Chapter 5: New Begging
The journal sat on my kitchen table for three days. A closed indictment. I went through the motions. The socks were inserted at dawn with the efficiency of taking a vitamin. The phone became a trigger I both craved and feared. My nipples were twin points of constant, bruised awareness beneath my shirt. The phantom tongues policed my every hesitation. I functioned. I helped at the kitchen. I avoided Marnie’s eyes.
Then, on Thursday, Chew was assigned to work the stockroom with me.
Chew was forty, with shoulders permanently hunched from a life of manual labor and a quiet, placid demeanor. He spoke little, moved slowly, and had kind, mud-brown eyes. He was a fixture, harmless. We were sorting a donation of canned goods, the air thick with dust and the tang of old tomatoes. I was on a step stool, placing cans on a high shelf. The position stretched my shirt, pulled my skirt tight. I felt the familiar packed bulk, the raw ache in my chest.
“Hand me that next case, Beth?” Chew’s voice was its normal, rough timbre.
I bent, my back to him, and grasped the cardboard box. As I straightened, I felt his gaze. Not the usual, passing glance. It was a weight. A pressure. I turned, the case in my arms.
His eyes were different.
The mud-brown was still there, but behind it, swimming in the deep, was a cold, mineral grey flicker. Like the flash of a fish’s belly in a dark pond. It wasn’t Chew. It was the thing that lived in the hollow of my own head, looking out at me through his face.
My blood turned to silt. The box slipped from my numb fingers, hitting the concrete floor with a dull, splitting thud. A can of peas rolled to his feet.
He didn’t look at it. He looked at me. And when he spoke, the voice was Chew’s, but the cadence, the inflection, was from my dreams. It was dry leaves. It was the whisper.
“Pick it up.”
The command was simple. Ordinary. It wasn’t. It was a test of the conduit. It crackled in the air between us, charged with the same absolute authority that lived inside my skull. My body moved before my mind could form a protest. I knelt on the gritty floor, the position driving the socks deeper, a sharp, welcome-correction. I gathered the spilled cans, my hands trembling. The phantom tongues, sensing a new, overwhelming source of command, fell silent. They were obsolete.
“Good,” said Chew’s voice, with Voo’s satisfaction. “Now. Stand up. Lift your skirt. Show me what you keep in there all day.”
A jolt of pure, animal terror locked my joints. Here. In the stockroom. The door was closed but not locked. Marnie was thirty feet away, beyond the thin wall. My mouth opened. No sound came out. Resistance, primal and screaming, surged.
Chew took a slow step forward. His work boot stopped an inch from my knee. The grey flicker in his eyes intensified. “You will obey every command I give you. Say you understand.”
The words were crushed out of me. “I understand.”
“Then lift it.”
My hands felt like foreign objects. They gripped the hem of my long, modest skirt. I pulled it up, slowly, over my knees, my thighs, to my hips. The cotton panties, stained dark with permanent dampness, were exposed. The outline of the packed wool was obscenely visible, distorting the fabric.
Chew stared. His expression was blank, but his eyes were voracious. “Take them out.”
A tear finally broke free, tracking hot through the dust on my cheek. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my panties and pushed them down my thighs. The air, cool and dusty, touched my skin. Then, bending slightly, I reached behind myself. I pressed two fingers against the sodden wool plug. I pushed. It was stubborn, swollen with the day’s secretions. I worked it slowly, feeling the stretch, the scrape. A soft, wet sound filled the silent room. It emerged, a dense, misshapen wad of grey, soaked through and dripping. I let it fall to the floor between my feet. It landed with a faint, shameful plop.
“The other one,” he said, his voice curiously flat.
I obeyed. The second sock came easier. A fresh trickle of warmth followed it down my inner thigh. I stood there, skirt rucked at my waist, panties around my knees, exposed and emptied onto the stockroom floor. The humiliation was a physical acid, eating through my last layers of pride. And beneath it, under the terror, the old, hated engine was turning over. My nipples were agonizing pebbles. My clit throbbed, a second heartbeat.
“Now,” Chew said, taking another step closer. The scent of his sweat, of sawdust and cheap soap, filled my nose. “Beg me to use you.”
The command slammed into my sternum. My vision blurred. “Please,” I whispered, the word tearing my throat.
