Bankrupt Ch 02

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Huh? Wha-?

Blinking and disoriented, I looked around. That had been the craziest, nastiest dream of my life, and I was still reeling from it. The room was pitch black, adding to my confusion. My back ached as I sat up. I had been lying on the floor for some reason? Why was I naked?

"Rise and shine, princess," a voice called. Suddenly, my eyes were blinded by a thousand exploding suns. Or maybe the lights had just been turned on. It hurt all the same.

I found myself in an unfamiliar bedroom, memories of last night crashing over me. Oh fuck, it hadn't been a dream.

Of course it hadn't, my nightmares were never so sadistic. Reality was another story.

Flushing scarlet, I remembered what he'd made me feel and wrapped the blanket close around me. That lasted until I remembered his instructions. No more able to resist him now than last night, the blanket was soon folded at the foot of his bed and I was left bare. For some reason, I began to suspect this would be a theme for the rest of our relationship. Still exposed to his wandering eyes, I bent over and began making his bed. Funny, I'd always been a bit untidy, and had rarely bothered to make my own bed. Still, it was my duty to keep things looking neat and clean for him, and I wouldn't feel comfortable until the job was done.

As I straightened the covers, I wondered what I'd do for clothing now. Fortunately, or unfortunately as it would turn out, I didn't have to wait long. As I finished tidying up the bed, I heard a noise behind me. He held a plastic bin full of my things, and a gleeful smile on his face. Seconds later, my old clothes were piled high in the middle of his room.

That's when I noticed the shears.

He held them out to me. Long metal blades, shining in the morning light. Solidly built, they felt a whole lot heavier once I held them in my hands. I blinked my incomprehension. What did he want with these?

"First things first, the clothes," He said, "They are to be stored neat and orderly at all times. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," I said, "Thank you."

I was almost grateful to him. At least until I remembered that he was

graciously

allowing me to keep my own things. He had a big, fancy looking wardrobe. It was solid oak with tastefully abstract carvings all up and down the front. My things were going in the bin. He was not doing me a favor.

"Of course," He said with a wicked leer, "It would be absolutely intolerable for

any

of my possessions to appear slovenly."

Yeah, and that includes me, I get it. Probably thinks he's so subtle, that bastard.

"But first things first, let's make sure it's all suitable, shall we?" He gestured to the pile.

Still not understanding, I did as he instructed and took the first thing off the pile. A green dress. Cute, frilly, it was so much fun to wear on those first warm days of spring when you could finally shuck off the heavy bulk of winter clothes. Holding it up against my body, I realized that I was still naked. Funny, how quickly that came to seem normal. There was nothing he hadn't already seen to the fullest extent last night, and it's not like my protests would give him two seconds pause. If anything, they'd amuse him.

His gaze swept over the dress, all up and down my body, and I could tell he cared little for the fashion. How cute it looked, how well it accessorized, those meant nothing to him. All that mattered was how well it showed me off, how it displayed his... property. Did it leave enough of my legs bare, did it show off my tits? Those were the questions he was asking. It made me sick, how much he cheapened the whole experience. Almost, I wished I'd never bought the damned thing, but it was too late now. Apparently it passed muster, because he sent it to the "keep" pile.

More outfits followed, each tested against his own crude standards. Most, he kept. I don't know if that was an indictment of my tastes, or just practicality on his part. A clear pattern emerged early, especially with my underwear. Colorful, sexy, or see-through were definitely keepers. Anything merely plain or functional was gone. I almost cried when I was forced to throw out many of my most comfortable bras in favor of prettier ones. My protests had fallen upon deaf ears, except when I explained how well a particular plain-looking bra would show off my boobs when it was worn under clothing. I was allowed to keep it. That's what I was reduced to. Futility bartering my own body in hopes of keeping what should have been mine to begin with.

I learned what the shears were for when we got to an older pair of pants. Victor decided he'd like them better as cutoff shorts, so snip-snip and there went the legs. A few more joined them, and in the end I was grateful he let me keep any intact. Grateful. What a joke.

My eyes lit up as I pulled my favorite sweater from the pile. In this time of trouble, it almost felt like a welcome friend I'd never expected to see again. Oh, surely he'd let me keep it, this was one of the cutest things I owned.

