Moving Her On

You will want to have read the first part of this story before reading this. This story has some harsh themes.

After he's finished with her, the fat one levers himself upright, his gross belly, his hairy, meaty hands all the more appalling to her as she remembers how desperately she had offered herself to him last night, how she had encouraged him to use her, how she had crawled for him, licking the sweat from the folds of flab at his groin before taking his hairy ball-sack into her mouth, naked, on her knees, her ass held high, thighs open, working her hips as they had told her she must, how she had let him pull her face right into his groin, into a suffocating mask of flabby, hairy, sweaty skin, her hands lying palm up, on the floor, expressively useless (again, required of her), as one of the others had pushed himself into her sore rear, laughing, saying that only a whore this dirty could possibly get him hard again after what he'd already pumped into her.

That was her, that girl --- Chloe. She had done that. She hadn't been forced, but her lover; no, not her 'lover', not any more, not after last night; her man --- maybe that would have to do --- her man had asked her to. And so she had.

And she could never undo it, never forget it, never not be that girl. Never not know that these repellent fingers had brought her to a jerking, crying, wailing orgasm in front of all of them. She had been on top of him, once she'd got him hard again, on her back, legs split apart, his heavy feet on her ankles keeping them so, wrists tied at the small of her back (tied after she had repeatedly been unable to stop herself trying to protect her breasts from the doubled-over belt they'd thrashed her with) his cock in her ass (how many of them had used her there? She realises she doesn't know, that she had stopped counting; more than three). The image of her man --- the man she had been used to call her 'sweet lover' in her mind --- looking on, arms folded, a drink in his hand, complacent satisfaction on his face, interested but uncaring, exchanging casual comments with another man (her breasts, her cocksucking technique), the image burned into her memory as she realised there was no way she could stop herself having a noisy, unhinged orgasm in front of all of them.

The point where she had found herself unable to resist the crashing waves of feeling (no longer wanting to), the wrenching intersection of shame and lust and intensity and raw sensation, and had given in, succumbing to the humiliation and wild abandon of that orgasm, hearing their amusement, their crude, degrading comments, losing herself in it, letting it destroy her, insanely glorying in the experience of letting herself be so destroyed; feeling her body take over, its needs, its requirements, thrusting herself hungrily onto the invading cock, writhing urgently against the fat digits that are so crudely manipulating her poor clit, nothing mattering any more but release, but to be overcome, to be absolved of all responsibility, hearing herself moaning and crying out with undisguised need. Submitting to it all.

And now the moment she knows she needs to repeat --- that opening of the door, that voluntary, soft acceptance --- invitation --- of impending violation that was signified by her opening her blouse, is matched in significance by this moment, this overwhelming, unwanted but also accepted --- sought after --- public orgasm in the heat of that violation.

The first moment had changed her inside --- forced her to acknowledge that something in her is hungry to the experience of offering herself for violation --- and the second changed her in the world --- made her helpless sluttiness incontrovertible to those men, and more significantly (tragically) to Him --- to her man.

It comes to her then --- the memory of what he had said, weeks ago --- 'it's time to move you on'.

She had not understood it at the time, had been too emotional even to try. But now, naked, on her knees on the bed, thighs spread, the fat man's come still in her throat and on her lips, still stinging in her nasal passages, she understands.

She has indeed been 'moved on'. Forced --- as a result of her inability to resist his wishes --- to experience those moments, and, having experienced them, to have become something else; she has indeed been 'moved on' to a place where she has to accept herself as both a helpless whore and a degraded slut. To a place where these inescapable certainties about her seem to define her, to render everything else that had made her life meaningful seem pale and shallow, unimportant. It's not that she wants this to be true --- but that she cannot keep herself from it. She can find nothing within her that can stand against the blowtorch of these twin realisations, that might replenish the psychic scorched earth they leave behind.

For months, now, He has been everything to her, made himself everything to her, and she has eagerly, gratefully, wonderingly opened herself to him, accepted it, revelled in the totality of his embrace.

