Chloe And The Agency Pt 02

** You will get more from this if you've read the preceding parts, I imagine...**

***

The two pretty bimbos ahead of her, giggling to each other, flashing their eyes at her, knowing, grinning, teasingly jerking the chain that is snugging itself ever more intimately, ever more outrageously, into the folds of her sex, emphasise that this is not a secret shame, but one obvious to others – and not just the three of them, but those behind her as well – Lord K, frightening D, fascinating M.

It's all too much and Chloe, as soon as the door closes behind them, staggers, her thighs trembling, landing on her knees, unable to suppress a desperately weak, embarrassed giggle, overcome with shame and fear – again on the verge of hysteria.

Out of the presence of Ms M, the utter impossibility of her, Chloe, an innocent, among strangers, being in this degraded, debauched situation, hits her, and hits her hard.

The angular, precise figure of Miss A is in front of her, and she feels unbearably ashamed – ashamed of her nakedness, of being so whorishly restrained, of her pathetic compliance, of the way her tits, held up by the cantilever half bra, won't stop jiggling, the nipples weaving little dances, stiff, advertising her so recent helpless arousal.

How can she have allowed herself to be put into a position this vulnerable – this exposed, this shaming?

Her chest heaves, a few little sobs at the enormity of her mistakes this evening escape her. Self pity rises up to overtake her.

But somehow she can't let it. There is, in her head, some – thing, some crazy thing, that wants to know...

To know, if she holds herself together, if she can manage to go through with this – whatever insane weirdness, bizarre perversity is in store for her – what... what it will be like. How it will feel...

Some ... hunger.

And also, alongside it, and just as insistent, a need in her, a need deep; shockingly stubborn, unreasonable in its determination, to prove herself interesting to Ms M.

And let's face it, she thinks, she can never again be a girl who, in return for the offer of £500, wouldn't strip for a stranger whom she has been told will fuck her in the ass in front of people she has only just met. She can never forget that she is already a proven slut, offering her pussy to be manipulated in a public lift by a woman she is frightened by and has only just met...

All these thoughts – and more – rush through her head as she kneels, wrists locked behind her neck, hyperventilating almost, tits jiggling so shamefully obviously, chain cutting into her sex, on the verge of panic, hyper-aware of the gaze of sharp Miss A on her naked, trussed body.

Hyper-concerned lest this fierce, intense person reject her, reject silly little provincial Chloe, with her foolish, naive responses; tell Lord K, and D; worst of all Ms M, that she is simply not up to it, not fit, not worthy of the trouble...

Because clearly, she isn't. Worthy. Look at these gorgeous girls, so immaculately dressed – slutty, yet sharp; obvious whores yet infinitely superior to, infinitely sexier than herself, silly little Chloe the innocent, who can hardly walk in the heels they have dressed her in, whose belly button isn't pierced, who has no large hoop earrings, or subtle blushing makeup, who has no poise at all, and no idea what any of this is really about.

And she looks up, tears wetting her eyes, directly into those of Miss A, whose face is inscrutable, but who is definitely looking back, a subtle sneer asking; 'Can you hack it, little slut? Can you hold it together? Are you worth my time?'

And from somewhere Chloe access the will, the need, the strength to control herself, straighten herself, lifting her arms to move her shoulders back, letting the weight of her cuffed hands pull down behind her back, lifting her ass a little, spreading her thighs a little: shaking? yes, terrified? yes, Horribly shamed? yes – but hysterical? no, not any more. Her gaze drops, unable to hold that gimlet stare for more than a second or two, but her pose persists.

Silence. Chloe's trembling is embarrassingly obvious, no matter how she tries to dampen it, but she holds herself, increasingly aware of the implications for her future self-worth of this offering of her breasts, her thighs opened, to this woman who is going, apparently, to beat her, but nevertheless offering herself so brazenly; open, vulnerable, biting her lip to stop herself whimpering.

She has nothing else to hold onto, after all. Her chest rises and falls heavily, her breathing tumultuous still, her breasts moving, attracting attention whether she wishes it or not.

Her attempt at self-control, she knows, is in itself shaming – what girl would try to look good in this situation? She should be screaming and yelling, trying to stand, to get to the lifts, to get out of this sick weirdness.

