Fatal Attraction Pt. 03

And then they brought the collar and the chains, for me to welcome those, too.

The months after that were a time of helpless and deepening submission - the regime shockingly ruthless and cruel as a moment by moment physical and emotional experience, but at the same time deeply affirming, as the feeling strengthened that I was in truth becoming a valued possession - not for myself, not as Chloe, but as cunt, for the uses cunt could be put to. The uses that Chloe would carefully, sweetly, determinedly put herself to, open herself to, offer herself for. That I could, somehow, at last, love myself as - through - my existence as a possession. As a possession that increasingly successfully locked away all evidence of individuality away, deep inside, in the service of the unattainable - perfection in His eyes.

I suppose that, in that moment, walking through the arch, I had some presentiment of this stark future - some wordless, imageless understanding that this simple act was a first, defining step into a future that would include such experiences; so devastating, so all-consuming, providing such unmatchable exaltation and such struggle - and that my body took the decision for me; that I would take that path - walk towards Him, towards that strange idea he had lodged in my brain, a nameless stranger over a candle-lit dinner table - the idea that he would destroy me, that I would offer myself up to him in the knowledge that this was his plan. That I would do this because, somehow, it was what I wanted.

Of course, this might all be me, reconstructing the past to make some sense of it.

Whatever, the reality is that the video shows that I walk through that imposing portal with a little smile (frightened/brave), with hips switching eye-catchingly in the short skirt, cleavage jiggling, shoulders back, chin up and eyes down. That I strip myself completely, as instructed, repressing the urge to hold myself in ways that project modesty, that I put on the skimpy robe with the inadequate little tie belt and the wooden soled clogs - surprisingly high-heeled and heavy, enforcing considered, careful walking - and obediently, without delay (despite the gradual increase in heart rate and nervousness), present myself to the attendant who has appeared, waiting for me, at the far end of the room.

Just walking toward her makes it clear how revealing the robe is - such thin satin, so that my areolae are clearly visible, despite my paleness there - just long enough to cover my buttocks, the collar very loose and wide, so that it threatens to slip off one or both shoulders at every step, cut so that there is no real overlap at the front, the soft tie-cord so short that only a simple twist knot is possible, making it feel as if my sex is either already on show as I walk, or soon will be, as the inadequate knot works itself loose.

Coupled with the exaggerated walk which is the only possible way to manage in the clogs, which sets my unsupported breasts swaying and my hips and buttocks switching, the only way I can keep control, not panic, not break the spell (I so do not want to break the spell) is to play act myself as a girl who would accept this, who wouldn't demand a decent robe, reject the clogs, or cross her arms defensively over her breasts, clutch at the robe to hold it together. In short, to begin to become what Karsh wants me to be.

It helps a little that the young woman waiting for me is wearing quite a short and skimpy version of the medical white housecoat herself, has quite high heels on the otherwise nurse-like white pumps she wears, and also that she too seems a little nervous. She's around my age, slightly on the curvy side, very pretty in a blonde, girly way, and smiling hopefully at me; I get no sense at all that she is judging me, or that she will be anything other than kind, and I relax a little.

"Hello Chloe," she says;

" I'm Anya, and I'm happy to meet you; you're .. you're very beautiful. And elegant.."

She breaks off with a little giggle, blushing herself now. It's nice, shockingly nice, after these strange days, so saturated with my response to strong maleness, to have a friendly smile from another girl who is clearly wanting to be kind, and to be complimented so sweetly, and I relax a little more, blushing at the praise, now, rather than from feeling exposed. I have an ally, of some sort at least.

She gathers herself with a little self-deprecating smile, and starts in on what are obviously her 'lines';

"I'm Anya - oh! I said that already! - and I'll be with you throughout your time with us today. I'll be helping you with a lot of the straightforward treatments, but there are specialists for some of the work - I'll stay with you then, too. You've already consented, I see, to all the treatments on Mr Karsh' list, so that's lovely; you'll feel like a new woman in just a few hours, I promise you."

