Zippers

PART 18

 

It was later that same day that I sat, secreted away, in the corner of a pub. I looked down at my fingernails and wanted to curl up into a tiny ball, so small that nobody could see.

Trisha had done the nails herself, her head cocked to the side in the mock pose of an artiste.

She had removed my existing extensions and replaced them with much longer, inch-and-a-half square-ends.  She had then re-painted them in the glittery bubblegum pink that I was wearing. She then delighted in adding little designs to them. She painted over them with thick silvery white lines that, afterwards, she drew a thin, central black line down. She then finished them with a clear protective lacquer that would preserve her work for the weeks to come. I sat there, obedient and sulking, offering my hands to her the whole time.

The lines she had drawn on my nails made out squared, heavily stylised but recognisable letters. It took while to identify the symbols but the message could then be made out, if you concentrated for more than a few seconds. I had ‘SLUT’ written in capitals, facing away from me, a letter on each of my four fingers.

She held them still as they dried, protecting her work until it was solidified and safe from any accidental injury. I looked at her. I hated her for the casual way with which she had done this nasty afterthought to me.

As if it couldn’t get any worse, she took a little punch and clipped out a tiny hole from the ring and little fingernails on my left hand. Then she fitted a tiny gold ring into each. She put my hands down onto the table and admired them.

‘They’re just so……………YOU, you know’ she snorted, amused by her own joke.

 ‘Are these the sort of nails that you had in mind Anita?’ she asked mockingly, her head tilted to the side in parody of a beautician.

She was completely disinterested in my reply; I would be keeping them.

‘Yes, Mistress’ I said

‘Good girl, now be sure to show them off later’ she had warned me.

 

I sipped my drink, it struck me that this had been the first alcohol that I had tasted for well over a week. The gin and tonic was slipping down very easily; I needed something to help settle my nerves.

‘Ooh, it’s nice to be able to enjoy a drink for a change’ said the girl at my table, finishing hers and returning to the bar to order a second round. She obviously didn’t get out much.

She strutted effortlessly back to the bar. I watched her perfect fishnet-clad legs and her effortless style as she swung one foot in front of the other, stepping like a catwalk pro in her black knee-high spike-heeled boots. The half-dozen aging, alcoholic regulars at the bar were hypnotized by her movement; but I knew that she would have had that effect on a much, much younger and more discerning audience. I took up my own drink and drained it worrying again about my future.

 

 

After telling me to set my make-up right, Vivienne had waited. I had felt very uncomfortable as she had stood behind me, making sure that I did everything properly; it was twice as hard to get it right with someone following my every move. When I had myself looking like I was a hot glamour-girl ready for a porn-film shoot, she took something from her bag. As she lowered it around my throat, I saw that she had been true to her word and had bought me my ‘Anita’ necklace. I looked at her reflected eyes, in misery, as she reached around me and fastened it on; the name resting just above my collarbones. I wanted to reach up, tear it off and hurl it across the room screaming and spitting on it as I did so.

‘Well slut, what do you say?’ warned Trisha, I must have looked like I had felt.

‘Thank you very much Mistress, its……perfect’

She smiled broadly acknowledging my submission and recognising the completion of my outfit. She then left me, telling me that she expected great things from me and that she didn’t want or expect to be disappointed.

Trisha had then sat me down and fed me a simple microwave supper and a glass of water. She told me that I would need some food inside me for the night ahead. I had shuddered at this idea, I was terrified at the notion that I would actually have to be seen looking like I was.

While I was eating this, the door had opened and I had looked up. I had recognised the same blonde who had been sat in Vivienne’s reception, the night that she had sprung her trap and reeled me in. Her expensive-looking, beautifully cut, long, unnatural-blonde style was out of kilter with the worn, short black coat and scuffed, black boots that she wore. She shut the door and clicked her way over to my table.

Trisha smiled at her and then at me.

‘Anita, this is Cara; Cara, this is Anita’

We both looked at each other. I remembered her curt treatment of me when I had been at Vivienne’s office but decided that I couldn’t judge her on that alone. I smiled nervously at her. She looked me over and then smiled briefly back before sitting down quietly and looking up, expectantly, at Trisha. 

