Chloe and the Agency

ADVICE: Some people don't like my stories. That's fine. I don't want you to read anything that you don't like. If you have any doubts, please read 'An Apologia' from my submissions page before reading.

This will make more sense if you have read the preceding parts.

Chloe is awakened by the door closing; it's morning, and someone has delivered her a little breakfast - croissants, hot chocolate, orange juice, on a pretty, ornate little metal tray with its own stand.

She looks up, still mostly asleep, understands, slowly, that she is naked, in a strange bed, in a strange room; a luxurious, soft bed, in a beautiful, sun-filled room, well furnished with subdued antiques, overlooking lush greenery, countryside.

But grand as all this is, she is aware, as she awakes more fully, of something, something huge .. and then the memory of the previous night rushes over her, and she is gradually overtaken by a slow, powerful, suffocating panic attack, which has her clutching at the bedclothes around her convulsively as her heart rate accelerates, her breathing gets wilder and deeper, her belly begins to try to turn itself inside out, her legs rigid, cramping, her mind in turmoil.

It can't be. It just cannot be! That .. that she .. that they .. that he ..

And where

is

she? Somewhere M and D have taken her? Somewhere of Lord K's? Delivered to some other stranger?

Naked! She's naked - vulnerable (and now the soreness - multiple sorenesses - of her body remind her how thoroughly her vulnerability was abused last night).

Wildly, she looks around for her clothes, her bag, shoes .. sees nothing, although there is an inner door..

She is up, scampering to the door, clutching the duvet around her, glancing backwards at the main door, checking it's closed, needing safety, something .. something of her own, beyond her naked body, to cling to, to anchor herself ..

A bathroom - luxurious, elegant, sun-filled, but impersonal. A few small hand-towels, no robe.

Heart thumping, tearing up now, feeling small, weak, frightened, vulnerable, she sinks to her knees, her head going down, down, until her forehead is on the cool tile, her hands balled into painfully tight fists either side of her head, and the sobbing engulfs her, fighting with the heaving of her chest for control of her mouth, and everything goes wrong - she is inhaling spittle, mucus, coughing, panic out of control, crying out, inchoate, in her distress...

It can't last - she becomes faint, exhausts herself, rolls onto her side, shivering, shaking, clutching at herself, until at last, some clear, calm voice inside her helps her control the panic - to breathe, to let the feelings be as they will be, but not let them own her - something like that - she's read it in a magazine, maybe. Whatever, it helps.

And gradually, she is calmer. Her heart slows, her breathing too, the unbearable combination of the immediate need to do something physical, set against the absence of anything sensible to do, ebbs away, the sobbing fades, and the tears dry up.

Slowly, actively suppressing thought now, she picks herself up, weak, shaky, and walks back into the bedroom.

Seeing the breakfast she realises that, under all the emotion, her body is demanding food, with urgency, and she sinks to her knees by the little tray, and glugs half the juice before a thought comes to her that it might be drugged, and freezes. Seconds later, she shrugs; 'I'm here, helpless, naked, I did everything they wanted last night - they don't really need to drug me' - manages a little sarcastic smile and takes another swallow, then goes for the croissants. There's a note there.

An elegant, scallop edged card - heavy, soft, like a wedding invitation or something, handwritten - comfortable, precise script, flowing, impressive;

"Good morning, pretty, I do hope you like the room - and the breakfast. When you're ready, ring the bell, and Ginny will come with some clothes for you. There'll be a choice to make, which I am afraid I cannot help you with, save to say that I trust your instincts. I will look forward to seeing you at lunch."

It was signed, simply, 'M.'

This calms her considerably. M is in charge, here, and M is honest and clear - even if what she asks of Chloe is - well - Chloe searches for words .. and finds herself saying them aloud;

"Bat. Shit. Fucking. CRAZY!"

The last word comes out as a half shout. In the silence of the house, it shocks her, and she cringes, frightened of what the response might be.

But nothing happens; the silence persists, and the calm of the room helps her calm herself again, and she attacks the food, which is delicious and rich. Then the bathroom calls, and once done, she knows that she wants to shower.

