Chloe and the Agency Pt. 05

And so Chloe stops fighting to settle herself; and gives in, again (each little battle within her another defeat for the voice of reason, of sanity, of normality, which gets weaker and weaker each time).

But her episode has not gone unnoticed; to her consternation, D lifts a finger, and M draws her sentence to a close, turning to look at Chloe's face. Chloe cannot look at them directly, she finds, managing only to flicker a glance at a mouth, a hand, not the eyes of either of them. She cannot suppress a deep, gusty breath as she tries to settle herself, disguise the depth of her turmoil, but she knows she has failed.

The sense that D, in particular, can effectively read her mind -- sense her most intimate thoughts and feelings, but that that sense is used for one purpose only -- to deepen control, to know when to push Chloe hardest, to know just how to push -- this sensation takes a strong hold over Chloe then, and the notion that she can have no privacy from these two, even in the depth of her own mind, burns into her psyche, making her feel ever smaller, ever weaker, like a helpless child in front of a smilingly omniscient guardian -- a guardian who holds every card, holds the key to torment or happiness, who controls her absolutely.

When, weeks later, in a rare moment of relaxed, intimate conversation with Fawzia (which has followed several hours of equally intimate, but not-at-all-relaxed sexual activity, characterised by unrestrained selfishness on Fawzia's part, and sweetly helpless submission from Chloe), Chloe, hesitating, knowing it is a terrible mistake even before the words tumble from her trembling lips, tells Fawzia about this recurring feeling -- how small, how foolish, how ignorant, how utterly exposed, how powerless she feels with M and D, how she reverts to some small child mode when they exert their control, gives up everything of herself to their certainty, their demands, their expectations of her; when she hears this, the woman claps her hands in pleasure, confirming Chloe's fears;

Oh you cutie! That's just so daaarling! Oh, I knew it already, but they really are going to be able to take you all the way, now, you pretty little thing. You are soooo over! They're going to lock away every single part of the old Chloe that they don't want in a little metal crate, put strong chains around it and drop it to the bottom of the ocean forever, leaving just this delicious body and all the lovely sex-toy cutie bits, and that will be you, done. It's so fun to get to watch it happen. I'm going to buy you, once you're reduced to that. Once you're nothing. I'm going to buy you -- they'll lose interest then, you see -- and I'm going to be very, very hard on you, and you're going to do nothing but smile and suffer, and cry and scream, and have a wet pussy for all of it, and then you'll thank me sweetly and ask me for more, until I'm bored with you, too. And then I'll sell you for lots of money to the nastiest fat old pig I can find so he can use you as a dungeon toy.

Just look at you! You're smiling at me still, like a good girl! Oh, but you're crying too! Yes you are -- I can see those tears, you naughty puss -- no crying without intentional pain, remember! Oh, I'll let you off, this time, you've done such a good job holding yourself open for me while I said all those mean, mean things; let me kiss your pretty eyes, kiss away your tears. But I am going to push my fist right up into your tight little cunt again now, I think, and.. and probably be quite cruel with you, princess, I'm afraid -- because it got me very turned on to tell you what's going to happen to you, to know that you know, and that you're so lost that you never once stopped moving your hips for me. So.. so this is going to hurt, and I'm going to enjoy it, a lot, watching your face, making you come again even though it will hurt so much, and you are going to stay just as sweet and soft as you can while I hurt you, aren't you, pretty? Because, quite simply, there's nothing else left for you any more, is there? I think we'll make a little film of it, actually, for M and D. Maybe they'll even put it on the website, if we do a good one.

Kiss me now, make it a long, soft, sexy one, and then tell me how sore your poor little pussy is, and how much it will hurt you if I fist you again, and then tell me how much you want me to make you suffer, and how happy you are to be made to scream for my entertainment.

On the table, now, trembling, Chloe feels their attention as both torment and glorification, the conflict between the two rendering her helpless, able to do little more than hold herself, but otherwise a void, waiting.

D speaks, then;

"Pretty, you should know that while your inner turmoil can be entertaining to see, the limits of tolerance as to letting what's going on inside you affect your appearance are rather tight. As you're a guest, I'll let it go by, this time, but please, do get used to controlling yourself, to taking care to let only those aspects of whatever is going on in your pretty little head which you think might be entertaining become visible; OK?"

