The Next Morning

This old story has been much revised and expanded as 'Moving her On' - multiple parts in preparation.

Waking the next morning, unaccustomed dull fires reminding her of outrage, of cruel abuse of her most intimate places, she knows that something has changed inside her, that she has lost something.

From all the vivid, shocking, appalling flashes of memory - of the red and black infamy of the previous night; so full of firsts, of impossible humiliations, of enforced violations, of casual, debasing cruelties large and small, of ignominy, fear, suffering, and - terrible to recall - unlooked for but devastating sexual intensity, one moment stands out as the moment from which this change stems.

The moment at which she had peeled back her blouse to show them her breasts - so shyly, yet so completely; had so fully exposed herself to these grinning, ignorant strangers.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -

He had told her this day would come - weeks and weeks ago.

She had laughed at him, teased him, got cross with him - shockingly rude as well; sulked at him, shouted at him, ignored him, flounced out (only to return, embarrassed - and, truthfully shocked and unsettled at how little she could cope with the idea of truly leaving).

Through it all he had remained calm, amused, tolerant, friendly, understanding - so infuriatingly understanding - waiting until she had worn her mood out, resuming normal relations until she, once again, asked to him to repeat what he had said.

He would smile at her, genuinely, warmly, almost sadly - for a long while. If she got huffy, made a face, she didn't get an answer.

This had happened several times.

If she waited, he would eventually say, patiently;

"Very well, I'll repeat myself. Shortly - in the next few weeks - we'll have visitors - a few of them. Men. Over dinner, I will tell them that I'm making you available to them, that evening, and for the remainder of their stay - as a whore.

"I'll tell them that they must not hold back with you - that they should take the chance to do to you anything they have ever dreamed of doing to a woman - no matter what - that they are to consider you as nothing more than a plaything; a warm and willing sex toy - and if you're not willing, they must force you - with violence, if need be. With cruelty, if they wish - if it entertains them."

And she would stand, or sit, open-mouthed, chest heaving, heart pounding, transfixed, trembling, until at last, after minutes - many minutes perhaps, she would muster from somewhere the energy to make some proper show of outrage, of resistance, of disgust...

Somehow, this got harder and harder to carry off, until one day she had just stopped, mid flow, and burst into tears, stumbled brokenly towards him and wrapped her arms around him...

And, after this had led to one of the most torrid and frankly glorious sexual interludes she could remember, and after she had dozed on his chest, sated, she had drowsily lifted herself from his belly and looked up at him, voice soft but urgent, and very, very sincere;

"Please. Please - don't tease me. This .. this awful thing you tell me you are going to do .."

She falters, and he helps her;

"Whoring you out, you mean?"

She is all but undone, tears in her eyes;

"Please. ... Please, don't.."

He lets the silence grow, playing gently with her hair in a way that they both like, until at last he lifts her chin with a lazy finger so that he can look into her eyes;

"Silly girl. I'll do what I want with you, and you'll be surprised how little resistance you'll put up. This has been your fate since about an hour after we first met. It's been fun playing at boyfriend, but it's time to move you on."

She discovers that she cannot answer this, anymore than, when the day dawns, she can make herself leave - although she has told herself that this is exactly what she will do, has packed her bags for, ordered the taxi for.

But she doesn't open her door when the butler knocks to tell her the taxi is waiting; cannot - stands, furiously gripping the bedhead, shaking but immobile, until it is sent away, when she collapses in tears.

And when those are done, she numbly goes into the en-suite, and begins to prepare herself, as thoroughly as for some gala event. There is nothing else to be done.

After dinner, at a lull in the so far perfectly normal conversation, he says, as if he is announcing a tasting of a fine port or somesuch;

"Well, gentlemen, we should go into the lounge where there is brandy, whisky, cigars and so on. Then Chloe can strip herself for you and she's all yours."

She doesn't stand up and leave then either, but instead, heart racing, drops her eyes and stares at the table, trembling, but at the same time painfully conscious of how carefully she is holding herself. Holding herself for them, for their gaze - so that they will find her attractive; sexually attractive.