“Louder. Mean it.”
“Please.” It was a sob. “Please, use me.”
The orgasm hit like a seizure. It wasn’t pleasure. It was a systemic failure. My legs buckled. I caught myself on a metal shelf, my body bowing, a raw, guttural cry ripped from my lungs as the waves of brutal, convulsive release smashed through me. It felt like my insides were turning out. It left me gasping, hanging from the shelf, strings of saliva connecting my lips to the sleeve of my shirt.
Chew watched, unblinking. When I was still, shuddering, he spoke again. “Put them back in.”
Sobbing quietly, I bent. I picked up the wet, filthy socks from the concrete. I rolled the colder, damper one. I pushed it back into my loosened, aching hole. I repeated it with the second. The fullness returned, a sloppy, punishing restitution. I pulled my panties up, my skirt down. The wet fabric clung to me.
“Go finish your shift,” he said, the grey flicker in his eyes receding, just a little. The command was normal, mundane. The possession was a subtle thing. To anyone else, he was just Chew, telling a coworker to get back to work.
I moved through the next two hours in a daze. Every time he spoke, my body jerked like a marionette. “Pass me that box.” I passed it, a tiny, helpless orgasm fluttering in my core at the completion. “The label maker is on the top shelf.” I fetched it, another small, sharp release biting at me. Each one was a secret puncturing, a draining of my will into a pool of obedient sensation.
At the end of the shift, as I was gathering my bag, he stood between me and the door. Marnie had already left. The main kitchen was dark.
“Tomorrow,” he said, the voice a hybrid now, Chew’s rumble under Voo’s cold clarity. “You will not wear panties. You will wear the shortest skirt you own. And you will come with vibrating dildos already in your ass and pussy. You will squeeze tight to keep them in all day.”
“Nod if you understand.”
I nodded, a stiff, mechanical jerk of my head.
“Good.” He reached out then, a slow, deliberate movement. His calloused thumb brushed over the thin cotton of my shirt, right over my excruciating nipple. The pain was electric, blinding. A third, harder orgasm, silent and deep, clenched around the socks. A small, desperate moan escaped me. “The begging is good,” he said, almost conversationally. “Do more of it.”
He walked out, leaving me leaning against the stainless steel counter, my body humming with aftershocks, the taste of salt and copper in my mouth. The journal was no longer a private record. It was evidence to be presented to my master. The possession was complete. The commands had a face now, and hands, and breath that smelled of coffee and sawdust. The walls of my world were no longer the forest around my cabin. They were the four walls of wherever Chew happened to be, and the limitless, dark country of his will.
The night was a thin, porous membrane between his command and its execution. I didn’t sleep. I stood before my closet as the first bruise-colored light seeped through the trees. The skirt was from a forgotten decade, a denim scrap that barely covered my thighs. I held it. The vibrating dildos were new purchases, bought online with a shaking hand, still in their sterile plastic. Their silence felt accusatory.
I inserted the first one, cold and slick with gel, into my cunt. The stretch was familiar, but the mechanical shape was not. It settled against my cervix with a dull, final pressure. The second, slightly smaller, pressed into my ass, filling the space the socks had carved out. I turned them both on. The lowest setting. A deep, internal thrumming began, a constant, insectile buzz inside my bones.
I stepped into the skirt. It zipped shut an inch below my hip bones. The hem brushed mid-thigh. I wore no panties. The denim scrap felt abrasive against my bare labia. Every subtle vibration transmitted directly through the thin fabric. I looked in the fogged bathroom mirror. A stranger stared back, her eyes hollow, her body a live wire of hidden movement. I was a wound dressed in denim.
The drive to the kitchen was a study in torture. Every bump in the forest road jostled the devices, sending sharp frissons up my spine. I had to clench constantly to keep them seated, a relentless workout that had sweat beading on my upper lip. I parked behind the building. My legs were trembling when I stood. I could feel the low hum radiating from my core, a private earthquake.
Chew was already there, hauling a sack of potatoes from the delivery truck. His eyes found me the moment I rounded the corner. The grey flicker in his gaze ignited. He dropped the sack with a solid thud and walked toward me, his steps slow and deliberate. Marnie waved from the open back door. “Morning, you two! Beth, you’re looking… bright today.”
