Candyfloss

The whole world seems to go grey as I trot prettily along in my sexy little dress and strappy high heels, listening to my 'boyfriend' talk about me as if I were a cheap whore.

"She came over all distressed, of course, begged me not to - but I put my hand up her skirt and she's red hot, pussy twitching like a bitch on heat - she wants it bad, right now - I can tell."

... laughter; Jason looks over at me, grinning - not at me, let alone with me, but in response to something said down the line to him - something obviously crude and direct.

"Exactly - you can do what you'd like with her Sir, she'll comply - and if she doesn't, well, she likes to be forced, in any case - gets her very hot indeed."

This last, however awful it is of Jason to say out loud, is shamefully true.

He listened some more, still grinning, then held out the 'phone;

"He wants to talk to you. You listen, and then you say 'Yes, Sir' very pretty and girly-like - nothing else. Then you give me the 'phone back. Understand?"

He doesn't wait for an answer - just thrusts the 'phone into my hand.

After a brief hesitation, I jerk into action like an obedient automaton - or a stupid weak-willed slut. The need in me to know what this man wants to say to me is irresistible. I take the 'phone and put it to my ear. There's a long silence, then;

"Imagine yourself, pretty; on your knees, thighs spread wide, in a corset, stockings, high heels and a collar - nothing else, hands locked behind your back, my cock deep in your throat, my hands in your hair - fucking your mouth aggressively, with a few friends of mine looking on, looking at your arse, your jiggling tits. I want you to think about that in every free moment you have. I want you to think about them seeing how far into your throat I'm ramming my cock, how docile you are for it, think about knowing that they will all be taking a turn with you, using any hole they like, any way they like, as soon as I'm done. Understand me?"

I was hyperventilating, almost. How could he be saying this to me - How could this be happening in a public street, with Jason holding my hand? How could I not throw the 'phone to the gutter and walk away?

Why, instead, with Jason looking directly at me, do I hear myself uttering a breathy, husky; 'Yes, Sir'? How can I be so pathetic? Why is this so fascinating?

Why am I so stupidly pleased with myself as I hand the 'phone back to Jason, blushing as he grins at me, feeling the heat at my groin? Oh my god I'm going to get gang-banged by a bunch of rich old strangers! My breath is coming in tiny, sharp sips now, as I struggle to control myself, knees weak, gripping onto Jason's hand to save myself from tottering over.

And that was somehow it. We both knew that I was going to do everything he wanted. There were butterflies in my stomach. This was a step-change, a huge one; he was giving me to a friend as a sex-toy, just as simply as he might offer to lend them his car.

My emotions swung wildly as I trotted along. I tried to stop thinking about what he had said. What I was going to be unable to resist. What was going to happen to me? As so often before, as a way to cope, I simply stopped thinking about it. Live for the moment, I told myself. It was in all the self-help books, wasn't it?

But I know that the image won't leave me, will come back to me again and again - on my knees, naked, choking, humiliated, in the full knowledge that the watchers will be using me next...

Concentrate - concentrate on the swing of my hips, the sway of my breasts, lick my lips as he turns to look at me, let him see them softly open, inviting; see his gaze drop to my cleavage, blush, smile a little, walk even more carefully, let the shame at this sluttishness wash through me, affect me only to the extent that it doesn't overcome me... Try and lose myself.

And it does affect me - I am feeling ridiculously turned-on, in a terrified way. It sounds contradictory, but after going with Jason for nearly nine months, I had gotten to the point where this feeling was almost like a drug to me. A terrible drug, I hated and feared it sometimes, yearned for it at others, knew, deep down, that I needed it, even though it took more and more extreme situations to satisfy the itch these days.

The sway of my breasts. In the months I had known Jason, my attitude to my breasts had changed completely. Almost flat chested until I was 16, I had thought I had become used to my adult body, until my breasts had suddenly and embarrassingly blossomed on my trim frame, to a shapely D cup. At university, I had even considered breast reduction treatment, so impossible to ignore were my breasts, and so unsure was I what to do with them. But now I became more and more glad of them each time I met Jason, glad of their size, their obviousness, the way they catch his eyes (and other men's) when they move in the revealing clothes he likes me to wear; glad of their springy, tip-tilted softness when those clothes are removed, glad of the quick and obvious way in which arousal affects my nipples, the way they stand out, demanding attention. Even of the way they retain the marks of his teeth, slowly fading, reminding me of his harsh attentions at times I know I can't be with him.