"Useless," he said, "get rid of it."

"What?" I asked, shocked beyond disbelief. Surely there was some mistake.

"I never understood why you'd wear something so baggy and shapeless, and you won't be ever again. Destroy it."

"You can't-" I shouted before I caught myself.

"I can't?" his tone was dangerous.

"Please," I begged, "I'd gotten rid of everything else you wanted. Just let me keep this one, just this one. It's my favorite. Please. I'll do whatever you say, I'll be a good girl."

He paused, and just for one brief moment I thought he might relent. I should have known better.

"I don't remember asking your opinion," he finally told me. "and it isn't

your

anything. I own that shirt, I own you, and I'll decide what one piece of my property does with another. A good girl? You'll be that either way. Now destroy it. Cut it down to little, tiny ribbons like the trash it is."

No! My hands ached to move, but I wouldn't let them.

Little, tiny ribbons

. Our eyes locked and I had the increasingly uncomfortable feeling of staring him down. I knew he held all the cards, but I was unwilling to back down.

Cut it, destroy it.

My hands itched, yearning to move. I knew that nothing would feel right until it lay in tatters. My favorite sweater, the one I'd worn on my first date with Adam, for our first kiss.

Trash

. I wouldn't do it. He couldn't make me. There had to be a line somewhere, some indignity I wouldn't cross. It was a silly place to resist. It was just a sweater, after all, but it was

My

sweater. Call me silly or sentimental, I still would fight.

Oh, but it hurt. That creeping, clawing unhappiness wormed and writhed fitfully beneath my skin. So wrong to fight it. That sweater

needed

to be destroyed.

I slipped. Just one little moment of weakness and the shears seemed to leap out on their own. A gash appeared down the front of it, ruining the sweater forever. Immediately, my hand recoiled. No, I wouldn't, I couldn't. But I had. The damage was done. My hands cut again and again, tearing, ripping,

destroying

. Screaming in forlorn rage, I tore into it, crying out all my frustrations against the clothing because I could never do against my real tormentor. Again and again I cut, ripped, tore, demolished. It was a berserk frenzy of ruination unleashed against the target of my rage.

When I came out of it, I was kneeling on the floor. The ruined remnants of my orgiastic destruction were scattered around me. There was little left to tell that had it had ever been a sweater, much less my beloved favorite.

"Good girl," Victor said, bending down to give me a pat on the head. "You can clean up the mess later."

The worst part was that his praise did make me feel good. I'd just destroyed a priceless memento of my old life, and all it took to console me was a cheap pat on the head. This was nuts. Lost and groundless, I felt like I was losing my mind. Where could I turn, when even my feelings were the enemy? I sobbed again, and all he did was laugh.

The sun had risen by the time we finished, shining through the broad glass door of his balcony and warming my still bare skin. A small pile of shredded cloth lay beside my knees, courtesy of Victor's continued opinion of my fashion sense. More clothing slashed and ruined beyond use, others so heavily altered as to be unrecognizable. I would have considered the latter ruined beyond use as well, but apparently Victor had other idea. Too tired and numb to resist, I didn't question it. There didn't seem any point.

We made it to the bottom of the pile, the part I'd been hoping had been forgotten by whoever had gone into my room and collected my things (and they

were

my things, whatever Victor said about the matter). The stuff from the bottom of the drawers, the back of my closet. Things I'd bought or acquired over the years, but never dared wear in public.

"Now that's more like it," Victor said as he held up a lace-covered red basque. "You'd been holding out on us. How come I've never seen you in anything like this?"

"iveneverwornitbefore," I mumbled.

"What was that?"

"I have never worn it before," I said, averting my eyes and blushing as scarlet as the lingerie. It had been a gift, a little joke from Emily last year when we took a trip together. We'd laughed and giggled about it, but I chickened out when she suggested I try it on and take some pictures. It had lain in the bottom of my underwear drawer ever since. It had been a thing best forgotten, until now.

"How sad," he said in mock sympathy, "Well don't worry, we'll fix that before too long."

Great. Just what I needed, another indignity. Even standing there naked, the thought of wearing that for him turned my stomach.