"Of course, as a valued client of ours, I am here to help you with anything at all - any questions, if you need anything whatever. Only .. only there is this, too, which is a little note from Mr Karsh that I, that I need to read to you.."

And Anya looks at me, direct, into my eyes for a second, a very personal look, even though it was brief - the receptionist had done this, too; strange;

"My dear Chloe; the people here know what to do, and you have, gratifyingly, chosen to accept without question; this is, of course, exactly what I expect from you.

"In that spirit, it would gratify me further to hear that you have asked no questions, have not spoken, in fact, during the course of the treatments, except in response to a direct question. I will also be pleased to hear of your unhesitating compliance with everything asked of you while you are here. Of course, should you change your mind at any point, do not hesitate to do so.

Arrangements are being made for a visit to London rather soon, and I will look forward to the results of today's appointment in the meantime."

Anya is bright pink by the end of this, and her breathing is a little ragged; she looks up, with an expression almost of sympathy, certainly of kindness, and interest, too, I think, as I absorb the meaning.

I am not to speak, not to question, am to comply immediately, no matter what is asked of me in the course of a treatment programme I know nothing about. And the implication is there, too, that he will know how well I have done, and that no confirmation of seeing him again will be made until that report has been received.

I almost blurt out a question - a 'but what if..?' - and then bite my lip. I catch Anya's eye, and she gives me a little, sympathetic smile, and a nod, as if she is saying; that's it, that's not-speaking, keep it up. She is complicit in this; knows she is, is embarrassed by it - but at the same time I can see that she is also enjoying it, is pleased with me - wants to encourage me to comply. Why? What is her motivation here? I wonder, but realise I know too little, really, and that my own worries are far more pressing.

Can I? Can I really accept this? Not speak? Do anything they ask of me, without question?

But what's the alternative? To deliberately flout Karsh' wish? Why? Just to demonstrate my independence? Then why am I here in the first place?

In the end, it's simple. I'll comply, but reserve the right to change my mind. Easy.

And so I smile, and nod back at Anya to convey my acceptance of the terms, blushing myself now - even if the decision is easy, it doesn't mean I am not aware of what has been done to me here, of the way that a man, a thousand miles away or more, has explicitly and fairly arrogantly controlled me and that I have allowed him to, that Anya has seen me do this (and she too, has been controlled, to some extent).

I will learn, over time, that Karsh works this way, with uncanny power - the power to be somehow present, and dominant, even when he is far away, busy doing something else. For the rest of the afternoon, his presence is larger, has more effect on the way everything goes, than mine, or Anya's.

He has been highly influential already, of course - over the days since our dinner I have behaved in a way that no-one who knows me would recognise (not even myself), on account of his word. But it has been me who decided what that meant - me that has tried to imagine what he might want of me. I have not, until this moment, been in any way instructed, or controlled, and the feeling is new, and odd, and actually rather exciting, I find - like a sexy game.

For the rest of the afternoon, all communication between the two of us is conditioned by his requirements - we both act as if he is present, watching, listening, and it becomes slightly disturbing, this game between us, as she gradually realises that there is no need for the exaggerated politeness and servility that is no doubt the norm for her with the well-heeled and entitled general run of clients here - that she can simply say; 'Off!', with an impish look in her eye, and I will look at her, eyes wide in surprise at such bluntness, and then, immediately, drop my gaze and slip the robe off, to stand naked before her, blushing, but smiling a little, too, at this small shared joke.

This plays out in the first stage of the afternoon, which is mostly what Anya calls 'diagnostics' - which means, measuring me - height, weight, all sorts of measurements as if for a tailor, swabs from skin in ten or more places, photographic records of sections of my body, not missing anything out (for instance, she has me perch, naked, on a workbench, then lift my feet onto two chairs to right and left, so that my sex is spread, then lean back against the wall; she manipulates my labia, with clinical dispassion, so that they are 'neat', and then takes several close-ups of my sex - full-on, slightly to the left, to the right, from above, from below).

Then, internal swabs; from mouth, ears, nose, vagina, urethra, anus, all carried out with a careful and completely professional manner, but with few words - mostly, she pushes my limbs - gently enough, but with increasing casualness - towards the position she wants, and expects me to first understand what she wants, and then comply.