It isn't that I have got used to them - in a way, Jason's attentions have made them seem more other, less possible to be at ease with - the outward expression of the dark side of my sexuality that he exploits - I am more conscious of them than ever - it is almost as if they are his, and that I am just their custodian, charged with presenting them for his pleasure, simultaneously proud of and shamed by my ability to display them.

I angle my shoulders now, as I see him looking at my cleavage, happy to display myself to him, despite the underlying shame at my tartiness.

Madame Encine always had the latest lingerie in from Paris. It was such an exclusive establishment that it had nothing so vulgar as a shop window - you rang a bell in a smart Georgian townhouse and requested entry. If it was granted (and you had to be known or introduced), then a butler would admit you, accompanied by one of Mme Encine's two senior lady assistants, very superior types in early middle age, handsome and elegantly dressed.

Of course, they knew Jason's likes - he had told me he had been taking girls there for a couple of years - so they would have simply taken me off to change into suggestions they thought he might like, but this time he stopped them;

"She's to be presented to Sir Oliver next weekend. I'd like to deliver her in something particularly to his taste. Oh, and I'm a little short of time - she can change in the show-room - if you don't mind?"

He could be perfectly mannered and respectful, when he wanted, of course - just not with me...

"Certainly sir - would you like to step this way?"

I was quivering again, blushing, unable to meet the eyes of the suave, middle-aged, immaculately respectable looking lady. It had been hard enough (although glorious at the same time) to parade for Jason in the skimpy lingerie he chose for me, with the cool eyes of the assistants looking on. Now I was to have no hiding place at all - I was to change in the showroom, making it all the more explicit what I was, what I was being prepared for. No-one spoke to me, no-one asked my opinion. The assistants selected the outfits, discussed them with Jason, and I was to strip and try his choices on in full view.

Jason asked whether it was possible to video the session, and was assured that the equipment was always in position, that the lighting had only recently been upgraded, and that the results had been excellent. So I was to be the subject of a multiple striptease film, and Jason asked them to deliver a copy direct to Sir Oliver.

I seriously wondered whether I would collapse - faint - from nerves, but, as so often when I was with Jason it seemed that my need to please him, combined with my own inner sexual nature, which had been hidden, unknown, suppressed, for so long, drove me to perform in a way which, six months earlier, I would have called impossible.

As if in a dream, I became utterly focused on being what Jason wanted me to be - finding myself wanting desperately not to let him down, for him to be confident that when Sir Oliver watched the video, there would be no question about letting Jason have his redhead, about the old man wanting me. Or was that really it? Was I doing it for Jason, sacrificing myself? Or was I determined that the old man should want me - that there would be no escape for me from this terrible plan of Jason's?

But it really wasn't something I could afford to worry about - what I had to do was make sure that my breasts sat just so in this delicious but frankly slutty half cup brassiere, to blushingly nod when the assistant asks me if my nipples should show, knowing they are tell-tale stiff, that the smell of my sex is in the air, unmistakeable, moving slowly and as elegantly as I can, lifting my hands behind my neck, one foot up on the toe, leg bending, opening my thighs a little, a little more - trembling, but, unable to avoid the knowledge that I was, more and more, deeply, pathetically, humbly grateful to Jason for putting me in such delicious, degrading, gloriously sexual situations...

Sir O obviously had more traditional notions than Jason, favouring elegant little waist cincher corsets and stockings with lacey details and choker accessories. I had never worn such full-on lingerie before - Jason's taste was for simpler, more modern styles - but it was instantly clear to me that these were exactly what I should be wearing all the time.

I loved the feeling of them, the luxuriousness, the way they held me, the way they made me look - but also the clarity, the directness - they spoke clearly of sexual display - for what woman would wear such underwear without intending it to be seen, without intending to offer herself to the man who paid for them?