After that, there was nothing quite so bad. Some of my sheerest panties, the secret sort I'd only worn when I wanted to feel sexy. My tightest spandex workout shorts, a few shirts I'd outgrown years ago, and in some cases wondered what I'd been thinking back then. He approved of those on general principle, favoring the way they clung tightly to my skin. We made it to one of my miniskirts, a scandalous little number I'd never worn in public. Just in a few silly dress-up parties with Emily and some of our other friends. Victor took a good long look at it, and his pensive expression chilled my heart.

"Looks good," he said, "but just a little too concealing, don't you think? An inch and a half off the bottom."

"But..." I started. It barely came a quarter of the way down my thighs, there wasn't any room to cut it down further. I should have known better.

He clapped his hands, startling me, and when I settled down again he just pointed at the skirt. With a forlorn sigh, I began to cut.

"Much better," he told me, "now it's time to get dressed for school."

"My first class isn't until-"

"Mine is," he interrupted, and then he began to select my outfit. I was dismayed, but not surprised to find that the cut off skirt was the first thing he selected. That was soon joined by a skimpy black thong, and a tight halter top that I'd last worn in my mid teens.

"What about the bra?" I'd asked vainly.

"What

about

it?" was his only reply.

Sigh... Why do I even bother?

"One last thing," he said as I was about to head for the door.

No!

I looked back to find him holding something, a leash and collar, like something a dog would wear.

"To remind everyone what you are."

I opened my mouth to protest, but the words vanished into the ether before I even voiced them. What was the use? No matter what I said, he would do it anyway. My head lowered in defeat. He grinned as he closed the collar around my throat.

When his hand brushed against my neck, I let off a sudden gasp of pleasure, my nipples tenting the thin, clingy material of my shirt. This was hot! Helpless to resist, I found myself getting aroused by the thought of being chained and collared by my new owner. Already, my privates warmed, and I suspected that I'd be dripping by the time we reached his class.

We left for class. I trailed behind him like a good little puppy dog. At every step, my skirt threatened to slip luridly. A few students were up and about, and I watched their eyes bug out as they caught sight of me.

I'd better get used to that

, I told myself, trying to steel my emotions for the day ahead. I told myself that I was done weeping. But

how?

How can you possibly prepare for something like this?

Just as I was about to pass through the door from the dorm to the campus proper, he stopped. Choking as he yanked upon my leash, I collapsed helplessly against him.

"Before I forget," he told me, grabbing hold of me by the shoulders. "There's the matter of punishment for your little outburst this morning."

This

wasn't my punishment?

"You need to learn that you're nothing more than a possession, just particularly clever pet. Pets crawl."

"Please! I'm sorry, I-"

"Want to find out what happens if you say please one more time?"

Quietly, I shook my head.

"Then be glad the school dress code still applies to you, or we'd be doing this naked. Now

down

."

Too afraid of what he'd do if I refused, I sank to the ground, my hands pressed to the cold marble floor. Conscious of the eyes on me, all I could think of was all the classmates that would see me like this. I didn't dare oppose him. Who knows what indignities might come if I tried to resist. And, as always, there was a little voice in the back of my mind telling me that everything was as it should be. That it was right and proper to be on the floor, if that was what he willed.

That voice did nothing to ease my shame.

"Good girl," he said again, reaching down to pat me on the head, and we were off.

If I'd held any faint hope of keeping some tiny shred of decorum, it was quickly dashed. My skirt, already too brief for modesty, slid freely up my hips as I wiggled and scrambled to match his easy walking pace.

Eyes focused on keeping pace with my owner's heels, I heard but didn't see the attention I drew. Cutting voices. Sometimes amused, at other times triumphant, but always interested. Oh, wasn't this the talk of the year, the poor, stupid girl who'd fallen so far. How delicious it must be for them. Were there any sympathetic faces out there? Was anyone more appalled than gleeful at my pathetic circumstance? Emily? Sarah? Adam? Oh, I didn't dare look.

Please don't let Adam see me like this.

Even though I refused to look, I still heard the voices as we passed.

