Poor Claire: Week 01byadam applebiter©
"The rules are simple." The lean, almost gaunt man rose from behind his desk and strode towards Claire. His manner and tone were not unkind. She had expected him to be more severe... more predatory... but he was simply matter-of-fact. He handed her something metallic. "The key to the front door."
Claire didn't look at the key. She stuffed it into her coat pocket without comment.
"You are quiet. Good. While you are here, you will not speak unless I tell you to. This is the rule of silence." He returned to his desk, sat and steepled his fingers. "Take off your clothes."
Hesitantly, with nervously fumbling fingers, Claire removed her coat, and suit jacket, studying her own actions so as not to meet his eyes. She folded the jacket neatly and placed it and her coat on a chair. She stepped from her shoes feeling the cold marble of the floor through her tights. With a toe, she pushed the shoes under the chair. Twisting her skirt around her waist, she unhooked then unzipped it, stepping out of it without letting it drop to the floor. This too she folded and added to the neat pile. The man watched impassively, making no comment.
The tiny pearls of her blouse buttons caused some difficulty for increasingly nervous fingers but she persevered and the blouse yielded. She had to perch on the corner of the chair to unravel her tights from around her ankles but they too were eventually added to the stack of discarded clothes. She took a deep breath and reached up behind her back to unfasten her brassiere. As it fell from her breasts she noticed the blush of shame across her bosom, confirming why her cheeks felt warm despite the shivering of her body. She wasn't cold. The room was pleasantly temperate. Her trembling was adrenalin and trepidation, fear even. As she slipped her panties down her legs and stepped from the crumpled cotton she tried not to think about her nakedness before this stranger.
She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, covering her dark curls, eyes downcast, burning with shame but still resolved to follow the course she has embarked upon.
"You are ashamed. This also is good. In future, you shall disrobe in the hallway as soon as you arrive. You must be naked at all times here. This is the rule of humility." He rose from his seat again and circled her slowly, eyeing her from head to toe. "Hands at your sides."
When she hesitated to reveal her crotch he slapped her without warning. The lash of his hand across her cheek was hard enough to send her sprawling to the floor. As he looked down at her, he did not look angry, still impassive, though he did pointedly let his gaze linger on her exposed crotch. He waited while she regained her feet before he spoke again.
"The rule of obedience. You will do as you are told at all times. When you are naked, you have no rights, no desires, no name... But since it pleases me to remind you of this, during your visits I shall call you Cunt." The word makes her head twitch away from him like an aftershock of the slap. He notices. "You dislike the word but it is apt. It is all you are here. A cunt." He punctuated his statement by thrusting his hand between her legs, cupping her sex firmly. "Say it."
"I - I am a cunt." Her voice was flat. Tears of unbearable shame welled in her eyes.
"Very good!" He exclaimed, smiling. It's the first display of emotion he's made since her arrival. "Silence. Humility. Obedience. Three rules." He released his grip on her sex, raising his fingers to inhale her musk. She's acutely aware that it is some hours since she bathed. She must be quite pungent down there. "Bend over the desk."
She took two steps toward the desk, placed her palms flat on the blotter and bent forward. His hand between her shoulder blades pressed her lower until her breasts were crushed uncomfortably against the desk. The hard leather of his shoe forced its way between her ankles, tapping them apart, then wider still. She heard his zipper opening. It was all the warning she got before his hard penis pressed into her sex. He impaled her with his first thrust then slowly built up a vigorous rhythm, bruising the tops of her thighs against the wooden edge of the desk. She grunted with the pain but it bothered him not a bit. His manicured fingers curled like talons, gripping her hips. The only sound he made was a low sigh as his seed flooded her insides.
He withdrew, zipping himself up before permitting her to rise.
"You may go now, Cunt." He dismissed her without another glance. He didn't need to see her to know her cheeks were wet with tears, her nose moist with mucous, her lips trembling. As she gathered up her clothes in shaking arms and stooped to collect her shoes, he did look, noting with approval the lividity of her puffy, glistening sex. That would be uncomfortable for quite a while. He watched her walk stiffly to the door.
"Cunt." His voice stopped her as her free hand touched the handle. "Tomorrow, get yourself waxed: A full Brazilian. I shall expect you at eight for dinner."
