"The rules are simple." The lean, almost gaunt man rose from behind his desk and strode towards Claire. His manner and tone were not unkind. She had expected him to be more severe... more predatory... but he was simply matter-of-fact. He handed her something metallic. "The key to the front door."
Claire didn't look at the key. She stuffed it into her coat pocket without comment.
"You are quiet. Good. While you are here, you will not speak unless I tell you to. This is the rule of silence." He returned to his desk, sat and steepled his fingers. "Take off your clothes."
Hesitantly, with nervously fumbling fingers, Claire removed her coat, and suit jacket, studying her own actions so as not to meet his eyes. She folded the jacket neatly and placed it and her coat on a chair. She stepped from her shoes feeling the cold marble of the floor through her tights. With a toe, she pushed the shoes under the chair. Twisting her skirt around her waist, she unhooked then unzipped it, stepping out of it without letting it drop to the floor. This too she folded and added to the neat pile. The man watched impassively, making no comment.
The tiny pearls of her blouse buttons caused some difficulty for increasingly nervous fingers but she persevered and the blouse yielded. She had to perch on the corner of the chair to unravel her tights from around her ankles but they too were eventually added to the stack of discarded clothes. She took a deep breath and reached up behind her back to unfasten her brassiere. As it fell from her breasts she noticed the blush of shame across her bosom, confirming why her cheeks felt warm despite the shivering of her body. She wasn't cold. The room was pleasantly temperate. Her trembling was adrenalin and trepidation, fear even. As she slipped her panties down her legs and stepped from the crumpled cotton she tried not to think about her nakedness before this stranger.
She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, covering her dark curls, eyes downcast, burning with shame but still resolved to follow the course she has embarked upon.
"You are ashamed. This also is good. In future, you shall disrobe in the hallway as soon as you arrive. You must be naked at all times here. This is the rule of humility." He rose from his seat again and circled her slowly, eyeing her from head to toe. "Hands at your sides."
When she hesitated to reveal her crotch he slapped her without warning. The lash of his hand across her cheek was hard enough to send her sprawling to the floor. As he looked down at her, he did not look angry, still impassive, though he did pointedly let his gaze linger on her exposed crotch. He waited while she regained her feet before he spoke again.
"The rule of obedience. You will do as you are told at all times. When you are naked, you have no rights, no desires, no name... But since it pleases me to remind you of this, during your visits I shall call you Cunt." The word makes her head twitch away from him like an aftershock of the slap. He notices. "You dislike the word but it is apt. It is all you are here. A cunt." He punctuated his statement by thrusting his hand between her legs, cupping her sex firmly. "Say it."
"I - I am a cunt." Her voice was flat. Tears of unbearable shame welled in her eyes.
"Very good!" He exclaimed, smiling. It's the first display of emotion he's made since her arrival. "Silence. Humility. Obedience. Three rules." He released his grip on her sex, raising his fingers to inhale her musk. She's acutely aware that it is some hours since she bathed. She must be quite pungent down there. "Bend over the desk."
She took two steps toward the desk, placed her palms flat on the blotter and bent forward. His hand between her shoulder blades pressed her lower until her breasts were crushed uncomfortably against the desk. The hard leather of his shoe forced its way between her ankles, tapping them apart, then wider still. She heard his zipper opening. It was all the warning she got before his hard penis pressed into her sex. He impaled her with his first thrust then slowly built up a vigorous rhythm, bruising the tops of her thighs against the wooden edge of the desk. She grunted with the pain but it bothered him not a bit. His manicured fingers curled like talons, gripping her hips. The only sound he made was a low sigh as his seed flooded her insides.
He withdrew, zipping himself up before permitting her to rise.
"You may go now, Cunt." He dismissed her without another glance. He didn't need to see her to know her cheeks were wet with tears, her nose moist with mucous, her lips trembling. As she gathered up her clothes in shaking arms and stooped to collect her shoes, he did look, noting with approval the lividity of her puffy, glistening sex. That would be uncomfortable for quite a while. He watched her walk stiffly to the door.
"Cunt." His voice stopped her as her free hand touched the handle. "Tomorrow, get yourself waxed: A full Brazilian. I shall expect you at eight for dinner."
"Have you ever had a secret you'd rather die than reveal? I have. I do. And, because of that secret, I don't deserve to be loved.
I've tried. Believe me, I've tried. I've listened to the flattery, the sweet deceit men beguile us with, allowed myself to be seduced, even faked orgasms to try to hide my indifference but eventually they all realize they can touch me all they want but cannot reach me. Then they feel inadequate, they blame me, but secretly, they blame themselves too, and they leave me. None of them could bring themselves to love me, not that it would make a difference.
