This will make more sense if you have Read the earlier parts of Easy’s story
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.
The way it happened, though, Chloë was permitted almost no time to spend thinking about whether she really was a slut, whether she really wanted to let that part of her take over.
Because while Susan/Chloë was a little lost in the troubling and confusing haze of thinking about this craziness of allowing herself to be turned into something little better than a walking, talking sex-doll, without any warning, Norah was in front of her. It was only a few feet; a moment’s inattention was all it took to miss her standing up.
And to be truthful, Chloë had got very lost indeed— not just in trying to think, but in the crazy mixed-up connection between the non-stop destabilisations of her first day at ADD and the state of her pussy, the undeniable need in her to flex her hips, often, just to get some relief from the tension— sexual tension, it could not be denied— which had built over a day of what— it had to be accepted— was, in the plain terms, serious sexual abuse. And she should take that abuse seriously, as best she could manage— she knew it. She had to; a girl could not lightly contemplate accepting that this was going to be her life; to be an on call sex-toy for men who wanted her only for her usage; to fuck and to hurt and abuse.
I must try to be very honest with myself about what’s happening here because it’s moving very fast, and— if I don’t want it, I need to get out, and go back home, immediately, because they are bigger and stronger and meaner and greedier and cleverer and more experienced and way, way more powerful than me, and they know exactly what they want, too, and I’m just a mixed up girl with an itch who doesn’t understand herself, most of the time, and they will eat me alive if they can and …
Ohfuk Ohfuk why does that make me want to move my pussy so much…
And then, somehow, there was Norah, very close indeed, looking at Chloë in her usual hard, expressionless way, which Chloë later christened her ‘resting Mafia don face’— mildly curious, utterly self interested, brutally realistic and assumptive of total dominion over over anyone not more powerful than her, Chloë most of all.
Chloë felt something that had been building crystallise in that moment; the certainty that, in Norah’s presence, she would always feel utterly exposed, utterly powerless, filled by a trembling, hopeless desperation to please. A crushing knowledge that her worth, the value of her existence, was wholly determined by Norah’s opinion of her.
When she is near me, she fills my whole being; I have nothing, nothing in the world but the need for her approval.
It was not fear, it was not worship (although it felt like both), but simply the embedded certainty of her new reality; that Norah could destroy her, without even trying; that any thought, even, that might not be acceptable to Norah was— had to be— blocked in every possible way, because it was obvious that there was nothing to be done about any of it; more, that she, Chloë, could not— even after so short a time— could not imagine a life without her wanting Norah to approve of her, without needing it. To tolerate her, at least; because, even if there were never again to be a reward sweet granted, Chloë knew she would spend a lifetime trying to deserve one, and be pathetically grateful for the chance.
The realisation was at once terrifying and glorious; even spending the half a second it took for this knowledge to utterly possess her, to become an indisputable fact of nature, seemed unjustifiable, and Chloë was immediately obsessed with reviewing every controllable detail of how she was presenting herself, rearranging her hands, her feet, even, the way her head sat on her neck, the set of her shoulders, hoping that Norah, watching, silent, would understand, would see that she, Chloë, had been conquered, defeated, enslaved, and was trying her poor best to please. At the same time, Chloë was trembling with the certain knowledge that Norah was not kind, not caring, not nourishing; that the older woman would use the power she had achieved— with so very little exertion— to control and shape Chloë’s life. It was just obvious.
Chloë was not going to be making any independent decisions, not any more; not unless Norah rejected her, at least; which was now almost unbearable to even contemplate.
She understands me better than I do myself— as far as anything she needs from me, at least. Which is all that matters, now. Ohfuk ohfuk.
Norah’s stillness, her silence, became impossible to live with, and Chloë so needy that she had taken the almost unmanageable risk of daring to look up, look into Norah’s face, Chloë’s eyes wide, lips parted, her cheeks a hot pink, looking in trembling supplication, to be conquered all over again by the tiny upturn of Norah’s mouth on one side, and the casually predatory look in the older woman’s eye as she reached out to casually tuck a stray lock of hair back from Chloë’s face (casual but intentional invasion of personal space: the girl was to understand as soon as possible that she had no such thing any more; not in her work environment at least). Norah’s voice was dangerously soft and sweet;
“Well, well, little Chloë, it appears that time to think has moved you on, and considerably, hmm? You’re very pink, aren’t you? All hot and bothered, hmm? Let’s see, pussy, shall we?”
Chloë had closed her eyes, unable to sustain Norah’s knowing and lazy imperiousness, and it took her a second or two to process the insight Norah had shared, to swallow the devastating shame it gave rise to (as she knew she must, because it would otherwise paralyse her, render her incapable of responding to Norah as she should), by which time a terrible dread had imposed itself. She had failed to immediately respond to the word ‘pussy’ in the prescribed way, and the rising panic in her at this failure brought on a rushed attempt to get up from the strange perch they had her kneeling on which ended in ludicrous, horrible failure.