But the reality is that what matters to her most, right now, is this Miss A, who speaks at last;

"And what am I to do with you, pretty?"

Who, when the girls start gabbling, talking over each other, says;

"Quiet, cunts. I am talking to the pretty."

More silence.

It's impossible. Chloe cannot say those things – the requests Lord K made in dismissing her. She can't.

But, within only a few seconds, it seems that it is even harder to bear the silence, the expectation, to be the centre of attention, so vulnerable...

And she hears her own voice;

"Madam .. Lord .. Lord K thinks .. thinks I'll be .. be the better for a t..trimmed pussy and .. and .. and"

Hysteria climbs again, needs to be ruthlessly suppressed (more heavy breathing, more tits jiggling, more humiliation). Again, nothing but expectant silence and unwelcome attention, until Chloe finally manages;

".. and b..better for a taste of your cane, Madam."

Chloe has to bite her lip, hard, to suppress the wild, keening of fear and raw emotion that saying these words out loud brings on, and is only partly successful. She cringes now, fear of what a cane will actually feel like on her soft body almost all she can think about; her shoulders hunch, tears brim..

Miss A, far from finding this confused emotionality to be reason for doubt or concern, well versed in the prevarications and shuddering nervousness of born submissives facing their own deep desires and weaknesses for the first time, is both amused and entertained, happy to prolong this for as long as possible, except for the fact of knowing Lord K's timetable – that in order to have time to enjoy this little gift from the Agency, he will need her back within a few minutes – and so pushes Chloe on; leaning in, she lifts the pretty innocent's chin with a sharp-nailed fingertip, gratified to find no resistance whatsoever, and says;

"But what do you think I should do with you, pretty – after all, you're a guest, not slave-cunt like these two bitches. You're a free woman, from what I understand. What do you want?"

And she tugs on the leash, just a little, to remind the pretty, trembling girl of the outrageous insolence of hard steel chain snugged tight into the slit of her sex, watching her chest rise and fall, the tits moving deliciously, fascinating, willingly offered, vulnerable to savagery...

For Miss A, despite her tightly controlled exterior appearance, is not immune. Far from it ... it is intensely pleasurable to her to watch the girl force herself to say the words;

"I .. I want you to .. to trim my pussy and .. and .. and let me have a .. a taste of your cane, please Madam.."

Miss A lets the words hang in the air, making sure the girls realises that she has said this out loud, clearly asked for this. Only when she judges from the girl's blush that it has indeed sunk in on her, does she say, almost kindly;

"Good girl, good little pussy..."

Miss A's voice is only slightly softer than before, but Chloe feels obscurely, foolishly proud, then confused as Miss A's hand goes quickly to a little tunic pocket, then to Chloe's mouth; a sweet little treat, slipped into her mouth, a little burst of simple pleasure – just a little.

She's been fed a reward treat. As if she were a show dog. The realisation makes her cringe. At the same time, despite herself, she feels a little burst of unlooked for happiness, and finds herself leaning in to Miss A's hand as it briefly brushes her cheek.

"That's it, little cunt. I think you may perhaps have earned some attention from my cane. Well done!"

With which she turns on her heel and walks off, leaving Chloe trembling, unsure, painfully aware of her own vulnerability, her ignorance of what any of this really means, of the frightening reality that, right now, sadistic Miss A is her best source of support and guidance. That she is perhaps to be abandoned, left in this exposed, vulnerable state, without any clue as to what is expected of her next.

The intensity, the loneliness of this feeling is threatening to overwhelm her, when A turns;

"Will you follow me, please, little cunt? On your hands and knees?"

And, since it appears that an answer is desired, she finds herself meekly assenting, her voice pathetic, even in her own ears;

"Um .. Y..yes, Madam."

"Girls, release her wrists – but keep that chain taut – I want it right in her little puss all the way, grinding her clit hard."

And so Chloe finds herself crawling on hands and knees, her head as low as possible, her ass as high as possible, as she seeks to alleviate the cruel pressure of the chain on her soft sex, barely but desperately keeping control of herself, suppressing the hysteria, the despair, the urge to jump up and scream her outrage at them, along the lushly carpeted hallway to the little room at the end.

