same.
If her manner that morning had been eager to please, somewhat shy, but trying her best, now she was clearly in the grip of strong emotion, trembling, her smile terribly weak and desperate as she made herself curtsy, made herself lift her skirt right up, shimmying provocatively but radiating intense shame at the same time, despite the gut-twisting shock at finding a young man there, a stranger to her, talking to Norah; a handsome young man in cheap casual clothes who, on noticing her arrival, had turned to grin at her, arrogant, smirking…
For Chloë had been defeated by the mirror room. The thrashing had produced a sort of shock reaction, protecting her from the enormity of what had been done to her, what she had asked for, what future she had laid herself open to, and the walk along the corridor had been more like a dream than anything else; a dream where she had been somehow elevated to specialness by what had just been done to her.
Once Norah had left, though, the mirrored cubicle, so heartless, the relentless clock’s loud ticking, the freezing water, so many unflattering aspects of her naked body exposed by the multiple angles, the cold, dead lighting, the shocking view of the welts across her bottom, the stickiness between her legs which the shower head had taken time to sluice away … all of it had taken that unnerving realisation; They planned this. They knew; taken the queasy little flicker of amazement; I’m so lucky, that they chose me; taken them both and drowned them in shame and fear and self doubt; defeated her.
The only thing that had got her through was Norah; she was frightened of Norah, but she was also in awe of her, and though Norah had mostly been scathingly critical and harshly judgemental, often frightening and sometimes cruel, she had also given grudging praise, and, despite everything else it was those little glimpses of approval that were Chloë’s only hope in her bitter self judgement.
Norah was entirely right about her— she had so easily been brought to offer herself up as available for sexual use in exchange for a job, had crossed that line with almost no encouragement at all, revealed herself as a willing slut and more, had been unable to control her own arousal, so that they knew how vulnerable she was to their abuses; she was bad at curtsying, and useless, too,— had failed at first to even write a simple list. Looking at herself in her shame, she judged her breasts to be saggy; her ass too. Her skin looked grey and unappetising in the harsh lighting, her hair lank, her make-up repairs amateur at best. She wanted to shrivel up, be absolved of the responsibility of living, but had no courage to do anything with that feeling, and as the seconds loudly ticked away, Chloë’s need for Norah’s approval became absolute; the only certainty in the ruins of Susan, who seemed to have given even her name away, so ridiculous, so weak, so pathetic was she.
She could see, in some abstract way, that this was exactly what would cement the hold of this place on her, what would guarantee that they could make free with her, but since there was nothing else, no other hope in her bleakness, and since, as a little, growing realisation in her insisted, she wanted them to make free with her, wanted to feel what it might be like to be theirs, to see how far they might take her, to see if she could not, somehow, be the girl they wanted, the girl they would keep, there was nothing else to do but hurry, do the best she could with her face, with everything, with her curtsy, with trying to be just, exactly, what Norah was trying to make her be, even if she knew she would fail.
There was nothing else; nothing else that would not be absolute ruin. To be rejected, after all she had allowed … what would she be? Nothing. No money, no self-respect, no job; the Agency would give up on her.
She forced herself to concentrate on her mascara, despite the gaping hole of despair, of terrible, desperate need inside her. Norah. Norah must be pleased; there was no other hope.
Thus the desperation driving Chloë’s iron determination to curtsy like the needy, willing slut they wanted her to be, the trembling need to please (Chloë; I must become Chloë; that’s the girl they want, the smiling, sexy, eager and willing sex toy. Susan must go).
Thus her curtsy, despite the stranger’s presence, her shame and humiliation at new heights— a girl whose whole demeanour seemed to be an apology for her existence, a girl who had nothing, nothing at all but the hope that her slutty behaviour might win her some approval. A girl who was lost, who had no anchor, anymore, save that Norah must be served, whatever it took.