Chloë, balance lost, crashed to the floor, crying out in her shame and distress, hurting herself as she fell; for a moment her ankle, trapped in the framework of the perch, felt as if it must snap, and the wild jerk she was forced to make in order to avoid that, ended with her collapsed in an ungainly heap on the floor at Norah’s feet, her tiny skirts rucked up as horrible shame and fear rose in her, multiplying each other, so that she cried out again, desperate, conscious all the while of Norah’s stillness, knowing that she was being judged, that she was failing, badly, that she had given Norah yet more evidence that she was not up to the job. Fat tears of despair almost squirted from her eyes, as she jerked and wrenched in her panicked attempt to achieve some sort of position, on her knees on the floor, chest rising and falling in near hysteria, feeling her breasts swaying— reminding her that she was half naked in a room with no door, just an opening to the main lift lobby. Each breath she took was accompanied by a helpless little moan of weakness and shame.
And all the while, Norah remained still, detached, watching.
Only when Chloë had managed to achieve some sort of settled position, trembling and biting back the moaning, knowing that it was unacceptable, that she needed to be as quiet and still as she could be, but still assailed by waves of shame and self-hatred at her ridiculous clumsiness, knowing that it had all been occasioned by her failure to notice the word Norah had used, did Chloë realise that she had still not curtsied— that this might be what Norah was waiting for, and forced her shaking hands to lift her skirts— needing a couple of attempts to grab the hem, fingers numb, clumsy with nerves, lifting her buttocks from where they had been resting on her ankles, raising herself up to make the offer of her sex more obvious (feeling the ignominy of that so deeply then, multiplying her shame), fighting even to keep her mouth from screwing up in her distress, tears rolling freely down her cheeks then, salty on her lips, everything ruined, making herself wiggle her hips, pull the skirts up high, extra high, in a pathetic attempt to make amends, thinking belatedly, with s hollow feeling in her belly, that in this position it would necessary to spread her thighs, shuffling her knees outward, awkward, inelegant, buried in a pit of ridiculous misery.
And still, Norah stood, unmoving, until at last, again, it was Chloë who was forced to lift her face to the woman she had just realised owned her future happiness, the woman she had just made a hopeless car-crash of a mess in front of, just when she had been thinking she had learned how to manage herself, having received the reward sweetie.
If her eyes had been round, nervous, weak a minute or two earlier, when Norah had appeared at her desk, this time Chloë’s face was desperate, pleading, hopeless, at the same time as Chloë was obviously making every possible effort to present herself sexually, knowing she could do nothing but fail, her makeup ruined, random shakes afflicting her, her position inelegant, her chest heaving uncontrollably, breasts swaying, almost random small noises issuing from her throat, tears slow-dripping onto her mascara-tracked cheeks, mascara stains on the brand new, pristine blouse that had cost so very much, clean on only an hour before.
And still Norah made her wait, and this time, urgently necessary though it was to protect herself, to limit Norah’s access to her extreme vulnerability, Chloë knew that it would be terribly, terribly dangerous to look away; for Norah held her eyes in a mesmerising trap.
The older woman’s expression was unreadable, but— tiny bud of hope flowering in Chloë’s chest, expecting any second to be ruthlessly crushed, but nevertheless unbearably welcome in the desolation of Chloë’s state— there was no obvious rage, no anger, no tightening of the lips; almost the opposite in fact, a softening, even; imperceptible, more sensed that seen, and Chloë could not help but let out a tiny, involuntary sob of mingled self-abasement, grovelling apology and needy appeasement, flexing her knees to make it another curtsy, feeling more pathetic and defeated than ever in her life, and at the same time the tiny hope unfolding, still small, still astonished at its own daring, as Norah held her; trapped, a butterfly on a pin.
Somehow though, miraculously, a gift she knew she did not deserve, that holding was gentling Chloë, and helping her, helping her get the trembling under control, though it did not abate but instead morphed into a sensually disturbing quivering, as, all unlooked for, Chloë became aware of it being centred between her legs, deep in the the pussy she was so shamefully inviting attention to; that it was accompanied by a mounting tightness in her chest; something was building, in her, and although she was a still and impassive as before, it was Norah who was orchestrating it, and Easy knew herself to have become little more than the older woman’s puppet, and stupidly happy to have it so, the bud bursting into an unreasonable flower of helpless, tearful joy as— wonder of wonders, Norah sank smoothly into a squat with a flexibility that belonged to a younger woman and spoke of strength as well as control, facing Chloë from a slight angle, and her expression was definitely softer than usual, let alone than Chloë had feared, and her hand, when it again gently tucked stray locks of Chloë’s hair back from her tear-stained face, was almost tender.
Her voice, too, was soft and warm, the tone gentle, as she said the terrifying and brutal words that followed; words which were able to smash so deep into Chloë’s psyche because she had let her guard down completely, given in to the unreasonable hope, in her weak and desperate need.