"Slut", "Skank", "following like a bitch", "did you see her panties, I bet she loves it"

Classmates, strangers. Voices I recognized and people I had only seen in passing. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference. Everything sounded so different from down here, and I still couldn't bear to look. My mind's eye could already picture the gawking, the mocking, tittering stares that were sure to follow me all day. The last thing I needed was to look up and confirm my fears.

He left me at the door to his classroom. Despite all the indignities and humiliations I was forced to endure, I still had that much left to me. I was still required to attend school and keep up with my classwork. He couldn't take that away. Still leashed, but at least I was allowed to walk on two legs again.

Allowed

I fled, seeking out somewhere safe, somewhere that a hundred prying eyes wouldn't follow my every move. An old, musty closet by the drama department served nicely. This time of year, it probably went untouched for days, maybe even weeks. It was cramped, unlit, and smelled like cheap paint and old fabric, but while I was there I was alone. In the darkness, I could pretend that my clothing hadn't been defaced and defiled. I could pretend that things were still the same as they had always been.

In the dark, nobody would see me cry.

I cried not just for what had been done to me, but for the things it made me feel. However much I tried to block it out, I could not forget the way my body had responded to his commands. Even now, the degrading touch of that collar around my throat made my pussy heat like nothing else.

At some point, my sobs gave way to soft, stifled moans as I began fingering myself. I didn't mean to, but I just couldn't help myself, I was too worked up for anything else. Even the humiliation at my lack of control was starting to turn me on. I tugged at my leash, recalling how helpless I had felt when he led me down the hallways, and just barely had time to muffle my screams of pleasure at the remembrance.

I hated him. I despised everything about his smug presumption. But if he were here right this instant, I had no doubt whatsoever that I would eagerly jump him and fuck his brains out.

My phone beeped, a reminder that class was only minutes away. How long had I been lost in my wild reverie? I'd come here to try and find some balance, some way to center myself and cope with these changes, but then I had turned them into some kind of perverted masturbatory fantasy. What was wrong with me?

But that was the wrong question, wasn't it? I already knew exactly what was wrong with me. The better question was: How do I fix it?

There was a little bit of time just before class, enough for a quick run at the bathroom. I tried to wash up as best I was able, scrubbing away at my hands and trying to rinse off my slightly sticky inner thighs. Was it enough? Even after almost five minutes of scrubbing, I was paranoid that I could still smell myself, and that everyone I passed would know exactly what I had been doing. My panties were a total loss, so thoroughly soaked as to be beyond salvaging. I threw them into the trash. I buried them as deep as I could in hopes that no one would ever notice them.

Only afterwards did I think about what this would mean. What was it I had used to think about girls like that? That only skanks and tramps went around without any underwear. Especially in a skirt like this. I wondered, was this really me? Or had the idea to ditch my underwear come from a less savory source?

Whatever the cause, I certainly wasn't going to go diving in the trash bin for a pair of sodden panties. Besides, being bare like this was actually kinda hot.

Wait. Did I just think that?

Shit!

When I finally made it to class, Mrs Applewhite was not at all happy with my appearance. In fact, I wound up having to plead with her to even stay in class.

"If this outfit is supposed to be some kind of joke, Ms Doyle, then I can tell you I am not amused," she said as she dragged me to the side of the class. "I demand attention and respect in my classroom, and I am not inclined to tolerate disruptive elements."

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I really am. I didn't want to dress like this, it's just..."

"Ah, yes, now I remember. I had forgotten about your little problem."

Right. My life upended completely, and it wasn't even a blip on her radar. What did I rate these days? A perfunctory announcement? A three line memo tucked away in the bottom of a pile? To the extent that we'd interacted at all, I had always gotten along with Mrs Applewhite, but now I saw how important I really was.

"Still," she told me, "I do expect a certain level of decorum."

"I know, ma'am. It's just, there's nothing I can do about it. I can't help myself."

Her lips pursed, and she looked a little disturbed by it, but from her disapproving glare I could see that the blame still rested upon me in her eyes. Great. Was this to be my life, now? Always blamed for things that were no longer in my control? Admitting how powerless I was had hurt, but it was ten times worse to see how little that really mattered to her.

"Very well," she finally allowed, "You may sit in the back, provided that you are quiet and diligent and do not draw undue attention to yourself. Is that understood?"