Exposing her pussy to some random guy, making the curtsy such a blatantly sexual invitation … it ate into her, even more so when she felt in herself that she was beginning to feel herself in the curtsy, that the sexual offer was not just in the way she made herself move, but inside her, in her groin; that she wanted the young man to want to fuck her, wanted him to find her irresistible, so that he would fuck her, felt her chest tighten as his eyes went to her groin, felt herself moving for him; 100% for him, offering herself, encouraging him to believe he could fuck her, feeling her heart jump a little, beat even faster, feeling herself getting warm down there at the thought, even, that he could fuck her; that if Norah told him to fuck her, she would not resist, would not want to resist, let alone be physically capable of it. That Norah would watch her being fucked.
Oh God I am so messed up.
She was driven to flash a weak, needy glance at Norah, to see if the older woman had noticed this new thing about her, this further sign of her slut nature, utterly conflicted as to whether she wanted Norah to know this of her, or would die of shame if that were true.
But Norah’s face was utterly bland, gave no clue at all, while the young man’s grin only grew;
“Oho! There’s a new pretty, then! I tell you what, Miss Birching, I’d love to see those tits! Sorry, Ma’am, I meant breasts, of course.”
His apology was not at all sincere, his grin as strong as ever, as Norah (call her Ma’am; Chloë filed it away), quite complacently said; “I’m sure you would, young man, but that’s not up to me.”
Chloë, though, was already in motion— though not really believing what she was doing— but a memory had come up from earlier, of Norah saying; — you are to seek to please everyone you encounter, put what they want above what you want. If a delivery messenger complains about you not thanking him nicely; if the window cleaner complains, saying you didn’t smile at him, you could be liable for dismissal, or disciplinary action— and so, to make sure this arrogant young man, evidently not an important client, probably only a messenger-boy, from the thick envelopes tied with red tape which had been deposited on Norah’s large desk— to make a messenger-boy happy, she was going to open her blouse and show him her naked breasts, knowing that if she did it once, in front of Norah, she would be doing it for anyone who asked, forever, now.
Picture: Showing her breasts: Click here to reveal.
“Tuck your hands in behind your neck, pretty; if you’re going to give young Ricky here a show, do it properly, girl.”
And Chloë obeyed, doing her very best; what else made any sense at all but to do this thing properly?
Ricky clearly liked what he saw, grinning some more;
“Very nice. The bosses will have fun with this one, and I for one will be hoping for leavings from the table! See you Ma’am, gotta run, Mike’ll be on my back!”
And he is gone, leaving Chloë shaking, pink with shame, and stupidly grateful for the crude compliment, and feeling too, Norah’s appraising gaze, even though she dares not look up to meet it.
It comes to Chloë then, as an inevitability, that if she managed to keep her job here for any time, that at some point the arrogant young boy would be allowed to fuck her, push his cock into her, and that she would have no say in the matter; more, that she would be grateful, that she would respond, that she would do what she could to make it good for him. It was so obvious, however much the realisation burned in her, that she had to close her eyes to concentrate on behaving, presenting herself, in spite of the inferno that roared inside her, consuming everything about Susan, leaving only a charred husk, replaced by the Chloë, the new, shameful slut, only broken out of this pattern by Norah;
“Come here, Chloë; no leave your blouse open— you have not been told to cover yourself; do not dare to presume that you may. Think about how to make your nipples jiggle as you walk. No, not by looking ridiculous! Never mind— training will help. Now; you did well there, girl, and, if you like, I have a little treat for girls who do well, sometimes. Would you like one?”
Norah had complimented her! Was approving! Chloë felt a great soft warmth in her chest, inexpressible gratitude as the cloud which had come over her in the shower room was blown away by a weak, fuzzy pleasurable feeling, which she would not resist, could not resist, even as she understood all too well that this was a further little step she was being pushed to, another little diminution, that she should not be so easily …
… but already she was nodding, thinking about how to have that little movement make her breasts move, feeling ashamed, doing it anyway, mumbling;
“Yes … yes please, Ma’am.”
“Speak clearly then, girl! Muttering is not acceptable for such as you.”