“Oh, pretty Chloë, you are going to regret that ridiculous disaster so very, very much. That is, if you want to have any hope at all of being asked to come back tomorrow. You, see, you’ll have so many, many black marks that there will have to be a formal whipping; much more serious than anything you can imagine. Quite a rare event, here; but then, as I’ve made clear, you’re clearly not good enough for us. So I think you’d better get your things and go, little one, because I don’t think you’ll be able to take what’s coming to you if you come back tomorrow.”
The pain was cruel and sharp, and Chloë quailed, expecting herself to shrivel and once again lose control of herself, which would be the end of her; the end of everything, she felt in that moment of lancing pain and cold shock, poignant in the extreme in the light of everything she had accommodated since that first interview.
But something in her surprised her; although the trembling had come back with a vengeance, there was something inside her which was refusing to let this be the end, and , when she could make her eyes open again, and made herself look at Norah, she saw that there was a question there; Norah was waiting; there was a chance; something …
I can do something.
Something more? It was hard to imagine what more could be taken from poor Susan, but of course, there was always more, and, deep down, Chloë saw that this was just another trap, to take her further away from everything sane and decent and normal, to fix her ever more deeply in this world, to hold her as Chloë even more. It was cruel and heartless and ruthless, as soon as she saw what it was that she could do, and knew that she was going to do it and lose another level of self respect, she knew that it was another defeat that she would mever recover from. Another remove from any hope of normal decency in the way she would be treated.
The trap was already sprung, though; she was already condemned, for there was nothing, nothing to win by ‘saving herself’ but a walk home in the ashes of Susan, all hopes of Chloë gone. At the same time there was something very, very sweet in the idea of simply surrendering to the defeat, of giving up on self-respect, in the idea of going deeper; so deep that she would never surface, and there was no decision to be made, then only the idea of surrender.
Unsure whether it was wanted or not, just going on instinct, Chloë bent forward, bowing her head and, full of fear in case this was catastrophically wrong, planted a soft and trembling kiss on the polished black toe of Norah’s glossy courts, very slow and sincere, then lifted a little, feeling her breasts swaying, knowing herself to be sunk beyond rescue, and did the same for the other foot.
Since Norah had not stopped her, not pulled away, there was a tiny spark of hope again (never mind that the last one had been so cruelly used against her), and Chloë made herself speak, hardly recognising her own voice, so cowed and weak and wavery was it, and so very shamefully subservient;
“Please. Please, Ma’am, if … if I may, I beg you to let me stay. Please …”
It was so hard to say it, yet it was the only thing in her head, and it needed to come out, whatever happened;
“Please will you whip me, now. Straight away? So … so that I … so that I learn.”
The silence was dreadful, and yet Chloë somehow knew that she had done something, something at least that had made an impression upon Norah. She kept her head down, hardly breathing, refusing to let her mind work, so far beyond reason was everything, that there was no sense in thought, only in letting Norah have her, have her forever, because Susan was lost, and she had no idea how to be this Chloë, and only Norah, in the whole wide world, could possibly help.
It was a fearful situation to be in, but that something inside her was welcoming the depth of it, the irrevocability of the situation; gone past all barriers, all reason, all decency; that Susan was being buried under wave after wave of stuff she could never handle, leaving the space clear for Chloë to learn to be Chloë.
And then at last, Norah’s voice even quieter that before, and so very gentle, as she always was, Chloë would discover, when she was at her most lethal; a hand in her hair, not rough but unmistakably commanding, twisting her head up to face her harsh mentor again;
“You have some animal intelligence about you, Chloë, despite your general weakness and uselessness; very well, lets make you cry like a baby shall we? Don’t for an instant think that this will in any way lessen what is coming to you from the partners. This is not a punishment, nor training. This is nothing but a price you pay to me for your continued existence.”
And it was more lovely than it was frightening, even though Chloë knew, of a certainty, that Norah was going to hurt her beyond what she could bear (she’s taken me beyond what I can bear in everything she has done with me); but the loveliness was in knowing she had given Norah something that she could never give the partners— because they didn’t want anything other than a sexy toy to play with. Norah wanted subjugation, real emotional power, and Chloë had discovered that she wanted Norah to have that over her, no matter that it seemed likely to be a cruel and ruthless power; it was intimate in a way which Chloë had never experienced with anyone; it was as if Norah was inside her head; not using her body like a toy, but playing with Chloë’s emotions, using them to violently rearrange Chloë’s whole being. And since Susan had been squeezed out of her (or pushed down, down into some little box and crushed, Chloë could not be sure which it felt like), there was a blank canvas for Norah to work with; a blank canvas which was pathetically grateful to be worked on so masterfully.
Because it was so frightening being Chloë, nothing but an abused sex toy for the partners, Norah’s attention felt like safety; her very cruelty, in its intimacy, a reassurance that Chloë was seen, at least; that she was understood. That that understanding was to be used to control her and ensure that her conversion into a sex-toy was absolute was somehow a small price to pay, and Chloë, almost naturally this time, went down and kissed Norah’s feet again, in wordless, grovelling acceptance of whatever Norah wished to do with her.