‘Cara is going to teach you a few things, Anita. Go with her and listen to what she tells you’

 

We had taken a taxi together into town, Cara and I. I was fretting the whole way there.

Before going into the sex shop that afternoon, they had made me change, so that I could try boots on without my trousers getting in the way. In the shop, I had ‘chosen’ three new pairs to insult my feet. Vivienne had said that it was a good start but because I was so affected by slutty shoes, I would be buying myself a lot more over the coming weeks.

It was then that I discovered, to my chagrin, that the strappy white sandals that had become my staple ‘slut shoe’, in fact, had only three and a half inch heels. I’d have bet that they were at least five when Trisha had first made me wear them. It was only when the attendant brought my first choice out that I had stared in disbelief at real five inch heels. The attendant had wasted no time making sure I wore a pair of their heavily used hold-up stockings so that I didn’t soil their boots. I wondered if she treated all her customers that way or if it was because I looked so perfectly filthy in the pink dress with the elastic sides, the dark blue leather jacket, my newly fitted ear studs and the ‘fuck-me’ creoles with hearts that swung against my neck. All the same, I didn’t dare object and I quickly pulled the stockings on, feeling the dried sweat of the countless previous ‘ladies’ who had chosen to shop for their boots there. I took out my shoes, a pair of white lace-up boots that came to just above my ankles. They were shiny, white and stood on thin, towering stilettoes.

I had loosened the laces in the plastic boots and had slipped my foot into the first one. It was tight and narrow as my toes neared the bottom; they were squashed from the start. I had to push hard to slip my foot completely into the boot. When I felt my toes at the end and I could feel the unbelievably high heel under me, I must have blushed with humiliation; these were about as slutty as it could possibly get. I saw them as the most blatant advertisement, the epitome of walking, wanton, female need and a crass pledge and acknowledgement of my availability.

As Vivienne knelt and lovingly tightened the laces, I shuddered to think how I would look walking in them, without a prayer of anything to cover them up or hide them behind. As she wound the laces tightly around their fastenings and up to the top, I realised that they would not be easy to take off either. When I had put the other one on and had stood up, I immediately noticed the extra height and how much more exaggerated the heel was. With the smaller platform on which to stand, I had to concentrate just to balance in them. I could feel that the immediate discomfort that I felt from the crushing in my toes would rapidly get worse and worse. As I stepped and saw the delight on my owner’s face, I felt a crushing wave of submission sweep over me. The steps I was forced to take were short, dainty, feminine and devastatingly sexy. With the ankle boots now completing my outfit, I felt a lump rising in my throat as I teetered with a walk that was unforgivably dirty. I found myself having to place one foot a little in front of the other, with a slight swing, just to keep steady and to keep myself from careering off balance.

‘Now those legs go on for miles’ Vivienne whispered to me ‘you’ll stop traffic in those boots, let me tell you!’

I wanted to scream at her but I ignored her. I turned and saw a man at a magazine stand unashamedly staring at me, lustfully appreciating the show. A burning blush coursed up my face, this was just unbearable, I wanted to sit down, tear the boots off, run home and get all this stuff off me; and then get on a plane to somewhere far, far away. Instead, I was congratulated by my tormentors and then made to sit, while the boots were re-packed and set aside for me.

 

As I sat in the taxi with Cara, my permanently plucked, baby-smooth legs rose out of the same, squeaky-white ankle boots.

Forcing me to keep my legs clamped together was a tight latex skirt that I had ‘found’ at the sex shop. It was shamelessly short but the material was thick and shiny; the patent black vinyl looked as if it had been poured around my hips and set there. I had ‘chosen’ it because there was a zip at the back running upwards from the centre at the bottom, all the way up to just below the waist-band. It would tempt and goad a man and dare him to bend a girl over something and unzip her. It was totally outrageous and probably the most blatant thing that I had bought all day.

Above that I wore the tight pink leather jacket with a white long sleeved top underneath. The top had large defects over the shoulders and a large oval so my breasts could squeeze their way out and compete for attention.