Now she sees that he had been preparing for this all along, that she has been snared, just as much as she has been embraced. But this insight changes nothing; doesn't make her angry, doesn't make her wish she had realised earlier, doesn't make her wish she had escaped. And then, she realises, there is one thing it does change; it increases her awed respect for his capacities (as if increase were needed) --- and thereby makes it all the more sure that she will not even try to escape --- that she will be unable to challenge this 'moved on' position --- however insane it seems to not struggle, not to rebel against the idea that further experiences like last night lie in her future.

For it had to be acknowledged that had she been given every opportunity to back out. Indeed, she had talked about it to him, had told him that his breezy confidence, his assumptions about her compliance worried her, that while it was wonderful to be carried along, to be safe in the cocoon of his certainty, while she loved being able to switch off completely when she was with him, that she sometimes wondered where it would lead?

And hadn't he smiled, happily told her that he knew exactly where he hoped it would lead --- to him possessing her utterly, folding her completely into his life?

And instead of recoiling, questioning, taking stock, had she not melted at those words, melted into his warm and easy smile, and fallen to her knees and told him that that was what she wanted too, and thanked him, then shyly (for she was innocent then), on her knees, sought to offer him her mouth, lost herself in her desire to service his pleasure, to somehow give him something in return for everything he did for her, in her gratitude taken him more deeply into her throat, held him there longer than she had ever before succeeded in doing for any man?

Now here she is --- possessed indeed by him, folded into his life so deeply that she cannot even imagine trying to leave. Having discovered through shocking, shameful violation just what he wants from this possession of her; how absolute and ruthless, how heartlessly selfish that possession will be, that no matter whether she has been betrayed, tricked, abused (as no doubt her friends would describe the situation --- and in truth, how she would describe the same circumstances applied to any of them), she has been changed, deeply reconfigured, that he has indeed successfully 'moved her on'.

'Successfully' in the sense that, even in the aftermath of the outrage of last night --- a night of harsh and degrading abuse by strangers to her, cruel and ugly older men, to which she has been subjected to by his will; even after that, it is nevertheless true that, sitting here, naked, come-stained, sore, her self-image shredded, her romantic dreams extinguished, she is aware of no stronger emotion than a sweet, wistful sorrow --- and that sorrow mostly for her own naiveté in having held onto those dreams, for the poor silly girl that had been Chloe until less than 24 hours ago.

Shocking, too, is the reality that alongside that sorrow there is a strangely deep and pleasurable gratitude.

Yes. She is grateful --- undeniably so. Grateful for something which it takes her a moment to understand; she is grateful for peace. She is grateful because --- she now understands --- the mismatch between those romantical notions and the reality of the relationship between him and her --- the relationship to which she was an enthusiastic contributor --- had been driving her crazy. Whereas now --- now all is clear.

Her new condition --- as his whore and his slut --- is stark, straightforward. No more navigation, no more second guessing, no more indecision or uncertainty.

And this clarity is more than peace, too --- it's not just gratitude, it is a lurking, twisty pleasure, a sick satisfaction in her gut; she's going to get fucked, fucked hard. And she's not going to have to ask for it --- not specifically anyway --- all she has to do is let him have her as his whore, and it will be forced on her.

Wild, transgressive fucking --- some of it hateful to be sure, some of it painful, but last night proved that she can get off on even the most degrading of conditions (slut that she now accepts she is) --- she knows, too (deeply shameful as the knowledge is), that her body wants to experience that again --- that there is a vast hunger awoken within her for such experiences. It frightens her, frightens her badly; its not that she wants the pain --- or the shame --- but that she is helplessly grateful to know that more chances of that release, that impossible out-of-body intensity lie in her future.

She will be fucked. Sometimes she will be hurt. She will offer herself, strip herself, open herself, invite, accept; and she will participate, will seek sexual pleasure in the excesses visited on her, will be degraded, demeaned, abused, insulted, shamed; made to offer her violators her orgasms, as well as her soft body. Sick as it makes her to accept it, she knows that she will find satisfaction in being of service to Him in this way, and serve Him with humiliating compliance, as sweetly as she can.