Despite the hard words, Norah’s tone was conversational and Chloë got another little burst of pleasure; Norah was being kind to Chloë, and she immediately felt the need to respond, and knew only one way to do so, which was to curtsy; lift her skirt and show Norah her pussy, and this time it was almost natural— only the slightest hesitation as she saw herself falling into the habit of this demeaning show of deference, before the soft but urgent desire to give Norah something reasserted itself, and, in recompense for the hesitation, she made an extra effort with the curtsy, letting everything go, letting herself feel the sexuality of it she had just experienced in front of Ricky, feeling the danger of it being so intimate and personal, so close to Norah, only the two of them there; feeling it and letting it take her, her eyes closing with a little hit of intensity; intensity of both shame and sexual feeling.
There was a hush, a stillness, and Chloë held herself, eyes still closed, until a little whimper of emotion escaped her, betraying the depth of her feeling, a small sound but with so much in it, shame, arousal, submission, fear, weakness, Chloë heard it all and trembled, feeling her nipples stiffening, her sex pulsing, part horrified, part exhilarated beyond imagining.
The stillness was ended with the lightest, coolest touch at the slit of Chloë’s sex; what she realised was the lacquered tip of a fingernail just tracking the length of her slit, from its base upward to wards the nub of her clitoris, bringing from Chloë an unsurpassable but shaky sound; not a cry, not a moan, not a sigh, not an exclamation, but some mix of all; not loud at all, but very intense, compounding all the feelings, taken to another level: again, shame, arousal, submission, fear, weakness, all burning into her, erasing her already weakened sense of dignity, self-respect, personal boundaries, feeling herself losing, letting it hapen, letting it be done to her, feeling grateful for the attention, feeling the tears in her eyes, knowing she was being suborned, that she was too weak to stop it, too needy not to be grateful for it, and when Norah asked again;
“You do want a little treat, don’t you?” Chloë nodded again, like a little girl, knowing she was ridiculous, and, at the slightest hint, sank to her knees, still keeping her skirt high, almost panting then with the intensity of her emotions, the speed with which everything that had been Susan was being dismantled.
“That’s it pretty, but we’ll have your knees a little further apart, now— you must offer your cunt, not just show it. It’s the partners toy, now, not yours. Here you go now— put your tongue out, wait for it.”
The treat, when it came, was tiny, a little sweet pastille, herb flavoured rather than fruity.
“Leave it on your tongue, pretty— no chewing, or moving it around, just roll it around your tongue. You’ll get one as a breath freshener sometimes, if you’ve had a mouthful of come and no chance to clean your teeth.”
Just like that, as if there had been any mention at all of Chloë sucking the partners cocks; just taken for granted, Chloë quivered and shook, but there was quite simply nothing to be done about it; it was obvious; Norah had not even paused.
“Now, as I said, I have work to do Off you go to your desk, and think about how you can be good enough, maybe, to earn another one tomorrow. Leave your blouse open, just for now.”
And then, like every other intense episode in this day of many such, it was over, Chloë’s acceptance, her ability to absorb the new implications taken for granted too, and there was nothing, nothing but a silent office, Norah concentrating on her work, while a desperate gaping hole of despair opened inside Chloë again, and nothing to do but arrange herself at her strange desk, try to take care that Norah, looking up, would always find her well presented, and try to concentrate on her list, try and learn this new Chloë, try to live with it all.
At first, it seemed unbearable; the contradictions, the shame, the doubts building in her again, the shocking things which had been done to her in a single day, what she had accepted; what, by implication, seemed certain; it crashed in on her, memories and fears and future visions all jostling for attention, all too much, and it was as much as she could do to stay still, keep her face smooth, not cry out in her turmoil.
She took herself in hand, then, very severely; this was where she had dreamed of working, and it seemed there was a possibility she could please Norah enough to get them to keep her (it was very clear that Norah was the gatekeeper). She must try, try and think it through, now that she had this time, at least try to make a decision for herself, not in the middle of some sexual abuse moment.
And gradually, she found a way to make some sense; though it was a shocking sense.
