As she stripped in the hall, He came out of his study to observe. He leant on the door jamb with folded arms and a wry smile, his eyes tracing the fading purple bruises that striped her bottom. A week ago she would have felt shame at such scrutiny – at being naked before him. What a difference a week had made. Poor shy Claire hid in the cupboard with the clothes while Cunt – the name he had given her to wear here – Cunt accepted his perusal passively, neither embarrassed nor proud in her bareness.
Having waited for her to finish undressing, he came forward and grabbed one of her buttocks roughly. It tensed in his hand as renewed pain sent her rigid and a faint gasp was squeezed from her.
"Bend over."
She obeyed, bending low and resting her hands on the cold floor in front of her feet. His finger traced the purple welts, no longer raised ridges but still so tender. He rubbed gently at the small, dark scabs covering breaks in her skin.
"These will leave no permanent marks." He observed. He sounded almost disappointed by the fact. Cunt gasped as he pulled her buttocks apart. She tensed again but forced herself to relax and bear it. As the ball of one thumb circled her anus she quailed, dreading this, even knowing that it was her very abhorrence of the act that made it inevitable. Involuntarily, she shied away from his thumb.
"Be still!" His palm seared her backside with a resounding thwack of punctuation that wrought a scream from her and left her prone on the floor. She struggled to rise and bent over again. He waited, giving her this grace, then spread her a second time and pressed a finger against the dark declivity of her sphincter. Just as it was about to yield, swallowing his fingertip, he released her. "Follow." He returned to his study.
Taking an ornately lacquered box from the mantelpiece over the fire, he glanced over its contents as one might select the next chocolate. He withdrew a translucent something that gleamed in his hand.
"This," He held the object up for her to see. "Is to be worn as much as possible when you are not here. You understand, Cunt? As much as possible." He handed it to her.
She nodded once, correctly perceiving that his question was not permission to break the rule of silence. The thing looked like glass but was warm to the touch and much too light. It was as thick as his penis and perhaps half it's length. There was a narrowing at one end, though it was still the better part of an inch across at its thinnest, then it flared into a wide disk. She knew immediately what it was for and her stomach turned at the prospect.
"Put it in the hall for now."
When she returned to the study, empty-handed, the box was back on the mantelpiece and he was seated at his desk with the phone tucked between shoulder and ear. She stood, exactly where she had first stood naked before him last week, and waited.
"Yes Darryl, you were right ... Yes. I've given her a plug to wear ... No. It's better this way. I don't want to have to hold back. Better to stretch her some first ... (laughs) ... I thought Saturday, after her whipping ... You too, my friend ... Yes, we must do it again soon ... Indeed! ... By all means. Right away... Give them my regards. Goodnight Darryl ..." He hung up the phone, stood and approached her. Standing close behind her, so close she could feel his breath stir her hair, he reached around with both hands and pinched her nipples. It was not painful, not even uncomfortable by the standards of this house. He rolled them between fingers and thumbs and they responded, firming and growing in spite of her. His grip tightened on her nipples, tightened until she gasped in short breaths at the pain. "Darryl has asked a favour of me, Cunt. Fetch your crop." He let go.
She shuddered at the memory of Saturday night as she fetched the crop from its cupboard and brought it to him.
"Stand there." He used the tip of the crop to point at her usual spot in the centre of the floor. She stood there, trembling. He smiled at her apprehension. "Hands behind your back." She complied. The tip of the crop caressed the underside of one breast. "Breathe in." She breathed in, her bosom rising appropriately. The crop whistled through the air and struck her breasts, not half an inch from her nipples. She screamed and collapsed, curling into a ball of agony and anguish on the floor. He watched and waited. It took her some time to uncurl, to see him stood there, crop in hand. The merest flick of its tip gestured her to rise. She struggled to stand, tears streaking her cheeks and lips trembling as sobs shook her slight body. The livid red line across her breasts practically glowed. She stood. She breathed heavily, wincing as her abused bosom moved. She straightened her back and clasped her hands behind her, knuckles white with the intensity of her grip. She took another painfully deep breath, eyes squeezed tight as she waited for the second stroke. The crop whistled again, seared into her flesh again, tore a scream from her again and left her broken on the floor again. He waited for her to stand – again.
The third stroke fell across both her nipples with excruciating precision. She curled up, her agonized shriek only stifled by the vomit that nearly choked her. He put the crop down and watched as she retched and shuddered and writhed in her torment. Idly, he took off his trousers. He was hard as iron.