Once, once in my 28 years I had an orgasm: Since then, nothing. That once is my deepest secret and the despair that drove me to subjugate myself. So don't pity me - never pity Poor Claire. Everything is as it should be. Everything is as it must be."
A little before eight the next evening, She let herself into the house. As instructed, she disrobed in the hall, placing her neatly folded clothes on a convenient sideboard. Naked, more naked even than yesterday, she stood awaiting his pleasure.
"Cunt! Come through!" he called from another room. Following his voice, she entered the dining room. It was cooler than his study had been. Her nipples responded to the cold breeze from open French windows. He sat at the head of a large dining table set for two. She approached when he beckoned, sat on the high backed chair he patted. His hand went straight between her legs, roughly pulling at her now smooth sex, making her grimace.
"Much better." He passed judgement on her smoothness. As before, he sniffed his fingers. "You may serve dinner now, Cunt." He indicated the dishes on the buffet. "I shall have some cold chicken and salad. You may have whatever you want."
She rose to serve him, taking some green salad for herself.
"Sit. Eat." He instructed, not waiting for her to comply before starting into his chicken. She picked at the salad, little more than feeding the butterflies in her stomach. When he had finished eating, he rose. "Come into the garden." He did not wait for her compliance, striding through the open doors onto the patio and then across the lawn. Claire hurried after him. The garden was ringed with high shrubs that offered considerable privacy. In one corner, the garden was quite overgrown. This was where he led her. Pointing to a patch of stinging nettles about two feet high he said "Squat there."
Her legs felt leaden as she stepped gingerly over the clump of nettles, feeling the stings on her calves. Even these first few brushes of the leaves made her wince with pain. Slowly she started to lower herself, knees trembling as they bent. She gritted her teeth, anticipating the acid caress of the plants against her thighs and her freshly denuded sex. At the first intimate touch of the stinging leaves, she cried out. Freezing motionless as pain flared along her thighs.
"Lower." He commanded.
Obedient, she sank lower, squeezing her eyes shut on the tears welling up at the agonizing contact.
"Enough."
At his command, she stood, practically staggering away from the nettles. Her legs gave way and she collapsed onto the lawn, sobbing. He lifted her in his arms, his strength surprising for one so gaunt, and carried her back into the house and up broad stairs to a large and airy bedroom.
As she lay sobbing on the coverlet, he undressed. Through teary, reddened eyes, she saw his body for the first time: His erect penis long and slim, like him.
"Spread your legs." He commanded, approaching the bed, his eyes lingering on the red welts covering her thighs. She obeyed, revealing the full extent of her torment, her labia, perineum and anus covered with livid marks.
He mounted her in the missionary position, the contact of his hairy thighs and his pubic bone against her tortured skin making her scream. He fucked her hard, the brutality of his penetration provoking new screams with each thrust of his hips. By the time he came, spending against her cervix with a grunt, she was so exhausted, she could only whimper, pressing her face against the tear soaked pillow.
He got off her, got off the bed. "You may go when you're ready." He left the room, still naked.
An hour later, Claire walked stiffly down the path to the gate, still sniffing back tears. Her underwear was in her clutch bag: she couldn't have stood its touch.
"I cried all night. By morning, I could touch myself without wincing but the colour remained. In a perverse way I was proud of the rash. While it lasted it was a symbol of my commitment. He did this to me, but equally, I did this to myself. I would do it again too, in an instant. Pain is liberating. My suffering and his cruelty were honest, without pretence."
The next night, he left her waiting in the hall for an hour. Her feet grew numb as the cold marble floor drew the heat from them. At about nine, he came out of his study and strode straight past her, giving no indication that he even noticed the naked woman.
Another hour passed before he returned. This time he deigned to notice her.
"Ah, Cunt!" He sounded surprised to see her. He left her again but only for a moment, returning with a carafe of water and a glass. He filled the glass, handing it to her. "Drink."
She drank greedily, only now realizing how parched her mouth was. As soon as the glass was empty, he refilled it. "Drink." He commanded. She drank.
After the second, a third, and so on until the carafe was empty. He fetched more water.
Her stomach was visibly distended as she started on the second litre. By the end of it she thought she might burst. It was even more uncomfortable than being thirsty. He took the glass away and, this time, did not return.
Time passed and in a very few minutes the discomfort in her stomach gave way to a discomfort lower down. Her bladder felt fit to burst. Still she stood in the hall.
When she thought she could stand it no more, he returned. Placing his hand on her abdomen, just above her crotch, he said. "Let it go."