A room with three walls mirrored, chains hanging from the ceiling, a hard, cold stone floor, bright, harsh lighting, the fourth wall a display wall with an array of leather and steel appliances of all kinds, some recognisable, others strange.

In any case, she has little time for looking, as the girls, at a flick of the wrist from Miss A, lift her wrists and attach the D-rings to snaps on the ends of chains, step back and start winding, the chain snicking through ratchets, rapidly tightening, forcing her to rise, to stand, spread her arms as she struggles once again to suppress panic.

She gasps, cries out (so softly, so weakly, painfully aware that there is no hint, no note of outrage, of resistance, of resentment in her voice) as she is lifted to the point where even the high heels won't support her, and her shoulders take almost her full weight.

She is momentarily grateful as the girls now push wooden blocks under her feet, allowing her to take weight on her legs again, then gasps as the blocks are tugged outward, her feet with them, spreading her thighs wide, making it impossible for her to close them without letting her feet dangle once more, the chains now cranked a few more notches, reinforcing the impossible lewdness and vulnerability of her position.

Miss A's fingers now come at her defenceless sex; soft, subtle, insistent, invasive... making her cry out and moan, helplessly, shaming herself in front of these three, making it clear how easy she is, how wanton, how slutty (the bimbos giggling again, whispering to each other).

I'm going to go crazy, Chloe thinks – this is all too much. But she blinks back the tears that well up and manages a pathetic, submissive, pleading little smile when Miss A once again lifts her chin, demanding to look into Chloe's eyes.

Being shaved, though, is far from crazy – in fact it is all too real, as spray foam stings her pussy lips, and Miss A's sharp razor scrapes and pulls.

She is shown herself once it's over – a mirror placed between her legs, the narrow, neatly geometrical, tapered strip of dark gold curls now pointing crudely, directly at her now obvious clitoris, the pink folds of her sex, the shamingly evident wetness there, and she cannot stop herself as she breathes in; sharp and deep, shocked, shamed, devastated.

She is a whore. A slut, visibly so now.

A sob escapes her, but she has no choice but to hold her position as the three women, diminutive dominatrix A and her two simpering bimbos, grin and snigger at the humiliation evident on her soft, flushed face.

And again, she is fed a little treat. Part of her wants to reject this, this humiliation; being treated like a dumb animal, but she dares not, and also cannot resist the unwanted flush of pleasure and gratification that again sweeps her at the knowledge that A is pleased with her, wants to reward her.

Is she to be so easily suborned, subjugated? Was she always so vulnerable? Is this, somehow, what she is made for? It's too late, now, to worry.

More giggling from the girls, more shame for C, a small, satisfied grin from A;

"Now, pretty, I want you to choose; we have three canes here – a heavy one, a light one, and one somewhere in between. You'll get less strokes from the heavy cane, but it will damage you more. The light cane will earn you many strokes, but do less – and of course the medium will be – somewhere in between. "

"Which do you want? Assuming you do, still, want me to beat you, as Lord K suggested?"

Miss A's grin makes it clear how much she is enjoying herself, adding to Chloe's despair.

Chloe's mind revolts at the idea of selecting the instrument which will be used to beat her. But once again, the inevitability of the situation asserts itself, and when A lifts her chin in that demeaning and devastating way they have, she blinks away the tears that threaten to overwhelm her, and knows she has to speak, has to say something; only, what?

"Please .. Please Madam, I . I can't .. I can't choose .. Will ..? I'd .. I'd like you to use the one which, which would please you – and Lord K - most .. please.."

More tittering from the bimbos – this time Chloe thinks she can hear fear in their voices, and realises suddenly that they, too, will have been in her position: powerless, naked, spread, the certainty of imminent cruelty bearing in on them, and the realisation that this is some sort of normality for them (and now for her?) nearly breaks her – tears begin to roll down her soft cheeks, and her thighs start to quiver uncontrollably – A can feel the quivering in her fingers, still lodged inside Chloe's hot, moist sex, and a cruel smile of appreciation lifts one side of her mouth. This one would seem to have been a good find – how do those two do it?