She is happy with freezing cold water to begin with - it feels soothing, purifying, cleansing, but by the end she has it as hot as she can bear, before she dabs herself dry with the small towels.

It takes a little courage, then, to look at herself, look at her back in the mirror, to touch her groin - front and back, explore her tenderness there, expecting damage. She is surprised that the trail of the whip on her back is almost invisible - and realises that the sensation, the pain she experienced, must have been largely psychological - shock and humiliation, rather than physical.

The situation at her ass is less comforting, though - seriously sore, some traces of dried blood - he had used her hard, and she sinks to her knees again, tears coming - but soft tears, that come with no anger, no revulsion, no regret, even, crying instead at the realisation of a new knowledge that is unfolding in her - that she is happy to accept this pain, not because she likes pain, but because she is transfixed by the emotional recall of what it was like, to be used like that, so roughly, so selfishly - so gloriously.. To have been the girl who could, who would give him that - that freedom.

To be a girl who was free with herself. Free with her body - free with its intimate uses. Free.

A strange word to use for that situation, she thinks - 'free', but with her wrists bound. Free, but pushed down, held down by force, entered with force, naked, whipped, vulnerable, in a strange building, under the control of people of wealth and power and confidence and seemingly completely relaxed about imposing sexual savagery upon an innocent.

Nevertheless, free is the word that makes the most sense to her, and she stands, dropping the towels, naked, clean now, looking at herself in the mirror, seeing herself as never before; as a body - a desirable, fuckable body - seeing her as she thinks (hopes..) M sees her, as D sees her.

It's entirely new, this appraisal - almost impersonal. She's always been unsure about her body - like most young women, her image of what she ought to be has been conditioned by the peculiar selection of images that the media offer. Has always thought her breasts the wrong shape - too large, too obvious, not like the catwalk models or the famous actresses she likes; has always been unsure about her legs - the thighs so long and slim, topped by what seems to her a disproportionately rounded and jutting bottom, her neck too long, her lips .. the list goes on...

But now, although she is perhaps more critical, she is looking as if with new eyes - with the eyes of a sexually greedy man - the workings of whose mind M and D laid out for her so dispassionately in the bar. And with this filter, she can see how her breasts work, how her hips work, her ass - and also see that she needs do things - both with posture and body language, and with dress, to improve and enhance them - that she needs to recommit to exercise, maybe go back to dance classes.

It's not that she's any happier with her body, so much as that she is less worried, less confused, clearer. Men like her tits, so she can make more of them. They like her ass on her long legs, but shapeless skirts just make her bum look big, conceal the promise of her thighs, her torso lacks muscle tone, so that her breasts are not well supported.

She finds herself smiling at the image in the mirror as she experiments, shy of herself, but still, surprising herself with her own boldness; pulling her shoulders back, arching her neck, head off to one side, seeing her breasts respond, offer themselves - and she giggles, half embarrassed, half amazed at this new - freedom. There it is again, that word, that feeling - she has new freedom with her body - has been freed from the weight of expectation by a simpler, more direct understanding - she wants men to want to fuck her. More precisely, she thinks; M and D want men to want to fuck her. Rich and powerful men with extreme tastes. So that they can rent her to them, under cover of an employment agency. That seems to be their business model.

This is sobering, and she goes back to the bedroom, wraps herself in the duvet, suddenly weak and tearful again.

What is it? What is this thing? How is it possible that, last night, she did - she allowed .. that?

How can she have been used - truthfully, abused - like a lost slut in some fetish club, without any preparation at all, really, just dropped in at the deep end - and yet be feeling as if she has been freed; feeling happy, pleased with herself - even as her poor asshole smarts from the roughness of the taking of her cherry there?

How can it be that they are all so assured, so confident? If she - if she went to the papers, there would be some massive scandal - they must be aware of this risk, surely? They don't know her - don't know what she'll do..

But they are; so assured - so wonderfully, lazily powerful. And .. and they probably do understand her, she thinks - they proved that last night - they seem almost to know her better than she knows herself.

And then she sees it; that that's where the freedom comes - from being in their power. Within that, within their setup, she can be free.