Impatient to use her, he reached down, grabbed her elbow and hauled her to her feet. She stumbled but stood. Her face was a picture of misery, tear streaked, puffy and with her quivering chin smeared with bile. He dragged her to the desk, bending her over until she cried out as her tortured breasts hit the blotter, and thrust his cock into her. He held her pressed to the desk the whole time he fucked her, relishing her moans of unremitting pain. He came with a low moan of his own, Pumping harder as he washed her insides with sperm.
She lay there, still, as he put his trousers back on and returned to his chair on the far side of the desk. When she finally pushed herself upright, he pointed at the puddle of vomit. "Clean that up."
She staggered out. When she returned with the mop, he was writing something on a sheet of violet coloured notepaper. When she had cleaned the floor and returned the mop to the cloakroom and the crop to its cupboard, He handed her the note.
"I've made an appointment for you tomorrow afternoon. This is the address. Do not be late. Go now."
Dressing in the hall, she found the plug. Squatting, she tried to reach behind her to insert it. She was too sore from her beating and too dry. Feeling nauseous again, at the prospect of this intrusion, she pushed it into her vagina, lubricating it with her, and his, fluids. Balancing it on the bottom step of the staircase, she was able to squat onto it and feel it slide in, sinking home until she sat on the stair with the hateful thing fully inside her. She felt desperately constipated by the plastic plug as she pulled on her underwear, skirt and blouse. She couldn't bear the contact of her brassiere so placed it in her handbag. The movement of her breasts against her blouse and jacket was only marginally less painful.
"I sleep naked now. His marks on my body will not allow sleep in any other fashion. They will not bear the touch of a nightgown, nor even a sheet. Even my morning shower brought tears.
My nipples shamed me, responding as they did to his caress. I knew what he would do: wanted him to do it. Wanted to suffer at his hands. Wanted him to know the hate/love I feel in his presence.
I've worn the plug all day. It makes me feel unclean but not for a minute have I been free of it or the knowledge that it only paves the way for a greater violation. Do people notice it when I walk? I see them glance at me. Do they see it? Do they know why I move so stiffly? Would they be disgusted to know the full measure of it? Would they pity me? Would they pity Poor Claire?
NO! For all that I have accepted at his hand and all that I will yet accept, I will not be pitied. Nobody knows how much I deserve these travails. Nobody. Not even him."
Claire kept her afternoon appointment. It was a shop called Boudoir, off Bond Street. She asked for the manageress by name. Dolores was middle aged but impeccably made up and immaculate in twin set and pearls.
"This way please, Miss." Dolores was expecting her and deferentially led her to a fitting room. "You are to be fitted for a corset." As soon as they had privacy, she added, "Undress please. Completely." She left Claire to disrobe and went to fetch the corset.
"I-" She started to speak as Dolores returned.
"Shh." Dolores cut her off. "I was given to understand you are under the rule of silence when naked."
Realizing her situation, Cunt bowed her head demurely.
"That's better, Cunt."
Cunt looked startled.
"Louis and I are old friends. I've heard a lot about you – including your name." Dolores stepped close and gently lifted Cunt's breast on her palm, clearly admiring the dark bruises across them. "Hmm." She mused, appreciatively. "These are going to look splendid."
Dolores offered her an ivory silk corset to step into. As she knelt to allow Cunt to step into it, she saw the flat, round end of the plug. As she rose, drawing the corset up over Cunt's hips, she tapped the disk with a long fingernail. "I see he is stretching you. Arms up."
Cunt raised her arms as Dolores settled the corset in place, drawing the laces in to stop it slipping back over her hips. She stepped in front and hoisted the fabric up under Cunt's bosom. "This is a balconette. These," - She stuck a finger between the fabric and the underside of each breast – "are about a third of a bra cup. The idea is to support and present the breasts without hiding the nipples." Her thumbnails grazed Cunt's nipples in pointless illustration, provoking a slight wince.
"These bristles," - her finger moved deeper into the cup, reaching a rough seam at the back – " Are horse hair. When your breasts move, the bristles will chafe. It will be uncomfortable but... That's rather the point, isn't it? It will only be uncomfortable when they're moving though. You'll still be able to concentrate at work.
The laces are at the front so you can fasten it yourself. It should be as tight as possible." Dolores fiddled with the laces until the corset was restrictively tight then tied a bow.
