This story will make more sense if you have read previous chapters.
...
I was told my surgery went well. I struggled to listen to Dr. Khan's report on it, struggled to take in all the aftercare instruction. Knowing that the man who had operated on me, who had tightened my sex, injected collagen into its front wall for G-spot amplification had been offered future use of it made me feel sick.
As I lay in the hospital bed, I felt broken. The operation had done more than change me physically. Mr. Croker had demonstrated his power over me, his power to remake me. I no longer felt in control of body or my life. Subjecting to the scalpel for the vaginoplasty had cut away all sense of autonomy.
Two days later, a car came to take me to a spa hotel in the countryside. As before it was black, expensive and on time. Normally I would have been excited to be chaffered to a five-star health resort, but the blur of the journey from London to the Cotswolds felt like being transferred to a prison. Even when we arrived and I checked in, no amount of being enfolded by luxury could improve my mood.
It transpired that Mr. Croker had constructed a whole timetable of treatments and procedures for me to go through. Although none came close to the modification of the vaginoplasty, each session of laser hair removal, hair styling and anal bleaching felt like a further lessening of not only control of my life, but owning my own body. He decided what happened to it, all these little changes were for him and his pleasure.
The two things I hated most were the anal bleaching and the removal of any tray or unruly hairs around my bumhole, taint and mound. It was one thing to have hair from your legs removed, but the removal from those three places alongside with the forced whitening of my rosebud were so clearly sexual that they felt both extra controlling and humiliating.
I also resented the twice daily sessions of hypnotherapy. They were administered by a woman of Chinese heritage called Dr. Lau. She was stern looking, in her fifties and introduced herself as an expert in weight-loss and habit correction. I had to lie down on something akin to a dentist's chair for the sessions as she used lights for something she called 'cognitive control'. I could remember a strobing effect, her monotonous voice and very little else before I fell asleep. Maybe the sessions worked as I certainly had less appetite and after the first fortnight in the resort, had lost several pounds.
...
I found the days at the spa boring and lonely. I had no phone and no contact with the outside world. My family and friends thought I was busy starting a new job in Dubai, the truth was I watched TV, read books and magazines and lived to a controlling schedule of treatments and calorie-controlled meals. No amount of opulence, lovely countryside or pampering beauty treatments made me feel less isolated. Nothing stopped my feeling like Mr. Croker's prisoner.
As I recovered from the surgery and the nights rolled onwards, I noticed that I became horny. I didn't want that. I'd suffered traumatic abuse at the hands of Mr. Croker and the last thing I felt my mind should be turning to was sex. Yet the need to find some released would eat away at me till I felt the need to gently explore my altered sex and rub my bud. I couldn't think of my husband -- I was still too full of anger at loathing of him -- but whenever I tried to indulge in any of my usual fantasies, my mind would be pulled elsewhere. Pulled to the most disgusting images and scenarios that came completely unbidden.
Images of me selling myself on the streets or leashed like a dog paraded on a stage. Images of being sodomised by Mr. Croker as he pushed my head down into another woman's sex and made me pleasure her. Scenarios completely alien to me such as being naked except for black silk stocking and having the word 'fuck-pig' written across my chest in marker pen as I being was made to oink at the feet of multiple men and women. Scenarios where I was dressed as a schoolgirl and bent over a desk taking a caning before a whooping crowd of men who cheered as I yelped from the pain of every stroke inflicted by an austere, dyke-ish looking woman playing the role of neadmistress.
Every time I would stop rubbing and try to clear my head and focus on a more pleasant, less degenerate fantasy. Yet as soon as I began to manipulate myself again, even viler images and scenarios would force themselves into my mind. Images of lewdly displaying myself in the window of an Amsterdam brothel in the hope of attracting custom. Images of being on all fours and being forcefully fucked by a woman wearing a brutal, uncomfortably big strap-on. Scenarios where I was kneeling and forced to accept load after load of semen unloaded on my face and chest by a group of filthy, fat old men. Scenarios where I was bound over some form of bench and further restrained by painful, heavy chains attached to rings in my nipples and begging Mr. Croker: "Rape me Daddy, please rape me!"
I was disgusted with myself. I had no idea where these degrading, hideous thoughts were coming from, but they made me intensely dislike myself. Even when I tried to rationalise them as trauma response, I felt nauseous and repulsed by my unwanted imaginings. After severals nights like this I was both both sexually frustrated and sickened.
...
Mr. Croker visited me on my nineteenth night of enforced exile from my old life. When I opened the door to him, my heart sank. I knew instantly he was going to abuse me again, that he would sexually dominate and humiliate me. I hate knowing that this was to be the way my life was for at least 400 more days.
