Anne-Marie - Forced to Whore Pt. 04

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."

Mr. Croker then reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a clear plastic bag with what looked like another bag within it.

"When I played it and made him wank over my use of you, I made him come into a condom. I've got his ejaculate here for you for later use."

He took a camera out of his other jacket pocket.

"Now I am going to press play on the television and record on the camera and I think we will both have some fun at your expense. Open your legs wide and drape them over the arms of the chair will you my lingerie-clad little whore. Good girl. Now hold open your cunt for Daddy and the camera. Don't worry, I will show this film of you playing with the new cunt Daddy bought you to your husband."

To my absolute horror I didn't fight his commands and obeyed, lewdly and uncomfortably displaying myself as I was filmed. The television screen came to life and began playing still image of me in the hospital bed, surgical gown bunched up around my waist holding my puffy lips open.

"That's how your cunt used to look before Daddy had Dr. Khan re-make it for him. Are you looking forward to Dr. Khan fucking his handiwork? Of course not, but he is. He's really quite excited by the prospect of using Daddy's little surgically-altered whore.

I began to cry.

"Look at the screen Anne-Marie and begin to masturbate. Daddy owns your new cunt and wants to see it in action. Do you know, the resolution on this camera is amazing? I can see you are a little wet. I can the moisture glistening of your puffy little lips."

Mr. Croker's words may have been abusive, but his words were true. I was wet. What was wrong with me that my body responded this way.

"If you dare to look away from the screen, I will punish you harshly. Now, masturbate for me."

Watching still images of me manipulating my sex and fucking it with a silver cigar cannister, I began to slowly rub and roll my hood. I was utterly ashamed at what I was seeing, utterly broken by what I was doing whilst watching myself. Eventually the still became a video of my sex being fucked by Mr. Croker, using the metallic casing like a dildo. On the film's audio Mr. Croker could be clearly heard saying: "What a little whore you are being fucked by Daddy's cigar. Don't pretend there isn't some small part of your enjoying this." With those words I let out an involuntary groan as I continued to manipulate my bud. I couldn't pretend to myself or to the recording camera of Mr. Croker that I was aroused. I detested it, but I was turned on. The more I watched Mr. Croker violet my anus with the cannister while I rubbed myself, the more my bud throbbed and I started to lose myself to the need to orgasm.

My lips were all puffed up, I was soaking wet and while my thumb rolled my clit I tried to slip a finger into my newly remade sex. Oh god! I was so tight. I parted my labia and pushed into myself, shocked at the resistance. Up on the screen I watched myself, metallic tube violating my bottom, Mr. Croker's fingers pistonning me and I began to lose control."

From behind the camera Mr. Croker's voice boomed: "Fuck yourself for me Anne-Marie. Fuck yourself for Daddy. Try to get two fingers into his tight cunt!"

As I tried to follow his command and push I second digit into my tightness, I began to orgasm. Mortified, totally abashed, I began to spasm, my head thrashing a little as a tell-tale red flush came across my chest and I cried out: "Oh god! No! No!"

Mr. Croker kept filming my disgrace, urging me on with the abusive, vile words: "That's it you wanton fucking whore, come. Come for Daddy. Good girl."

I was mortified. I couldn't understand myself. Understand how I had reached completion in such degrading circumstances. I began to sob. I had utterly debased myself on film watching myself being violated.

"That was too short a show Anne-Marie. Tell me, how does Daddy's little remade cunt feel"

It was a struggle to get a response out between my sobs. All I could mange was the honest, degrading truth of the single word: "Tight,"

"Good girl. Daddy, Dr. Khan and those helping modify you are all going to enjoy that cunt soon. Now clean your fingers."