I found it easier than ever before to display myself, open my legs, exaggerate my breasts, my hips, my buttocks, move slowly, sensuously - the combination of stripping naked, of wearing the lovely skimpy things, of knowing that the video would be delivered to that sardonic old lecher (and to various others, judging from what Jason had said) serving to bring me to a heightened pitch of self-consciousness that was intoxicating. Catching myself in the mirrors that were all around, I was delirious; that strutting, preening tart, displaying herself so shamelessly, was that - really, could it be - me? I was as fascinated and seduced as I was appalled.

I posed, and pouted, and tried to manage myself in the paradoxical way that Jason and the situation demanded - carefully avoiding any temptation to prance and wiggle in an overly brassy way, keeping my face passive, demure and soft, but nevertheless flaunting myself carefully and sexily, both for Jason and, shamefully, for the camera, liking it, losing myself in it, far too much. Dangerous, seductive, delicious...

Of course, changing in the showroom meant that at various times I was more or less completely naked, revealing the artful trim to my pubic hair that Jason had negotiated with the owner of a waxing salon a fortnight ago - ignoring me completely as I lay, legs spread, on the couch, making sure that the woman understood his requirements. She didn't even speak to me, just got on with it, ignoring my yelps and squeals as the wax pulled at me.

With the addition of a flirty minidress with short, pleated skirts that flipped up at the smallest sudden movement, and some extravagantly heeled, pink, ankle-strapped maryjane platform sandals that gave off a weird mixture of innocent girl and whore, Jason spent over three thousand pounds. My knees were weak, my cheeks flushed with mingled shame and pleasure (those two so often inseparable when I was with Jason). To have such gorgeous, expensive luxuries given me was no excuse for letting him do what he did to me - but it didn't hurt (it has to be said that he is always showering me with presents - OK, apart from the posh dinners and tickets to great events, they are almost all of them are designed to enhance my sexual desirability according to his very particular tastes - beautiful stilt-heeled shoes, clingy dresses, tiny skirts, large earrings, strong perfume - but it would be a lie to say I didn't like these things myself: nevertheless they weren't the reason I couldn't tell him I was through with his degrading games; the truth is I would probably have stuck with him if he had made me pay for it all myself ).

On the other hand, to be so obviously a slut (however politely the fact was glossed over), and in such a superior establishment! They were all very professional, but occasionally, when Jason was otherwise occupied, I would catch them looking at me with small disdainful smiles, and would have to look down, knowing I had no argument to put against their judgement. What other sort of a girl than a slut, a whore, would allow herself to be put through her paces in so demeaning a fashion?

I felt it in their hands, too, as they manipulated me to show the clothes to best advantage - treating me like a paid-for model, rather than a valued client. One of the senior assistants was a predatory lesbian, I was sure, and at least one of the juniors served her. The senior seemed very often to put me in brassieres a little too small, and would direct her underling to manhandle me until she was satisfied with the way my breasts spilled out from their satin embrace. Of course, I was too intimidated to do anything but endure these indignities (and I had to agree that, comfort aside, they did make Jason grin at my breasts), while they swapped little smiles, not bothering to hide them from me.

I am quite pink and quivery by the time we leave Encine's, and easy meat for Jason's teasing and little humiliations, feeling at once very vulnerable and highly aroused when we arrive at the beauty parlour - a little early for the appointment, though it appears this is by design, as Jason takes me through to a small private lounge, where they bring us coffee and biscuits.

As soon as the girl has gone, he grins at me;

"You need to understand something before I leave you here. Sir Oliver has an account here. They prepare girls for him often. So they know what he likes - and that's how they'll prepare you - to his taste. They won't ask you; or if they do, you will just ask them to do whatever Sir Oliver would prefer. Generally, though, it will be best if you don't speak. I will know - and so will he - if you make even the slightest difficulty. You are being prepared for him, for his pleasure - your own preferences are irrelevant. You'll come back here on Friday - they'll make an appointment for you. I'll give them the clothes we've bought; they'll do it all."

It occurred to me that, for the first time, I was seeing Jason nervous - only a little, perhaps, but it was clear it was important to him to impress Sir Oliver - that my performance mattered. I suppose that realising this could have given me some sense of a little power over Jason - some leverage. In fact, it had the opposite effect; I became ever more eager, needy you could say, to please Sir Oliver - not so much for Jason's sake (although it seemed clear that if I failed to please Sir O it wasn't likely I'd see much more of him).