'Free to be whipped and fucked up the arse? Yeah, right!' comes a cynical voice in her mind. She hears it, and acknowledges it as deserved. It's true, of course.

But nevertheless ..

This is pointless, going round and round in her head; it's time. She looks, and there is a bell pull cord to the side of the bed. After holding it, staring at it, its braided gold silk heavy and rich, for some moments, she watches her hand rise, grasp it at a height, and gently pull. From far off, she feels, rather than hears a resulting buzz, and slowly gets back into the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin.

Almost immediately, she feels uncomfortable - it must be late morning now, she's been up, she's not a late sleeper, she's eaten the breakfast - her brain is whirring, she tries to understand what it is that feels wrong, and then realises that, somehow, she feels more vulnerable, more unsure, less safe in bed, decently covered up, than she will if she is standing - even though she has no choice other than to stand naked, for whoever comes.

Once standing, she knows that she cannot bear to be considered unattractive - that she must hold herself well - use that freedom. Oh, but this is hard - to have no idea who will come through the door (Ginny - but who is Ginny?), to know that those in charge here were responsible for the treatment Chloe received last night, and nevertheless to show herself to them naked, hold herself to emphasise her sexual attractiveness for them; it is hard, and she has to ruthlessly suppress a new onset of panic when the door opens.

Two of them - a woman in a servant's uniform, rather pretty and skimpy, but not outrageous, first, followed by - Oh God! - a man! Him also in some sort of dark livery, carrying two portable clothes-stands, each with an outfit.

Chloe cannot flinch now - or if she does, she will have hidden nothing, but shown something else in addition - shown her fear, as well as her body - and so she finds the courage to stand well as they enter, breath coming in small sips as she sees their eyes appraising her.

They are expressionless, though, and it is just bearable, as the man carefully places the clothes-stands, retrieves the breakfast tray, and quickly leaves, closing the door behind him.

Chloe sees immediately that one stand has her own outfit - the one she wore to the trade fair, although it appears to have been freshly laundered and pressed, immaculate as it hasn't been since the shop, while the other has a pretty white dress that she hasn't seen before. But she cannot look at the clothes now, because her whole body is aware of the presence of the maid (for that is what her uniform proclaims her) - she's a young and very pretty girl, possibly under 20, and quite nervous herself, Chloe sees.

She is flushed, and her eyes are very bright as she turns her head to look at the stands, obviously needing to be sure of something.

Much later, Chloe discovers that the girl's eyes are so bright because the girl is still blinking back the tears brought on by a swift and painful few thrashes on her bare bottom, delivered by the manservant with his leather belt, at M's request - punishment for stumbling over her lines - followed by a possibly more agonising requirement to say them clearly, while holding her skirts high, with M's fingers in her sex, while he looks on, grinning, everyone in the room knowing that M has promised the man that he shall fuck her, Ginny, very soon - although no-one has asked Ginny her own views about such an event. Ginny, too, is in thrall to Ms M.

Now, Ginny makes a start, trying to talk slowly and clearly ('

With my authority

', Ms M had said - as if there was any chance of her achieving that, thought Ginny);

"Good morning Miss Chloe, and welcome. I .. I hope you enjoyed your breakfast. I .. I've come to bring you clothes. There .. there are two options (again her eyes flicker sideways). On .. on the left, um my left, your .. your right hmhm .."

She falters, but Chloe, who would normally do something like smile encouragingly at a young and nervous woman clearly trying hard to deliver a message in the exact words required of her, and having trouble with it, is herself in an agony - her nakedness in this situation more and more uncomfortable and strange to her, and therefore in no mood to help, and simply stares.

"The, the dark one" (the girl is clearly improvising now, hopefully trying to do her best); " .. the dark one is yours, and, and the white one is offered you as a choice."

"If, if you choose your own clothes, then after lunch, you will be given a lift to the train station for your return journey - your luggage has been collected from your hotel. If you choose the .. the white , um , outfit, then, then you are choosing to .. to stay, and Ms M will explain. At lunch, I mean; she'll explain at lunch what .. what that means."

"If .. if you choose the white outfit, you are to wear everything in that stand and .. and nothing, nothing else. At all."