"Very well, pussy, you'll get the light one, and take many stripes. You'll have plenty of reason for crying, shortly, don't you worry; this is going to be a harsh first taste, sweety, very harsh, and I'm going to enjoy myself making you scream and dance. Here you are now, pretty."

And yet another little treat is presented to Chloe's tear-salted lips.

It almost comes to her to spit it away, so horrible, so perverted it feels to be rewarded for her compliance with this cruel intent, but finds she she dares not, and instead, weak, defeated, she takes it, softly, and, at a whispered; 'Smile..' from A makes herself form her lips into some attempt at a happy, grateful shape, even as the tears flood her eyes again.

"Good girl", comes the whisper at her ear; "Good little girly.."

And then A steps back, shifts her body, there's a new sound, a swish, and;

"Ahhh, ha,ha,ha,haa-aaaaahhh AH!"

Swish.

"Oh no! No!! Please! No! Aaaah!

Swish.

"No! No you can.. you ca.."

Swish.

"Aha-aa-a-ah! Nooo. No, please pl.."

Swish.

Chloe knows that the jerking and twisting she cannot keep herself from is only making her breasts, her arse, her legs, her neck more vulnerable, more obvious, but she is almost beyond caring, and certainly beyond self control, as the cane slashes into her buttocks, her thighs, her soft belly, Miss A walking slowly around her, keeping the swipes evenly spaced, in a new place each time, more interested in driving the girl's mental state than in marking her or hurting her (in reality, the blows are light flicks, their impact only as devastating as they are for poor Chloe because of the shocking novelty of being beaten at all; when the girl inspects herself in the mirror the following morning, she is astonished to find only the most delicate of pink stripings indicating where the blows landed, where she had expected livid scars, signs of blood having been drawn, deep bruising).

There is a pause; Chloe sags in her chains, knees slack, shoulders drawn tight, panting and moaning, hope slowly building that it has finished, when Miss A speaks, close in her ear again;

"It's a joy to torment you, lovely; your breasts move deliciously. One day, I hope to have the opportunity to whip you there – and between your legs as well – but that can wait. For now, have a little treat – yes, again – go on, take it – take it softly, be grateful – that's right, thank me nicely now, and then we can start again."

And Chloe is once more made to take a treat from the fingers of her tormentor, and then to say – in a voice soft, hoarse and breathy, clearly reluctant but powerless to disobey;

"Thank .. thank you, Madam."

"Now, my dear, it is time for you to take some more. But this time you must not scream so freely – I want to hear only pretty, sexy little gasps and moans; your response to the blows must be for the pleasure of your betters, you know – your own feelings are irrelevant here, except as they may be entertaining. So the sexier, the more alluring your cries can be, the sooner I will stop, the sooner I'll have my fingers at your little puss again, and we'll see if we can't make you come for us before Lord K calls for you."

And that's how it goes; the beating starts again, and Chloe, in desperation to bring it to a close, does her poor desperate best to control her distress, to channel it, to express it in order to please the one who is hurting her.

It is a torment that she knows is doing something deep and troubling to her, going to some deep vulnerability, some weak part of her, because, sick as it is, she knows, somehow, exactly what A wants from her – and why she wants it, and finds herself, in the midst of the anguish of waiting for blows, feeling the blaze, the outrage of a strike, the spreading heat across her naked skin in the aftermath, finds herself abjectly, pathetically, shamefully wanting to please.

And when, at last, it seems that the beating has ended, her body wants that touch, welcomes it, responds to it, moves for it - and despite the terrible, burning, impossible shame that builds and mounts inside her as the clever fingers caress and hurt, stroke and pinch, penetrate and soothe her helplessly opened sex, despite the knowledge that the two others are looking on, she knows quite soon that she is going to orgasm – that it is going to be a powerful, shattering orgasm, that she wants it, wants it, wants it soooo...

"AAAA!Ah! Aha! Ah!Ah!Aaaaaaaa..."

And she's sobbing; openly now, broken, defenceless, quivering, shuddering helplessly as one of the two girlies is made to kneel before her and suck and lick at her sex, so that, even as a buzzer sounds, another orgasm builds and then crests, destroying her again, and she knows that she is lost.