Humiliated, but following orders, I cleaned my hands of the remnants of my sticky sexual juices. My oceanic taste wasn't unpleasant, but being ordered to like myself like this was. What did the bastard mean by 'and those help you'? Surely it was just Dr. Khan and the modification had already been done. Before I had a chance to worry further, Mr. Croker ordered me to get on all fours and crawl towards him. The bastard was treating me like an animal, making me behave like a house-trained pet. When I reached his feet he unzipped his trousers and flopped out his penis. From this angle it hardness looked huge and aggressive.

"When I see you next Anne-Marie, I am going to fuck that virgin-tight cunt, because it's my cunt to do with as I want. Tonight I'm either going to sodomise you and come in your arse or I am going to order you to give me hand relief till I ejaculate and cover your face. Which would you prefer?"

Shamed and degraded by being on all fours in the uniform of an expensive whore, knowing whatever I said I was going to be used, I looked up and gave an honest answer: "Neither."

"I am afraid that's not an option for an owned fuck-toy like you. Shall we decide it by tossing a coin? Tossing and coin are fitting for a whore aren't they? Tails I fuck your arse. Heads you will toss me off till I come on your face."

Crushed, debased and feeling hopeless, I remained in the demeaning position of being on all fours under his cock while he tossed a coin.

"Heads it is. A little bit of head Anne-Marie and then I want you wank me till I come on you. Understand? Now kneel and get to it."

To my horror, I found myself automatically sticking out my tongue to form the warm, wet runway that I knew Mr. Croker liked when he demanded oral sex. With him looking down at me and holding out his camera to catch the action and demean me further, I licked the underside of his shaft several times before kissing his circumcised head, gently taking the knot of flesh behind it between my lips. I kissed and licked his penis till eventually I pulled my lips over my teeth and took him deep into my mouth.

Mr. Croker gave out a satisfied grunt as I began to bob my head back and forth, taking several inches of his hardness into my mouth. I was only to aware of his threats to have me brutally trained in oral sex if I didn't get better at pleasing him this way. He placed one hand at the back of my head, holding it in place and began to thrust into me. Once again, it was no longer oral sex, it was oral rape.

"Touch yourself. Touch your cunt for Daddy while I fuck your whore mouth."

Degraded, I followed orders and touched myself. I was horrified to find I was already wet. Slipping a finger between my puffed lips and rolling my bud with my thumb, I allowed Mr. Croker to use my mouth, as my other hand began to pull on my breasts through the lace of the basque. I didn't understand how I could do this. That word Mr. Croker used to abuse me -- wanton -- suddenly seemed true. The hand holding my head, keeping me in place as he violated my mouth felt controlling, dominating and I felt a wave of terror knowing those feelings were arousing me even though I loathed them, loathed my own body for responding to them.

After a couple of minutes of him thrusting into my mouth, his grunts became louder, more feral. He was becoming breathless, but still managed to order: "Wank me. Wank Daddy so I can come on your face."

He pulled his penis from my mouth, trailing a line of saliva and salty pre-cum down my chin as he did so. He was wet and slippery from using my mouth as I slowly worked my hand up and down his shaft before grasping his head and focussing my attention just below it.

Grunting, one of his hands used to film my disgrace, the other gently stroking my hair, his only words for a couple of minutes were: "Good girl. Daddy's good girl. Such a dirty fucking slut."

Something in the terrible verbal abuse began to push me over the edge and I felt myself starting to spasm from the ministrations of my own hand. Suddenly Mr. Croker stopped stroking my hair and knocked my hand wanking him away. Roaring as if in victory, he took hold of his cock and directed it so his semen shot onto my face, covering my eyes, nose and left cheek.

"You dirty come covered whore. What a fucking filthy little slut you are."

Mr. Croker smiled, obviously pleased with the way I knelt debased in front on him. He pulled the bag containing the condom of Alex's ejaculate from his pocket and opened it. He smeared my husband's stale semen across my lips like some obscene, grey lipstick. "That's it Anne-Marie. How lovely you don't look with both your husband's and Daddy's come on your face. What a picture to show to yout potential clients..."