The silence, the obedience, her touch, the soft white minimalist interiors, the gentle background muzak, all begin to become soporific, and I relapse a little, into the dreamy state of the past few days, just going with the flow, accepting the sometimes embarrassing positions and manipulations as his will, as a chance to explore what it means to be under his control in a relatively controlled, safe environment.

Her touch, too, is something. Although no-one watching would consider that she is in any way less than professional, there is something incredibly sensuous about that touch. Whatever she ends up doing (all quite matter of fact and physical), the first contact from her soft, silky fingertips, gentle as it is, always feels like an act of reverential love, as if she is worshipping my body, in awe of it, grateful to be permitted to touch me - and this happens again and again, of course, and I grow to welcome it and accept it - even when she needs to touch my breasts, or my sex (and she does seem to need to do this a lot). I've never been touched so by a woman before, and I feel strange about it. On the other hand, there is no real choice about this, and it is, increasingly, a pleasant experience - and so I relax into it.

Which makes Mrs Stratten's touch all the more shocking.

After some while, Anya has become concerned about the time, and starts to work noticeably more quickly (has she, too, lost track, enjoying this strange sensation of being puppets of an absent Karsh, of touching me so intimately, without needing to consider whether I might be consulted, or explained to?). She doesn't tell me why, of course, but eventually she looks at her little upside-down nurse's watch, opens her eyes wide, and has me stand, helps me on with my robe, and walks quickly off before I have time to tie it;

"Come!"

She is clearly a little panicked, and I'm not supposed to speak, so, after standing there stupidly for a second, looking down at my naked belly, my pubes, all on display, I step into the tall clogs and clack down the corridor after her, resisting the urgent instinct to clutch the robe tightly across my body, somehow knowing that Karsh would not want me too.

It's not far to another grand looking door, solidly closed, this time, where Anya presses a button, and we are buzzed in.

Any relief at being out of the public corridor instantly dissolves as I am faced with not one, but two elegant-looking, primly dressed office assistant types sitting at desks, giving off an air of busy efficiency.

They don't seem surprised by or even interested in my all-but-nakedness, though - a quick once over and the older one's attention is with Anya;

"Anya, you are not quite late, but you know I prefer five minutes in hand for Mrs Stratten, don't you?"

"Yes, Ms Forbes, I do. Know. I'm terribly sorry."

Anya sounds really quite worried - more than you'd think over such a small thing - starts to say something else but stops herself and then flinches a little when Ms Forbes says;

"Very good, Anya; you'll enter a black mark against your name, please."

"Yes, Ms Forbes, Thank you Ms Forbes."

Seeing Anya, the closest thing I have to a friend in this place, so obviously nervous and bossed around, while I am partially naked in front of this Ms Forbes and her younger assistant (who is, I now realise, actually checking me out in a covert way), makes me nervous too, and I start to blush, feeling decidedly uncomfortable, broken right out of my dreamlike state.

This only gets worse when an inner door opens, and a woman appears.

A slim but strong presence, tall, of indeterminate middle age, cool and stylish in a dark, severe business suit that is somehow very definitely sexy, her hair grey, but not the grey of old age, it seems clear that this must be the boss - Mrs Stratten.

Her face is completely, serenely, unreadable, despite the fact that she is looking directly at me. I am immediately, unquestioningly, nervous of her. She is not bothering to hide her scan of my full-frontal nudity. It reminds me of that day on the Heath, when Karsh had looked at me so directly, and makes me shiver (how is it possible that that was less than two weeks ago?).

And then her head turns, and she smiles a little at Ms Forbes;

"So this is little Anya, I presume, with Karsh's new girl, .. ah?"

"Just so Ma'am, Anya and Chloe, Ma'am."

"Oh yes, Chloe.."

I get no surname - I'm just a girl - his 'new girl'; there have obviously been others. I have to control myself strongly at this point not to complain, not to assert my right to some respect, at least - aren't I a client here? What is this, being talked about in the third person, demeaned, appraised like a piece of meat, an animal?