"Have you ever had a secret you'd rather die than reveal? I have. I do. And, because of that secret, I don't deserve to be loved.
I've tried. Believe me, I've tried. I've listened to the flattery, the sweet deceit men beguile us with, allowed myself to be seduced, even faked orgasms to try to hide my indifference but eventually they all realize they can touch me all they want but cannot reach me. Then they feel inadequate, they blame me, but secretly, they blame themselves too, and they leave me. None of them could bring themselves to love me, not that it would make a difference.
Once, once in my 28 years I had an orgasm: Since then, nothing. That once is my deepest secret and the despair that drove me to subjugate myself. So don't pity me - never pity Poor Claire. Everything is as it should be. Everything is as it must be."
A little before eight the next evening, She let herself into the house. As instructed, she disrobed in the hall, placing her neatly folded clothes on a convenient sideboard. Naked, more naked even than yesterday, she stood awaiting his pleasure.
"Cunt! Come through!" he called from another room. Following his voice, she entered the dining room. It was cooler than his study had been. Her nipples responded to the cold breeze from open French windows. He sat at the head of a large dining table set for two. She approached when he beckoned, sat on the high backed chair he patted. His hand went straight between her legs, roughly pulling at her now smooth sex, making her grimace.
"Much better." He passed judgement on her smoothness. As before, he sniffed his fingers. "You may serve dinner now, Cunt." He indicated the dishes on the buffet. "I shall have some cold chicken and salad. You may have whatever you want."
She rose to serve him, taking some green salad for herself.
"Sit. Eat." He instructed, not waiting for her to comply before starting into his chicken. She picked at the salad, little more than feeding the butterflies in her stomach. When he had finished eating, he rose. "Come into the garden." He did not wait for her compliance, striding through the open doors onto the patio and then across the lawn. Claire hurried after him. The garden was ringed with high shrubs that offered considerable privacy. In one corner, the garden was quite overgrown. This was where he led her. Pointing to a patch of stinging nettles about two feet high he said "Squat there."
Her legs felt leaden as she stepped gingerly over the clump of nettles, feeling the stings on her calves. Even these first few brushes of the leaves made her wince with pain. Slowly she started to lower herself, knees trembling as they bent. She gritted her teeth, anticipating the acid caress of the plants against her thighs and her freshly denuded sex. At the first intimate touch of the stinging leaves, she cried out. Freezing motionless as pain flared along her thighs.
"Lower." He commanded.
Obedient, she sank lower, squeezing her eyes shut on the tears welling up at the agonizing contact.
At his command, she stood, practically staggering away from the nettles. Her legs gave way and she collapsed onto the lawn, sobbing. He lifted her in his arms, his strength surprising for one so gaunt, and carried her back into the house and up broad stairs to a large and airy bedroom.
As she lay sobbing on the coverlet, he undressed. Through teary, reddened eyes, she saw his body for the first time: His erect penis long and slim, like him.
"Spread your legs." He commanded, approaching the bed, his eyes lingering on the red welts covering her thighs. She obeyed, revealing the full extent of her torment, her labia, perineum and anus covered with livid marks.
He mounted her in the missionary position, the contact of his hairy thighs and his pubic bone against her tortured skin making her scream. He fucked her hard, the brutality of his penetration provoking new screams with each thrust of his hips. By the time he came, spending against her cervix with a grunt, she was so exhausted, she could only whimper, pressing her face against the tear soaked pillow.
He got off her, got off the bed. "You may go when you're ready." He left the room, still naked.
An hour later, Claire walked stiffly down the path to the gate, still sniffing back tears. Her underwear was in her clutch bag: she couldn't have stood its touch.
"I cried all night. By morning, I could touch myself without wincing but the colour remained. In a perverse way I was proud of the rash. While it lasted it was a symbol of my commitment. He did this to me, but equally, I did this to myself. I would do it again too, in an instant. Pain is liberating. My suffering and his cruelty were honest, without pretence."
The next night, he left her waiting in the hall for an hour. Her feet grew numb as the cold marble floor drew the heat from them. At about nine, he came out of his study and strode straight past her, giving no indication that he even noticed the naked woman.
Another hour passed before he returned. This time he deigned to notice her.