It started with a suppressed memory; one which now loomed large; her last boyfriend back home, why they’d broken up. They’d had a fight, it seemed as if it was all over, but he’d come to her apartment anyway, late, used his key, and he’d been nice— a little drunk, but reminding her of when they’d started, until it became clear he was only being nice because he was horny. When she’d tried to get him to go, though, he had insisted on sex, and, sitting there, she made herself accept what she had refused to look at, at the time. That Jud had, in truth, raped her; simply refused to take her many ’noes’ for an answer, at first wheedling, making her laugh, but eventually simply taking her, and doing her roughly, too; greedy, saying crude things to her, angry, hurtful things as he had fucked her, not bothering to even pretend he cared if it was good for her.
The freaky part about it, she realised, sitting there, the part that she had even more deeply suppressed, refused to think about, is that it was the best fuck she’d ever had. Being raped, being fucked without consideration for her feelings, had broken through something in her, some reserve which had always been there when she was letting some guy fuck her, the fact that she was not letting Jud fuck her, that he was raping her, had made it possible for her to have a shivering, crashing orgasm as soon as he started jerking his come into her; an orgasm that had rendered her limp and weak, so that— drunk as he was— he had not even noticed as, having got what he had come for, he had staggered off to his car. She had never spoken to him again.
Sitting there, managing herself somehow, even though she was in an office with her breasts exposed and her thighs spread wide apart, all visible through the glass desk, the shocking list of her duties on the screen in front of her, she realised something; that it wasn’t that she had come to the city to escape the men who took advantage of her eagerness to please, her sweet willingness; it wasn’t that the guy in the laundry had read her wrong; she was a slut; she did respond to sexual demands crudely imposed upon her; it did excite her to be exploited. But she was frightened, too, frightened of what would become of her if she gave in to those sick desires.
Because society judged girls who behaved like sluts very harshly indeed, scorned and derided them, refused them any respect, rejected them as not proper women, even. The word ‘feminist’ was not really used in her home town, but nevertheless, even there, women were supposed to have self-respect and demand something of a man, not let themselves be bullied into sex, let alone enjoy it that way.
I ran away for fear; fear of becoming a tramp. Jud would have told his friends if he ever remembered that I liked it when he did that to me. But I couldn’t run away from me. The Agency! The Agency must have seen it— that’s why they sent me to guys who took advantage. That’s why they sent me here! And they were right about me. Only … only I’m so frightened of being judged that I couldn’t … I just couldn’t, in those low rent offices.
What’s different, here? It’s not that the guys are nicer; no, they’re sleazebags too, only rich and in fancy suits. Is it Norah? No; she’s different, incredible, never met anyone like her before and … and she’s the one who has managed me so well, but she’s not why I want to be here…
And then it came to her;
Rich guys have something to lose. Sleazebags like Jud and the laundry guy don’t care if someone calls them a sleaze, because they are, and it doesn’t matter to anyone they do business with. Guys can be sleazebags and get away with it, not girls. But these guys, A, D and D, they have fancy reputations, they are professionals, with clients who are celebrities, public corporations; they probably have fancy wives with high opinions of themselves— and lawyers of their own. If I let these guys make me into their Chloë, they will have to look after me, for their own sake. They won’t care about me— I’m just the next Chloë— they told me that. But they will need to keep me carefully, to protect themselves.
It made a sick and crazy sense, which had the great advantage of being welcome. It didn’t change the crazy mixed up feelings— she was going to have to spend a lot of time thinking about whether she really was a slut, whether she really wanted to let that part of her take over; she was still as shocked and horrified at everything that had been done to her as she had been, but there was this new insight; she could see a way that Chloë was a part of her, part of Susan rather than a complete betrayal; a reason for it having been so easy for Norah to have got her to go so far, so fast.
And the knowledge that she might just let them do it to her, let them go all the way, do everything they wanted with her made her heart beat faster, and her pussy wet, just sitting there, sitting with it. And, if she did that, she could maybe stay here. If … if she did decide she wanted that, looked at from this new perspective, she would need to do; more, even; do more than they wanted— prove to them that they wanted her, in her need for them to keep her. The idea was incredible— shameful, mortifying. But she could not deny the way it made her feel.