And life will be simple. It's insane, but it is crystal clear. Wonderingly, she looks down, parts her legs, looks at her sex, almost dispassionate; feels the soreness there --- and at her anus, too --- worse; spreads herself wider.

I'm going to be fucked in these holes; fucked hard, fucked often, by strangers who don't care about me, who will hurt me. He's not going to make me, but he will ask me, and I'm going to say yes; if he asks me to, I will say 'Yes, please; more please; harder please; hurt me if it pleases you', and will smile as prettily as I can

.

She's testing herself, trying to see if she can generate something beyond acceptance, some push back, some inner resistance to this insane self-immolation, but there's nothing --- nothing beyond a weak spark of desire in her belly, at least, and she has to smile (or else she would cry) --- because it's so very frightening; knowing she is caught, knowing just how well, how firmly she has been hooked, knowing that she isn't even going to try to escape, knowing that --- however it goes in detail --- things will get darker, not lighter. That this can't end well for her. That losing her hopes and dreams is just the start of it --- that her dignity, her decency, her self-respect, her meaning --- that all of these will be shredded.

He had been carefully bringing her on, she realises, until he was confident he could put her through the ordeal of last night and achieve the outcome he wanted; and part of bringing her on had been --- to be very clear about it --- what people called 'gaslighting'; presenting as obvious a reality which is not apparent to the experience of the victim. Not that he had lied to her --- never, she is certain. But lies are the weakest form of deception. What he had done was distort her reality until --- contrary to all rationality, she had allowed him to set her up for last night; to get her to the point where she would calmly, sweetly, offer herself to strange men to be violently gang-raped, beaten and humiliated --- even to let him ask those cruel strangers to feel free to torture her, simply because he asked it of her. Something that, only a few months previously, she would have angrily and instantly rejected out of hand before breaking up with him forever, whatever the emotional cost might have been.

These thoughts have her trembling. How can it be that she is now almost happy to understand of herself that she is going to let him make her his whore, that she is at some level happy to know that she will be required, from now on --- as of his right --- to offer her soft body up for violations both cruel and crude? To feel certain that she will find herself trying --- as she had last night --- to make that offer attractive --- to be sweet and seductive with a strange man so that he will feel free to hurt and abuse her?

Soft tears roll down her cheeks, matched by a soft, despairing sadness that pervades her body. She had had such hopes, such silly dreams, of a life with him. They had had so many happy, beautiful moments; their lovemaking had been so exquisite, their adventures so joyful, their laughter so natural. He'd been genuine in sharing that with her --- she was sure --- he'd told her as much; 'it's been fun, playing at boyfriend and girlfriend' --- but now he had 'moved her on', and she could discover in herself no stronger negative feeling about this than sorrow; no anger, no will to resist, no desire for freedom or escape, no outrage at what he has done to her. Nothing. She has been his girlfriend --- she has the memories; and now he has made her his whore, and she will be his whore, for as long as he wants her to be.

Although saying goodbye to her sweet former self is heartbreaking, there is a knowledge inside her that this new idea of being subject to violently enforced sexual usage undeniably fascinates her in some way, that the thought of being utterly consumed through being used as a vehicle for the perverse pleasures of others makes her heart flutter and her belly tremble.

It was important that she become a good whore, an enjoyable slut, she sees. Having been 'moved on' once, it is inevitable that she will be 'moved on' again, at some point. She can't bear to imagine what the destination of that move might be (or conceive of herself as being able to resist it), but it becomes urgent in her to delay it --- and to delay it by making the current version of her as rewarding as possible for him --- by becoming, as closely as possible, what he wants her to be.

Deep in her belly, she accepts that this is her new reality. A door closes, one that she will never again open.

It makes all the difference in the world, at the same time as being surprisingly ordinary, she finds.