And as Chloe tries to control her mouth, overcome the trembles so that she can say 'Yes, Madam", D continues;

"No, little one, don't speak. Direct questions must be answered, but otherwise, silence is generally best -- no-one is interested in your opinion, only in your body. If you want to signal your acknowledgement -- a good idea, after criticism or advice -- you can always open your legs a little wider, pull your shoulders back a little to set your nipples moving, nod your head a tiny bit, maybe even bob your hips -- a little curtsey of sorts. You'll find out what gets a smile, and then work at refining that for us. You're a clever girl -- I'm sure you understand what we want."

They are staring at her, she knows, even though she dare not look; the silence is heavy, demanding. And so, quivering with shame, she tries; tries to do as she has just been told -- shifts her thighs a little, opening herself more, raises herself up, pushes her breasts forward, breath coming in small, panicky sips. She holds, waiting, hoping for some response -- insanely, finds herself thinking that she might be due a chocolate drop -- that she could show D just how good she has become at that little game, how her breasts will move..

But there is just silence, there is the humiliation of not daring to look up, not once -- and then their conversation picks up just where it had left off. She has become part of the furniture again.

When they are done with their food, have each consumed a ripe peach, skinning and dissecting elegantly with sharp little knives, impossibly neat, they leave, without more than the odd passing glance at her, and she is alone, worse than naked, kneeling on a dining table, facing two chairs and some used plates, abandoned.

And she dare not move. Dare not even relax her pose to take her body weight on her heels, keeps her bottom in the air, even though her thighs are now in stress, keeps her knees as widely parted, keeps her hands in space, constantly feeling the urge to tidy them away somewhere. Resisting the need to cry from self-pity, controlling her expression, her inner turmoil, her despair.

The waiting -- endless, it seems -- even though only just more than half in hour in reality -- the waiting; waiting, ignored, pointless, irrelevant, left in limbo, unable to do anything, unable even to think clearly, such is her distress -- physical, emotional and psychological -- waiting until someone else's pleasure should require her -- the waiting eats into her in a way which is almost more powerful than the abuse, than the mental and physical manipulations, the carefully belittling words.

It cements her meaninglessness here. The fact that she is nothing, to be so completely disregarded -- abandoned when not being (ab)used; too frightened, too disempowered, to choose to do anything on her own initiative. To know herself to be as lacking in agency as a discarded doll.

Time and again, in those minutes, she tries to work up enough daring to move -- to relax her pose, get off the table and stretch her legs, perhaps -- telling herself she will get back into position quickly, so that no-one will know.

Each time, she is defeated. Defeats herself. Cements in place her knowledge, her experience of her own uselessness, useless even for herself, even when left to herself.

It is bitter, harsh, awful to endure.

Until it comes to her, that it is also sweet. To be so obedient, so trustworthy, that she can be so simply abandoned, without either of them doubting that she will be where they left her as soon as they want her. To be so reliable as a servant of their pleasure -- there is sweetness in that, is there not?

And, since it is more bearable than bitterness, she works on feeling this sweetness, on its features, reinforcing it for herself, picturing herself as being willing to be left like this for hours; being just as ready to be of use at one second as the next, never losing focus, never letting her position be less than prettily acceptable, fighting back the bitterness, the tears which threaten when it gets the upper hand, working, working on herself, keeping her bum up, her hands useless, her face smooth and inviting.

And this struggle occupies her so entirely that, in the end, she is surprised when the door opens and Mrs Krells appears, her surprise leaving her undefended against the shock and shame of realising just how blatant, how wanton is her pose, how exposed she is, how humiliating it is that she has accepted being abandoned so, that she has kept her position so meekly, and another kind of despair threatens to overwhelm her again as the old woman, without speaking, without even eye contact, uses her bony hands to unceremoniously grab Chloe by her sides, lifting and shoving, making it clear that she is to clamber down from the table.

When Chloe, all unthinking, puts a hand on the Mrs Krell's arm, to steady herself, the woman stops dead, mid move. Chloe is confused, only realising what is wrong after a confused glance into the lined, impassive face; she has used her hand. Even in such practical situations, it seems, the prohibition on using her hands is to be observed. Wonderingly, blushing at the humiliation, Chloe lifts her arm, and, feeling decidedly silly, positions her hands so that they are of no use to her, and relies on the surprisingly strong Mrs Krells to maintain her balance.