She says no more, but doesn't seem about to move. Chloe, for her part, is frozen - the only way she has been able to hold herself steady has been to demand total obedience of her body, and she dare not relax now, for fear of embarrassing herself even more.

So the two young and pretty women, neither feeling at all comfortable, both experiencing all sorts of paradoxical and raw emotions, stand facing each other, stuck, for some moments. Ginny cannot help noticing Chloe's lush, tip-tilted breasts, her long, slim thighs, the gap between them at the groin pronounced, her belly flat and smooth, her neck so elegant, her hands so delicate and slender, while Chloe is desperate to see what the white dress is in detail - as if this might offer some clue as to what the outcome of choosing it might be, but dare not move, or even really look away from this girl with the lovely almond shaped face and glowing skin, cheeks brushed with freckles, scandalously short skirts, the tops of her breasts, on show, also freckled, soft and defenceless, and wonder just what her condition here is, what happens to her bottom when Lord K calls, and feel own her eyes tearing up at the imminence of the choice she must make.

Thus is the bond between these two begun - in their joint experience of mortifying sexual shame in service of the machinations of an absent M.

They will almost never speak freely to each other - and even then, only in hurried, breathless, nervous moments stolen from commanded service, but they will see each other often, watch each other performing, oh so eagerly, so sweetly, for M's approval, often feeling jealousy, but also growing mutual sympathy for each other, understanding as intimately as they both do the agonies and joys of being so deliciously, so thoroughly, so helplessly ensnared.

These sympathies will not, of course, escape the sharp intuitions of M and D, and will be ruthlessly exploited when they are asked to pleasure each other - and to hurt each other, too - for the entertainment of friends and clients; engagements which will both cement their bonds and provide them with raw and destabilising moral quandaries, as they both experience hot but guilty pleasure in inflicting cruelties upon each other; and the more intimate the cruelty, the greater the pleasure, the deeper the guilt cuts.

Their shared and obvious guilt, their shared and paraded shame at the vulnerabilities they have so determinedly drawn from each other for the appetite of cruel and greedy strangers only serves to make it easier, and more entertaining, to push them further, until they cannot be in the same room without becoming hot, breathless, needy, fearful, aroused and conflicted, a condition which of course is heartlessly exploited and exposed for further amusement.

Such is the skill and engineered good fortune that M and D have accrued over the years of their collaboration, and such are the subtle and intoxicating vortices of emotion that girls who become thus captured are at once tortured and exalted by at the hands of these two.

Eventually, Ginny realises that she must leave, cannot stay a moment longer, whatever her uncertainty over her having got M's meaning across, and she abruptly gathers herself, turns and leaves, biting back tears, sure that she will get another punishment when she reports, unsure why it is that she reported for work today at all, after how shocking was her experience the previous weekend.

Ginny is a student, recruited 8 weeks previously at a freshers' fair by Ms D, working Saturdays only for an amount of money that is easily double what friends of hers are earning in 6 nights of bar work. She loves the grand house, is coming to love the skimpy uniform to be honest, and the work is light and sometimes fun, but she is really only here because Ms M seems limitlessly wonderful to her. So far, she has only been fingered, stroked, spanked a little (this morning was her first taste of the belt) - but it has been made clear to her that she will be expected to 'develop' quickly, or not be asked back. Her heart skips a beat when she thinks about this - which is far too often - and she is always promising herself that she will not come back next week, if she can only last out this day. Ms M told her this morning that next weekend she will be required overnight on Saturday, and on Sunday, too, next weekend, and has a strong premonition of what that means. Deep down, she knows that she would come even if they said they wouldn't pay her, but she cannot admit this to herself.

Chloe, for her part immensely relieved to be alone in her nakedness (she is unaware of the four cameras in the room, of course) can at last go over to the clothes, see what is actually there.

Her own outfit is complete and fragrant, down to the underwear and shoes in a neat bag. There's a note explaining that the clothes which were bought for her the previous night, and an envelope containing a generous cash sum are with her bags downstairs. If she chooses this option, which of course means leaving, she must know that M and D would always be grateful to her for her 'remarkable and sweet willingness to please'.