"Ah, Cunt!" He sounded surprised to see her. He left her again but only for a moment, returning with a carafe of water and a glass. He filled the glass, handing it to her. "Drink."
She drank greedily, only now realizing how parched her mouth was. As soon as the glass was empty, he refilled it. "Drink." He commanded. She drank.
After the second, a third, and so on until the carafe was empty. He fetched more water.
Her stomach was visibly distended as she started on the second litre. By the end of it she thought she might burst. It was even more uncomfortable than being thirsty. He took the glass away and, this time, did not return.
Time passed and in a very few minutes the discomfort in her stomach gave way to a discomfort lower down. Her bladder felt fit to burst. Still she stood in the hall.
When she thought she could stand it no more, he returned. Placing his hand on her abdomen, just above her crotch, he said. "Let it go."
Two decades after her last 'little accident', she wet herself. Hot urine gushed between her labia as she cut loose, face burning with shame but unable to resist a moment more. Piss streamed down her legs and splashed noisily on the floor, spreading in a pool about her feet. He took a step back to avoid the spreading puddle and the better to watch her. The torrent went on and on. Two litres is a lot of water for someone who only weighs a hundred pounds. Eventually the pressure ran down and the last trickle seeped from her sex, dripping into the pool of piss at her feet. Somewhere along the way she'd started sobbing. Now she sniffed back her shameful tears.
Carefully, he circumnavigated the spreading pool and opened a door at the far end of the hall, revealing a small cloakroom with toilet, bidet & basin. From the corner he withdrew a mop and bucket which he set before her. "Clean this up, then you may go." He headed for his study pausing in the doorway in thought. "Cunt, do not clean yourself until you get home." With that, he shut the study door.
By the time she'd finished mopping the hall, her skin had dried naturally. She returned the mop and bucket to the cloakroom, dressed and left.
"In the street, it wasn't so bad but once I caught my train, in a stuffy and crowded carriage, I could smell the dried urine all over my bottom half. I glanced at the faces of the other passengers. Could they smell it too? Some clearly could and a few had even figured out I was the source of the odour. My face was hot with embarrassment, confirming their suspicions and heaping yet more humiliation upon me. I blinked back tears in my shame.
I slammed my door shut and cried in the shower until the water ran cold. This time, he didn't even fuck me, use me. What pleasure could he take from this evening?
The next night, as she stripped in the hall, she heard voices in the study. A moment later, the door opened and he beckoned her in.
"Cunt, this is Kylie." He indicated a bleached blond in a tiny zebra print mini-dress, fishnets and lethal looking red stilettos. She had on too bright lipstick and way too much eye makeup. In short, she looked cheap.
"Kylie, this is Cunt."
Kylie looked Claire up and down, seemingly unimpressed. "I don't do no kinky stuff."
"Of course not. Cunt, while you were mopping up your piss in the hall last night, Kylie was in here sucking my cock. Kylie, how much did you charge me for that service?"
"Fifty quid." Kylie answered, a little unsure where this was leading. Still, prostitutes got used to weird Johns. It went with the territory. And fifty quid was way more than the going rate for a blowjob.
"Here's another fifty pounds for your trouble. I won't be needing you tonight." He handed the girl a neatly folded bank note.
"Well I - " She started to protest but quickly realised that getting out of there quickly was a desirable thing. She rose and left, closing the door rather too sharply.
"Well Cunt, since I have dispensed with Kylie's services..." He let the sentence trail off as he unfastened his trousers and let them drop to the ground. His penis was flaccid, just barely discernable behind his shirt tails. He wore no underwear. "Kneel." He pointed to the floor at his feet. She obeyed. "Suck me."
She pushed his shirt up and took his penis in her fingers. This was the first time she'd touched him. She dipped her head close to his thighs, taking the soft flesh into her mouth, feeling it stir into life as she caressed it with her tongue. As he filled her mouth, pressing against her epiglottis, she had to back off a little to avoid gagging. It didn't take long for him to take control, clasping bunches of her hair and thrusting into her mouth, forcing his glans to the back of her throat, making her retch. When he came, spraying semen all over her tongue, he held her head still. "Swallow."
She swallowed, fighting the urge to throw up. As he started to soften in her mouth, he released her. She slumped back on her heels, looking at the floor.