It was the first time that I had worn a bra on since my breast surgery and although the wiring rubbed uncomfortably against my suture lines, the cups lifted and crushed me together. When I had put the top on and seen the hole and how much cleavage I was advertising, I had tried to pull the jacket seems together, to cover myself. Trisha had slapped my hands away with the back of hers, I had wobbled on my shoes, losing my balance, and then had stood defeated and dejected, dressed as a whore. Trisha had smiled evilly at me.

 

It had been a relief when Cara had had the taxi drop us right outside the pub. There had been nobody but the driver to see me as I got out and hurried to the private table tucked away in the corner.

Cara was not anything like the cold bitch that I had first thought. She was a victim, the same as I was, albeit a more experienced one. After a few carefully ambiguous questions I had established that she was both willing and able to be very frank and open with me. In an attempt to take my mind off my impending nightmare, I had asked her about herself.

She had been taken by Vivienne three years ago now. She was twenty but her perfect, soft face made her look younger. Vivienne had made her quit medical school and had trained her to work for her. I warmed to her when she joked that she didn’t normally go out looking like that. She had made the joke in a kindly, self-deprecating way that made me feel that she would never judge me, and that she understood , from experience, what was happening to me. She told me what was expected of her and, by inference, what I would have to start to learn.

For her ‘role’, she was the posh, immaculately groomed, ‘clothes-horse’ of Vivienne’s stable. She wore only the very finest designer gear; all the bleeding-edge fashions. She had the most modern, stylish hair and was treated to all the options available at Trisha’s shop, which was by far the most exclusive in the area. She was probably one of the best dressed women in town.

She started to explain that her role was to be the unavailable, out-of-their-league, ‘it’ girl who could, on this occasion, possibly, actually be theirs. It was almost the complete opposite to the ‘slut’ role, which I would be learning, but only superficially so. At the end of the day, she had said, she serviced probably more men than any of the other girls.

She closed her eyes in bliss as she tasted the first mouthful of her fresh gin and tonic. It struck me then that I would probably not be allowed to drink much more from now on. I took a deep glug from my own, I had never needed Dutch Courage this much before.

Cara had been a prodigiously bright young student. She had also been socially aware, a punk; she had always shunned the traditional idea of how a woman should behave and look. She had hated the kind of girl who was a slave to society and especially to fashion. She had never worn traditionally feminine clothes or make-up, rarely skirts and certainly, never, ever, high-heels. She thought that women that did, were the worst victims of society.

She had had a shaven head and had worn a ‘Dead Kennedys’ T-shirt and had been fresh from an animal’s rights march when she had enrolled in a deep relaxation therapy programme to help with her learning.

Vivienne had immediately tormented the young, anarchic, tomboy. Cara’s version of hell was realised when she was made-over, initially with a short blonde wig, to look like a sexy, millionaire’s trophy wife. It was years behind her now and I could see that those years had been long ones but in spite of the time, the affront to her soul was still obvious. She sipped her drink again to try and move on from such painful thoughts. She sat forward and announced that we had come out for a reason and that we should get down to business now. I hoped that I had not upset her by raking up her past.

I then listened to her with horror and fascination as she laid out the fundamental rules that I would have to play by.

We were going to go across to another bar. This one would be packed full and would be the venue for my ‘debut’. I was going to start meeting and greeting men. My legs trembled as she spelt it all out. She would help me with a few chat up lines but said that it would be very simple; I would be direct and I would be with a man outside, in the back alley, before the night was through.

I started to shiver and I could feel myself starting to cry.

‘No, Anita, no’ she took me by the chin ‘no more crying from you, you must do this and you will do this. You have to pull yourself together. I know it’s not nice, I was there too, don’t forget, I know exactly how easy it is, but you HAVE to do this, you hear me?’

‘I……..I don’t think I can, I mean I don’t think I could actually do that’

‘Well you’re going to, and you’ll see. It’s actually easy. You really don’t know how easy it is. That’s the whole point of tonight’s exercise; it’s an introduction for you. Its a chance for you to go out as the new you and see the effect you have’

I sobbed inwardly as she equated the person I looked like with the person I knew I was and the person that I would have to be.

She told me that I would have to meet men’s advances with encouragement. A grab on the ass should be met with a ‘don’t do that unless you mean it’ type remark. I would confide, very early, that I was not wearing underwear and was in terrible need of a really good fuck. Either that or I would tell them of my unswerving desire to give them a blowjob; the choice was mine, tonight.