It requires a significant act of will not to use her hands at a couple of junctures, and as the impact of such a seemingly simple requirement begins to make itself clear, a sense of deep bewilderment, which has been growing in Chloe, flowers, as she realises for the first time, consciously, just how deeply the psychological games M & D play go, just how subversive they could be.

Once again, her instinct is to let her knees bend, and sink to the floor, to curl up into a protective ball, and cry, but with Mrs Krells watching her stonily as she sways, this is not an option, and Chloe makes herself stand straight, trying for what small dignity she can muster.

The woman puts Chloe's bandeau back in place, then takes some elegant toothed spring clips, decorated like hair pins, from where her skirt hems were pinned up, and smooths the dress down, restoring what little decency the pretty scrap offers. The clips are then discreetly placed in Chloe's hair -- so that they'll be available whenever needed, Chloe realises.

Mrs Krells must have seen her face move at this, for she offers a dried up smile as she says;

"You'll carry these like this wherever you go missy, and they're handy for more than clothing, you'll find -- tongue, nipples, eyelids, pussy lips and even your cute little nubbin, all and more will know the feel of these sharp-toothed little beauties soon enough, I can promise you that."

The woman watches Chloe's mouth work as she makes herself take this in silence, a hard grin on her thin lips, then, archly, indicates the tray she has set down at the other end of the table;

"It would please Mistress D, I'm sure, if you were to carry the coffee tray in for me; that is, if you are interested in showing how much you would like to serve her?"

It is one thing having M & D patronise and insult her, and quite another to have this sour old stick of a servant speak to her like this; but on the other hand, there is nothing to be done but to accept it, however hard, and Chloe is beginning to speak her assent when she catches Mrs Krell very deliberately shaking her head, and freezes -- unsure for a second what this signal might mean, but taking it seriously in this house of strict and forbidding rules.

A moment more thought, and she realises that the rule of silence must extend to Mrs Krell, too -- that since she has not been asked a direct question, so should she refrain from speaking, but instead acknowledge her willingness to carry the tray through submissive body language, as D had explained.

It turns out that acting like a slutty bimbo for D is one thing, and obeying the same rule for Mrs Krell is another. Quite simply, she thinks, she can't do it. Won't do it. Can't bear the thought of humiliating herself by curtseying to this woman. She just doesn't want to. Deeply, physically almost, Chloe does not want to let this woman see how pathetic she has become.

There follows a quiet, ridiculous little stand-off, which Chloe experiences as a highly emotional, total defeat, and Mrs Krell as an entertaining if unremarkable victory, when after twenty seconds or so of stillness, a psychological eternity for Chloe, struggling to find a way out of her confusion, the girl finally performs a horribly awkward, embarrassed and embarrassing little bob, twitching ineffectually at the hems of her skirts, her knees bending momentarily, so that her breasts in the loose bandeau jiggle, then turns and picks up the tray, cheeks fiery red, fingers shaking with the intensity of her humiliation, feeling rather than seeing Mrs Krell's easy sneer as she stands, eyes down, waiting for instruction, not knowing what else to do, blinking back tears of frustration, swallowing the sick taste of misery that has risen in her throat.

"Just so, pretty. You'll get the hang of it, never fear, even though it eats away at you. Into the hall, now, if you please. I'll be following right behind you."

"Along to the right, now, second door on the left. Knock and wait to be invited to enter. You're not required to, as a guest, but a pretty curtsey is always wise with with Mistress D, if you value her approval. Lay the tray down first, and then lift your skirts right up; let her see you move your feet apart -- show her how eager you are to offer your pussy for her to play with, if she wants it, then wait for her signal before you cover up."

The voice is as dry as before, and Chloe has no option, once again, but to suck up the shame she feels at being spoken to in such terms.

She feels the hard eyes appraising her as she walks, nervously, shamingly attempting to match Ginny's elegantly lascivious style as best she can in the unaccustomed tall heels, knowing that she is failing, her psyche pummelled by the unrelenting pressure of these people upon her, the continued expectation that she work at projecting sexual invitation, the absence of the slightest interest in her as a person, the hunger in her for validation from M and D, the fear of where all this must lead.

And now, now, she is to be alone with D; D, who frightens her so much, whose demands are so hard-edged, who seems entirely without mercy, who enjoys inflicting suffering, who sneers so cruelly, leaving no space whatsoever for self-care, no hiding place for a girl's self-esteem.

Why then, as she taps, timidly on the heavy, dark oak door, why is her sex so wet?