But she's too intimidating, too calm, cool, confident, while I am incapable, it seems, of turning these feelings into action.

And she's looking me over again, more slowly, more clinically now, as if I am a high-priced dog with a question mark over my pedigree - looking over my points. I'm horribly nervous, embarrassed - feeling ridiculously vulnerable in the tiny robe and insecure high heels, cool air on my skin, my breasts moving freely; remembering, with despairing intensity now, all the critical opinions I had formed of aspects of my body the day before.

My heart is thumping, and presenting a calm appearance suddenly is the best I can hope for, and takes all my time and concentration.

Of course, this was exactly what was intended. I later witnessed the welcome given to rich women - clients who chose and paid for their own treatments - and saw how different it was, as they were invited into the inner office for privacy, offered tea and nibbles along with one-to-one 'consultations' - all aimed at discovering what might please the valued customer.

I, by contrast, got silence and mounting insecurity, until my nerves are stretched so far that when Mrs Stratten says;

"Why don't you slip the robe off, pretty, and let's have a look at you?"

I am mostly relieved, the relief effortlessly trumping my disbelief at the suggestion that I should be asked to strip myself naked in an open office - asked without the slightest pretence at preliminaries - no welcome, introductions, called by a somewhat demeaning descriptor rather than by name; no anything apart from the invitation to strip myself for her appraisal.

Again though, without waiting for my mind, my body simply does what is expected of it, and I find myself tremblingly pulling back the robe and, almost without intending to - so wide-open is the neckline of the thing - shrugging it off, so that it falls to the floor behind me, leaving me naked but for the high-heeled clogs, displaying myself to these strangers on command, naked, without demur.

I am mortified to feel my nipples instantly stiffening, and cannot control my gusty breathing sufficiently to prevent my breasts from rising and falling rather obviously. My heart is banging like a drum in my chest and I can feel my cheeks getting hot - knowing that this means that I am blushing hard, which only makes me blush all the harder...

The question of how to hold my body is urgent, and at the same time insoluble - it feels as if I may be unable to rescue myself from a mounting feeling of panic - may become hysterical - I have to force my breathing to slow down, knowing that all four of them are watching this with interest - learning all sorts of things about me that I hardly know myself, that this knowing will give them power over me (I don't have to think this - I feel it strongly in my body, feel my strength ebbing as theirs grows, precedents being set every second).

In vain do I tell myself that women are getting naked in such places all the time - for bikini waxes and the like - that this is entirely normal, for all of a sudden Mrs Stratten steps forward, her face still unreadable, and lightly touches my breasts - is it a caress, or a professional investigation?

I can't tell; but I can tell this - that Mrs Stratten's touch is a completely different thing than Anya's. Anya's fingers are respectful, communicative, want to send as well as receive, give as well as take. Mrs Stratten's, by contrast, invade my body, dominate it, possess it, plunder it; all take, all command, all control. It's not nice, not reassuring, to be touched like this.

But it is, it seems, very welcome to some part of me - electric. It's as if I'm tasting something utterly new, that I immediately know I crave more of. That I like being touched like this.

And it's intensely erotic, too; heavy with the promise of sex - almost a threat of sex... I can't suppress a sharp intake of breath, a little, urgent moan, instantly suppressed, but too late..

"These are quite good - you don't mind me touching you, do you? Of course you don't."

It's not a real question; when I flick my eyes to meet hers, needing to know, I find her ready with a hard challenge, a slight smile on her lips - she sees me, she knows what her fingers are doing to me, how it's making me feel, is supremely confident of my acceptance, my weakness. And I look down, trembling, all question of reproach banished.

She doesn't wait for, or acknowledge, my weak, mumbled assent (a confused and shaming 'yes.. no .. of .. of course..' immediately followed by a worried thought - was that a direct question? Should I have spoken?), continuing smoothly on with;

"I think we'll darken the nipples, though. Anya? Find a colour that matches her pretty blush", and then her hand moves swiftly downward, to assess my belly - I cannot suppress an involuntary quiver as she strokes me there;

"This needs tightening - an exercise regime is in order,"