He walked into the room as if he owned it -- which in the sense he was paying for it, for was true. He certainly walked in as if he owned me -- which given the nature of our agreement was certainly true. Without a word of greeting, he switched the television off and sat down in an armchair, neatly dropping an expensive looking paper bag, the type they use at the highest end stores, beside it. I recognised its colours and logo as belong to the very expensive lingerie retailer Agent Provocateur.
"Stand in front of me and strip. And when I say strip, I mean slowly and sensuously. Daddy would like a show."
Resigned to my fate and fearing his displeasure I did my best to comply. Unfortunately, the taking off of my black cashmere sweater and the undoing and stepping out of my jeans wasn't graceful or sexy enough for him. Standing just in my socks and grey cotton bra and knickers he made his annoyance clear.
"You move like a dead body being dropped down some stairs by the undertakers. How are you going to strip on stage when you can't even strip for Daddy?"
He held out the Agent Provocateur bag for me to take. "Daddy has bought you some lovely lingerie and stockings and some lovely new shoes. Do you think you deserve them when you can't put on a nice show for Daddy? Now why don't you see what Daddy brought you?"
The first thing I pulled out was a was a basque. It was in exquisite black lace with PVC detailing and a metal ring built into it at the waste. It looked amazing, but anyone wearing it would be showing their partner everything as the lace wasn't exactly opaque. It was at that point I realised I would be wearing it and my 'partner' was going to be Mr. Croker. Suddenly it wasn't sexy, but humiliaiting.
"Take off those ridiculous grey things and put it on. I want to see you in it."
I slowly unclasped my bra and let it fall to the floor before I peeled of my socks and edged down my knickers till I stood naked in front of Mr. Croker. My first instinct was to cover my breasts with my arm and place a hand over my sex, but I knew it would be pointless. He had paid a lot for the lingerie and he clearly wanted me to be on show for him by wearing it. For the next couple of minutes I struggled into the basque -- it was the first time I had worn one -- and was both horrified and surprised to find it fit me perfectly.
The next thing I pulled out was what I thought was a matching pair of black lace and PVC briefs with another ring worked into them that would fall down across the little bit of lace covering but not hiding my mound. As I prepared to put them on I noticed they weren't quite what I thought.
"That's right. They are called an ouvert brief. They have a naughty open gusset and rear. As Daddy is going to be taking some after surgery pictures of his newly tightened cunt I didn't think we needed to spare your modesty."
As I began to pull on the obscenely expensive and just obscene brief, Mr. Croker barked at me: "Stupid bitch! Don't you know anything? Stocking first and attached to the basque's suspenders, then the ouvert. How fucking ignorant are you?"
I should have spat my defiance at him. I should ave told him to go fuck himself. Instead, I meekly apologised. I was just as angry at myself for my compliance as I was with him for his continuing verbal and sexual abuse.
I reached into the bag and pulled out a packet of expensive looking black seamed silk stockings. Following Mt. Croker's directions, I slowly pulled them up and struggled to fix them to the basque's suspenders. When both of them were on Mr Croker said: "Stockings are the uniform of the whore. You'll be wearing them a lot. Not just for Daddy, but for you clients."
Something about those words made the unwanted images I'd have of servicing men and women flood back into my mind. I couldn't be sure if it was the images and words, but I noticed just the first bit of wetness in my sex. I felt disgusted with myself and fear the humiliation should Mr. Croker detect that unbidden, tell-tale physical response.
I slowly pulled on the obscene ouvert. It felt so strange it have no gusset and no back. It felt filthy to be wearing it. Then I pulled out the box containing the shoes from the bag. They were designer label and would have cost a fortune. Even if I could have afforded them, I'd have never bought a pair of Gucci sandals with ankle straps in black patent leather with a three-inch heels. When I had put them on and marvelled at both their perfect fit and how painful the heels made to them wear, I realised I was wearing the uniform of a whore -- basque, bumles, open-crotched knickers, stockings and hooker heels. I felt nauseous at the approving smile Mr. Croker made while admiring me in this horrid ensemble.
Mr. Croker stood up and gestured for me to sit in the armchair. He went over to the television and plugged in a USB drive into it and then fiddled with the controls.
"Last time I visited, Daddy made a film of your old cunt being fucked by his cigar and hand. This time Daddy is going to make a film of you masturbating while watching that, your fingers working the new cunt Daddy has given you."
"It might interest you to know I've already shown this film to your husband. In fact I made him masturbate to it. How does that make you feel Anne-Marie, knowing your Alex wanked over you being used by me?"
I was in such a state of shock, hurt and anger hearing this that I wanted to tell Mr. Croker that I hated Alex for it, but some part of me refused to give him that satisfaction so just answered: "I don't know. I'm too shocked to know."
