This will make more sense if you have read part one.
...
With the taste of his semen in my mouth, my face wet with tears, I knew that there would be no escaping Mr. Croker and his vile deal. I either accepted 400 days of sexual servitude to him or went to prison for several years with no expectation of anything after that except for life of poverty and shame. I hated Croker, hated my husband for getting us in this mess and worse, meekly accepting his boss degrading me, orally raping me. Most of all I hate myself for not seeing any way out of the mess.
I used the next 30 days to get my affairs in order. I quit the law firm, I told my family and friends I would be working in Dubai for 18 months. I shut down every area of my life. It almost felt like I was preparing for death. Every time I spoke to my husband it turned into a bloody row where I would shout, scream and even throw things. I made it very clear I blamed him for what was waiting for me. He tried to tell me that whatever Mr. Croker did to me, he would still love. I distinctly remember telling him that his love 'didn't mean shit'. It wasn't exactly a happy period in our marriage.
One night, four weeks after I had first signed the contract, Alex brought Mr. Croker home again. Seated in my living room with Alex and opposite him on the sofa, he lit anther disgusting cigar. I was certain he did it because I hated it, a typical show of dominance in all things, he also knew its stench would be a lingering reminder of his control when he left.
"I want to change the terms of the deal slightly. Before you check into the health clinic for 30 days of conditioning, I want you to undergo a vaginoplasty first. It's a minor procedure, but it will tighten you for my pleasure and it will also increase your sexual stimulation. Now, if you agree to this, I will look at that co-operation as worthy of reward. I am going to ask you to do many awful things in your 400 days of service. Say yes to me on this and I will refuse you a right of veto to an order I give. As a token of good faith, I will also give you a rare day off or two see your family if you so desire."
It all felt hopeless to resist so I simply nodded my ascent.
"Good girl. You'll consider yourself wise the day I order you to do something hideous like eat shit. Now, I know you still have two days of freedom, but as a token of good faith I want you follow some orders from me tonight."
"What if I say no?"
"Then when your 400 days of slavery to me begin, you will be punished and using your one veto to refuse scat will be the least of your concerns. A vaginoplasty will be the least of the modifications I will inflict on your body"
Thoroughly beaten, despising my husband for just sitting there and saying nothing, I nodded again.
"Excellent. Slowly take of your blouse and skirt and then lie down on the floor."
I stood up, reluctantly shedding my outer layers of clothing. When I was standing in just my grey lace bra, knickers and tights, he spoke again: "What have I told you about tights? This is the last time you will wear them for a long while. It's going to be stockings for you while in my service. Come over here."
I walked towards him and as soon as I was stood in front of him he began to violently rip my black tights.
"What are you doing? No! Stop it"
Suddenly I was pushed face down on the sofa, one powerful hand holding my hands behind my back another raining down hard, smarting blows to my backside. I've always enjoyed light spanking as part of sex, but this was brutal. Each strike was an explosion of pain. I involuntarily began to whimper and sob. I begged him to stop.
"Daddy doesn't like the word 'No' Anne-Marie, but he does like sobbing and begging."
Crying into the sofa's fabric, hating my husband for not defending me, the blows stopped as Mr. Croker returned to ripping my tights apart till they were entirely shredded at the crotch, gusset and bottom. He released his grip on me, threw a cushion -- ironically one embroidered with the slogan: 'Love Live Laugh' -- onto the floor.
"Lie down and put that behind you head. And say thank you or I'll think you an ungrateful bitch."
I did as I was told. Still sobbing, my backside so inflamed that even lying down on it was agony.
"Thank you."
"No Anne-Marie, say 'thank you Daddy'."
It disgusted me to say the words to this sixty-something abuser, but between my tears I managed to gently say: "Thank you Daddy."
Mr. Croker loomed over me as I lay prone and vulnerable on the carpet. He kicked off his shoes, undid his belt and climbed out of his trousers and then his Y-fronts. From this position, his penis looked even more massive and violent then when I had been forced to accept it into my mouth.
He knelt down till he was straddling me, one knee each side of my chest and roughly pulled my breasts free of the pink lace cage of my bra.
"Do you like nipple pain Anne-Marie?"