I reverted to shaking my head and trying to explain that I couldn’t do that. In truth, I knew that I had no choice though. In desperation I suggested that I rang up Vivienne, maybe she could take away my anxiety and make me relax again, like she had done earlier. Cara had said that if I did, and that was my choice to make, she would certainly help to motivate me but that I was in no position to state my terms to my own Mistress. She told me that Mistress had paralysed the last girl on her first night out because she had fucked it up. She had spent the night, frozen, completely unable to move, packed into a tight coffin. Every hour a buzzer had sounded for five minutes and she had been punished. Cara said that she was never the same again and on her second chance she had performed perfectly.

I was stunned. This option had seemed brutal, although when I considered Vivienne, my terrible Mistress, it had seemed less surprising. I swallowed anxiously. Could I go ahead with this, was I actually capable of approaching a man and saying those things?

I decided, then and there, that I would have to be, or I would be doing it in a few nights time, after a punishment that would surely reduce me to madness.

Cara went on. She said that the man’s needs should always be paramount; that they came first, always. For example, if I were to come during sex, then I was not to lose the slightest stroke of my work on his cock. Neither should I use either of my hands to arouse myself unless it was as a show to arouse him. They should otherwise, always be on him, for his pleasure.

She told me that, as well, we should always act like we were having the best sex of our lives, with the best possible lover. We should be very appreciative, always thanking them afterwards, but also we should be admiring, almost awestruck, and let them know how incredibly, irresistibly good they were. Every man should feel like he has just had the fuck of the century. Cara said that this was what made a man come back for more and was critically important for business. She said that because we, as a group, were so well trained and well kept, and because we had such a good business approach, we were well beyond competition from crack-whores and traditional, money-sluts. She laughed and said that she should probably stop lecturing me in whore-philosophy now.

As we neared the bottom of our glasses and my heart was beating faster and faster, she told me that the best thing I could do from now on was to try and enjoy myself in any way that I could. I should find some artistry in what I was doing; enjoy a hard, passionate fuck; get off on the feminine power I could wield or whatever else I could find in my new life.

Like a little girl on her first day before school, I had sat, hanging on her words. She was honest and was trying to help me in the only possible way that she could. My stressed mind returned to the idea of ringing Vivienne for a possible escape. No. She would just hurt me, terribly, over the phone. She would remind me of the consequences of not going through with it. No, she would not give me the help that I so badly needed and I knew better than to bother my ‘Mistress’ with my dilemma, terrible though it was.

‘Now, to make this work, you need to ooze confidence, especially dressed like that, or you’ll send out confusing signals. Mistress trained you to smile already, so we’ll do that tonight and apart from that, you just need to stand up straight and I don’t want to see you lowering your eyes, okay?’

I was silent

‘Anita, I have trainer privileges on you and I have my own orders and my own consequences………I will punish you if you don’t do this properly’

My eyes widened woefully, begging, but at the same time, I knew that it was not in her power to grant me mercy.

I nodded obediently. I would do everything that she had told me. She held my hand.

‘One man; however you want him. That’s it for tonight, Anita. Ok. It’s really not as bad as it could be…………………………………………So, tell me………………what kind of guy turns you on?’

I was momentarily speechless, the whole night was surreal.

‘Er…..well…..tall, handsome, kind, gentle’ I was just making it up now.

‘Come on Anita, now’s the time to be honest about the type of guy that does it for you, I mean you’ll eventually have to do them all, but tonight you are the one with the choice and you won’t often have that luxury, believe me. Have you never fantasised about anything more…….well, horny?’

I blushed deeply.

‘Well, look, I’m not your Mistress and I’m not going to make you do anything beyond what you already have to do; but from one girl to another, go with a guy that makes you feel horny, it’ll go better for you if you do. Now go to the Ladies and lube your pussy up with this, it’ll make it a lot easier for you’

I tucked the tube into my handbag. I looked at her and then at the table. Bless her. She was really trying to help me in the only way available to her. It was just too much for me. I gripped my hands to stop the tears forming.

‘Cara, thank you’ I said as she stood up and pulled me to my feet.