But suddenly, and powerfully, I knew that I needed to please Sir O for my own sake; that this whole experience of being groomed and prepared for this powerful, rich old lecher, with his decades of experience of hundreds of girls, was, terrifyingly, exactly what I wanted, what I needed. The knowledge that Sir O was in a position to make someone as confident as Jason feel nervous, the idea that he would be more exacting, more demanding, the completely straightforward nature of the proposition - that I was being provided as a willing submissive sex doll to that old man who had ogled me so blatantly, who had been shown pictures of my lewdness by Jason - no veneer of respectability, no possible pretence that it was a 'date', that he was a 'boyfriend', nothing - all of this was suddenly incredibly powerful, incredibly exciting, and at the same time overwhelming.

I felt weak, trembled, but managed to nod my acceptance.

Silence, then J took my chin and lifted my face so that he looked into my eyes; he was grinning;

"But I don't need to worry, do I? You're going to serve him like the helpless slut you are, aren't you?"

Halfway through this, the door opened, and an immaculately beautiful girl in a smart white smock came in. Jason held my chin, though, he wanted an answer. Had she heard? I coloured, but made myself speak slowly and clearly;

"I ... um Yes, J ... Yes, Sir."

- putting as much sincerity into my voice as I had ever done, somehow deciding that I should call him 'Sir' this time (he sometimes insisted on it, sometimes playfully, sometimes seriously. I don't think he had ever realised how powerful my response was when he was demanding about it). I realised that I almost hoped that she had heard, and this toldme something. I wasn't just a slut for Jason. I was a slut; a wanton; it ... I ... I wanted others to know. My heart lurched - if that were really true!

I looked down again, as he rose and left, murmuring something to the girl on his way out, to which she replied with a quiet;

"Yes Sir, of course Sir."

A moment later, she said;

"If you would just follow me."

No Madam, for me, I noticed, vaguely, my mind a maelstrom. But I followed her meekly enough, down the corridor and into an elegant, austere treatment room.

"Please, remove all your clothes."

I stripped myself easily enough in these professional surroundings, laid my skimpy dress on a chair, scraps of lingerie laid across it, high heels under it. I felt terribly vulnerable, powerless; completely naked while she wore her demure, opaque white smock, but at the same time it felt somehow right. I was pleased that nothing was up to me. Except that she did, immediately, make demands of me.

"I need to go through a few things, ask you some basic questions. Simply say 'Yes', or I consent' as appropriate. This session is being recorded on video" ( I shifted my position at this, surprised, unnerved; suddenly conscious of the minutest detail of my stance, wanting to look my best, a blush coming to my cheeks at the realisation that she would know exactly what I was up to - whoring myself to the camera...).

"Now; it has been explained to you that the treatment programme to be used will be devised by us, based on your sponsor's preferences?"

"Um ...Yes ... I guess so."

"Do you consent to this, accepting all treatment conditions?"

"Yes ... yes, I do."

"Some of the treatments used will involve manipulation and/or penetration at your mouth, your vagina, your anus. Do you consent to these?"

" Wha? ... uuh ... what?"

"There are some therapeutic cleansings - douche, enema, and so on -" she spoke as if to an idiot.

"Oh ... yes, yes, I see... Yes" - a ragged breath or two, here. I knew my sex was warming up. I wanted at the same time to shrivel up and die, and for this to go on, get more intimate, more forensic.

"You consent, then?" she was impatient.

"Umm yes. yes I ... I do."

It was getting weird, being naked, talking about being penetrated. I was really feeling my nakedness, now, feeling the instinctive urges to cover up, to conceal, to cringe, and the counteracting need to look good, to be sexually attractive - the latter winning, the former contributing to the hot blush on my cheeks and on the upper slopes of my gently heaving breasts.

"Good. There will be no further need for you to speak during the treatment, unless in response to a direct question."

The treatment began with the douche, followed by an enema, which I had read about but never dreamed of personally experiencing. It was humiliating and shocking; on my knees, head down, so that I could never anticipate what would be done to me next. My heart hammered. The treatment was not in itself too bad - first a warm shower to my sex, which was mainly embarrassing, but also embarrassingly pleasurable, and then the enema - I have been subjected to intentionally cruel enemas since, but this was nothing of the sort - warm black coffee, I believe (I later read that Lady Di had apparently at one point been addicted to this treatment).