For when, realising the time with a start, she hurries off to fulfil their morning ritual; the cute joke that rapidly stuck, when she takes her station on duty in the morning room to serve his breakfast --- and his morning hard-on if he wishes --- the ritual that she has loved enacting each day for weeks now.

Today, it will be freighted with all sorts of new uncertainties, deeply uncomfortable. Will he even want her --- the degraded slut that, only last night, fucked five strangers to a standstill?

There is no mileage in thinking, she realises, and tries hard to stop. Showering quickly, she puts on the button front dress (the one that started the whole serving breakfast thing --- the dress he had joked reminded him of a French Maid's uniform) and the high heeled ankle-strapped Mary-Janes and gets to her place just before 8, only to find herself waiting. He's usually prompt, but today perhaps 20 minutes has passed, and she is still standing, attentive (for as soon as she hears him she has to go through to the kitchen and have them start his eggs); unbearably nervous as she wonders just how he will be with her, after last night.

Completely different, and at the same time utterly normal; she hears him, scampers for the kitchen, alerts the cook, and is back in position before he enters, triggering the next part of the ritual --- the simpering little curtsy, skirts lifted, bob of the hips;

"Good morning, Sir. Can.. can I help you with anything at all, Sir?"

Usually, she's giggling, he's grinning, as they both know that this is a play-acted (albeit completely genuine) offer of her mouth and throat for his cock (or her pussy or asshole, if it should take his fancy), but now she has no giggles in her, and today he's not smiling --- instead looking at her with a mild but unreadable expression. She realises that, after last night, he might ask anything of her --- anything at all --- order her to go to the bedroom of any of his guests and offer herself, or put herself over the table for a thrashing. She is suddenly panicky. Tears want to come but she blinks them back, turns the need into another bob of her hips and a further tug at the skirt hem --- sure that her panties must now be visible, her heart pattering rapidly, feeling a little dizzy.

He's looking directly into her eyes now, and she searches for some complicity there, something, but without result. It's not that he's unfriendly --- just that there is no response to her pleading eyes --- and then she sees it; what it is. He doesn't feel the same about her any more. She is his --- yes --- but not exclusively his, not any more --- not sexually at least. The promise of her throat on his cock is no longer a personal promise, no longer special. She's a whore now, no longer a girlfriend. Overwhelmed by shame, she can't meet his gaze any more, looks down, flushed, blinking back the tears.

Everything is just the same, but everything has changed. She lifts her skirt higher. It's not her personality that matters any more --- it's her body --- and the coquettishness of a curtsey makes sense only if there is a tease. But there can be no tease when it is his choice who she fucks, not hers.

"I don't think it makes sense, any more, for you to wear panties. Do you?"

She is instantly trembling at the thought she may have displeased him already. So strange --- their relationship has never been one where he has told her what to wear, but now it seems obvious that it should be his taste, his preference, that dictates her clothing. So quick is she, in her wish to please, to tug the pretty scrap of lace and lycra down her legs, that she fumbles, to her intense distress --- he likes elegance and grace, finds clumsiness a turn-off.

One of the things he has liked about the dress is that it is tight and stiff enough for the skirt, once pulled up above her waist, to stay there, so that when she straightens she is still fully exposed from the waist down.

"Leave it that way," he says; "and if you have a bra on, I think that should go, too. Nothing like that which covers your nipples, not any more. And leave the top of the dress folded down, too. Then I'd like my eggs, please."

Although the staff have undoubtedly been aware of what she and he get up to over breakfast, there has always been a door to provide privacy. She's never gone through that door not superficially 'decent' before, but now he wants her to go through to the kitchen and fetch his eggs with both top and bottom of the dress folded back --- so that it is nothing more than a tight bodice, from just beneath her breasts to the lower part of her belly (the snug fit of the dress below her breasts pushes them up and out, very obviously, but without constraining them, so that they sway in an exaggerated manner when she moves --- an effect she has exploited for him many times, grinning at him, knowing how it gets him hard --- but which, in front of others, will now exploit and shame her).