"Go now. Be early tomorrow. I'm having some friends for dinner." He dismissed her.
"I've always hated oral sex. I learned to do it to try and keep those men who left me. It's a way of pleasing a man without having to fake orgasms. I got quite good at it too, I'm told, but I always hated it. The worst part is the taste of semen. It always makes me want to throw up. I hate it. Surely he knew that.
And that whore! He wants to demonstrate how worthless I am: that the fact he takes pleasure in my body does not give me any power. As if I didn't know already. At least tonight he took his pleasure from me."
She arrived at six the next night, straight from work. As usual, she stripped off and waited. The house sounded empty. About quarter past, the door behind her opened. It was him.
"You're here. Good. Follow me." He led her to the kitchen, indicated a trolley full of crockery and silverware and sent her to lay the table for seven people. As she left the kitchen, he started unpacking groceries for dinner.
It was an enormous dining table, easily capable of accommodating twice the expected number of guests. It was wide too and looked oddly bare without some sort of centrepiece between the two rows of plates and cutlery.
When she returned to the kitchen, he handed her a tray of crystal, also for the dining table. After that, it was several bottles of red wine, opened to breathe, then a silver tray with a decanter of port on it.
While he cooked, a task he clearly relished, she prepared the dining room according to his wishes, wondering what humiliations she must suffer tonight. Being naked before his friends would surely be part of it.
"Eat." He indicated an omelette and some salad on the kitchen table. "You will not have time later."
She sat and ate. The omelette really was very good. He moved about the kitchen with the fluid ease of long practice, stirring this, chopping that, seasoning here, salting there. She watched him as she ate. The doorbell interrupted.
"Go and let my guests in, Cunt. Show them into my study and serve them drinks. I will be along shortly."
She opened the front door and two gentlemen walked straight past her, removed hats and coats and handed these to her. They surely noticed her nakedness but distained to comment. She hung up their coats and led them to the study.
Seeing her standing by the drinks tray, the elder man, perhaps 60 and rather portly, asked for whiskey. The other, 40ish and with he ruddy complexion of one who spends much time outdoors, concurred.
As she poured their drinks, her master arrived.
"Friends! So glad you could make it." He shook their hands effusively. "Anthony, I'm cooking beef Wellington in your honour. It is still your favourite?"
"Indeed." The fat man smiled and patted his paunch.
"And Carlo, It's been a long summer without your company. How was California? No, tell us all during dinner. I have cooking to do, lest we all starve tonight. Cunt will attend you." He gestured at the naked woman. "Make yourselves at home!"
As abruptly as he'd arrived, he was gone. The two guests exchanged a look then the elder, Anthony, beckoned her to him. He'd seated himself in an armchair that, large though it was, seemed to hug his soft bulk. His eyes were on a level with her sex and it had his full attention. His chubby hand pushed between her thighs so that she had to set her feet apart. Fat fingers pinched her labia together, pulling them downward. It hurt, but not enough to make her cry out. He released her, watching her labia spring away from his fingertips.
"Louis always did have superb taste. Eh, Carlo?"
"Too true. Cunt, a refill." He waved his empty glass at her. The doorbell rang again. "Never mind. I'll serve myself. Answer the door." Carlo had that same peremptory tone of command as her master. What had they called him? Louis? Well at least now she had a name for her tormentor.
Twice more she answered the door, admitting two men each time. None of them seemed to notice or care that she was naked. Carlo took over as host pro tem, introducing her to the new arrivals by that hateful name. Nobody else bothered her other than for fresh drinks.
"Dinner is served!" Louis announced, leading his guests to the dining room and supervising the seating order.
As they filed into the dining room, She noticed two wooden steps at the near end of the table. Louis led her to the buffet and handed her the first bottle of wine.
"I will serve my guests myself, but you will pour the wine. The steps are for you."
Now she realised why the table had no centrepiece. She was the centrepiece. As the meal progressed, she walked up and down the aisle between the guests, squatting to pour wine into their glasses. Each time she filled a glass, the guest opposite was presented with her bare bottom and sex. The shame consumed her. The guests seemed highly amused by her name too. Calling her to them when simply a gesture would suffice. That horrid name still stung whenever she heard it.