"As I said earlier, she's utterly fresh - only been with three men in her whole life, but believe me she's a natural. Don't hold back in the least - anything you like, you take it, any hole; force her, torture her - anything goes."

Now! Now! she tells herself, feeling her cheeks hot, her belly crawling - Leave! Scream! do SOMETHING!

But she can't even raise her head, and then the tall fat one has her elbow, helps her, quite politely, to rise, and ushers her across the hall and into the lounge, where he directs her firmly but gently - she is apparently calm and happy to comply - to a position in front of the fireplace, facing the chairs, where she stands, belly fluttering, breathing almost randomly, her chest rising and falling, the movement of her breasts in the gauzy blouse distracting them from their idle small talk.

It seems an eternity as they sort themselves out with drinks, cigars, get the cigars lighted...

At last, they are all seated, and quiet sets in. No-one speaks.

She is quivering tinily, a queer mix of extreme tension and a strange numbness controlling her.

She's to strip, so that they can rape her, degrade her.

This is impossible, so it won't happen. It's obvious.

The moment gets long, longer. The men seem totally relaxed - a few low comments, a chuckle or two, their eyes appraising her, but without intensity.

And then, all of a sudden, it's clear somehow, and with a silly, sad, rueful little laugh of her own, she begins to unbutton her blouse, smiling weakly at them.

There is, quite simply, nothing else she can think of to do.

When most of the buttons are done, her lover (Can she still call him that? What is he to her now - now that he has offered her to strangers for casual sex in such crude terms? And what is she to him? She cannot bear this line of thinking, and forces it from her mind), her lover asks her, in a perfectly normal voice, to stop as she is, to clasp her hands behind her back.

Is this it - will they attack her now? Her chest rises and falls with the intensity of it all, but she has no will to move, or hide. She obeys, calmly..

He approaches, reaches into her blouse; there is a tug at her bra strap.

Before she even realises that he has a small, but evidently sharp, knife, he has cut the other strap too, before reaching behind her to cut the rear strap too. Now he reaches under her skirt, cuts her panties loose, too; steps back, holding the ruined lingerie up for mock applause before tossing it into the fire.

Somehow she is calm now.

And then comes the moment, the particular moment that looms in her mind now, in the sunshine, the moment which has wrought this unimaginable change in her - the moment her breasts sway free, the moment when, from out of nowhere, it occurs to her that she is grateful.

Grateful to her lover for forcing this on her. Grateful to these strangers, these men who are so calmly discussing the impending violation of an inexperienced young woman in such callous terms.

Grateful for their attention, for their interest - for what they are going to do to her, even - filled with tender gratitude for their eyes on her vulnerable breasts, tears pricking her eyes, as the trembling grows, pathetically eager for them to like what they see.

The moment, she now understands, as the morning sun streams into the room where she lies, naked, shocking red marks on her belly, her breasts, the strange bulk of the biggest of the strangers in the bed beside her, his huge belly, his hand on her thigh, possessive.

The moment when she knew that she would never get tired of such moments.

Tears gather, softly, but before any falls, his hand begins to forage purposefully toward her tender, puffy sex, so shockingly, so aggressively and so thoroughly used the night before.

Her instinct is to clench her thighs, protect her intimacy, turn away, but the aftermath of her realisation is on her, and instead, deliberately, she opens herself to him, turns softly toward him, pushing her sex forward to meet his hand - whereupon he straightforwardly thrusts two fat fingers inside her, making her cry out softly in pain and weakness, which brings a deep chuckle and a deeper thrust which makes her wail, but does not make her flinch - indeed, she opens herself further for him, lifting the upper leg to split her sex wide.

"Sore pussy , eh? Maybe your pretty mouth can make it feel so good I don't need to fuck you there, then."

And as if born to it, she leans over him, caressing his side with her nipples, and takes his cock sweetly, generously between her soft lips; the tears brimming now.

She is happy, though, she realises, as he pushes into her throat, and she finds she can keep herself soft for him, make it clear to him that she is willing for him to force her, hands at her back as they had so ruthlessly required she learn to do.

Happy.