“Morning,” I managed, my voice tight. Chew stopped an arm’s length away. He didn’t look at my face. He looked at the skirt.
“Turn around,” he said, his voice low, casual. A command.
I turned, presenting my back to him, to Marnie’s open door. The skirt was so short the lower curves of my ass were exposed. The denim pulled taut across the hidden shapes inside me.
“Walk to the storage closet. Don’t stop.”
I walked. Each step made the vibrators shift. The buzzing seemed to grow louder, tuned to my panic. I felt his gaze on me like a physical weight. I opened the closet door and stepped into the dim, crowded space. He followed, closing the door behind us. The latch clicked. We were in near-darkness, surrounded by the smells of cleaning supplies and dry goods.
“Show me,” he said.
I hitched the skirt up to my waist, revealing the base of the dildos, protruding slightly, humming. The air was cool on my wet skin. He stared, his breath audible. Then he reached out and twisted the dial on the one in my cunt. The vibration intensified, ratcheting up to a punishing, teeth-rattling frequency.
“Keep it there. Now, lean over that sack of rice.”
I bent, bracing my hands on the rough burlap. The position drove the toys deeper. The vibrations blurred into a single, unbearable sensation. My vision spotted.
“Beg for the other one to be turned up.”
“Please,” I gasped into the sack. “Please, turn it up.”
He did. The second vibrator surged to match the first. A harmonic torment. The orgasm built instantly, a tsunami with no warning. It wasn’t a wave; it was a structural collapse. My knees gave out. I sagged against the rice, my body seizing, a raw, barking scream tearing from my throat as the convulsions shook me. It felt like my skeleton was trying to escape my skin. Lights flashed behind my eyes. It went on and on, milking me dry.
When it finally ebbed, I was slumped on the floor, drooling onto the concrete. Chew watched, impassive. “Get up. We have work to do.”
The day became a hellish liturgy. Every command was a sacrament, every obedience a violent prayer. He made me refill the industrial coffee urn, my hands shaking so badly I spilled scalding water down my leg. “Lick it off the floor,” he murmured, passing by. I knelt and lapped at the dirty, tepid puddle, the vibrations still churning inside me. Another orgasm, sharp and humiliating, curled my toes.
During the lunch rush, he pointed to a spilled tray of green beans. “Pick them up. One by one. Use your cunt to squeeze each one before you put it in the bin.”
I crouched in the busy kitchen, the short skirt riding up, my ass exposed to the room. I picked up a slick, cold green bean. I lifted my skirt, inserted it beside the vibrating dildo, and clenched. The bizarre pressure, the public shame, the mechanical buzzing—it coalesced into a peak so intense I vomited a little into my own mouth. I swallowed it back down, tears streaming, as I dropped the bean into the compost.
“Good,” Chew said from the stove, stirring a pot of soup. “Now the next one.”
By mid-afternoon, I was a shell operated by remote control. He commanded me to go to the walk-in freezer and press my bare ass against the metal shelf for a full minute. The cold was a shock, the vibrators a contrasting fire. I came screaming into the frozen silence, my skin sticking to the metal.
He ordered me to answer the office phone while spreading my legs under the desk. “Describe what you’re doing to the caller,” he whispered, his hand on my shoulder. The telemarketer listened to my choked, sobbing description of the devices inside me as I climaxed again, my free hand clawing at the desk blotter.
Each orgasm was more powerful than the last, as if my nervous system was being stripped and rewired for this single purpose. They left me blind and deaf for seconds at a time, my brain short-circuiting. The old shame was gone, burned away. Only a raw, animal functionality remained.
As dusk painted the kitchen windows orange, he cornered me by the back door. Everyone else had left. He looked at me, his eyes fully grey now, devoid of Chew. “Final command,” he said, his voice a dry rustle. “Take them out. And beg me to fuck the empty spaces.”
My fingers were numb. I fumbled with the skirt’s zipper. I pulled the first dildo from my cunt. It came out with a wet, sucking pop, still humming. I dropped it on the floor. The second slid from my ass, leaving a gaping, sensitive void. The sudden absence was more terrifying than the fullness.
I looked at him, my body humming with residual energy, utterly hollowed. “Please,” I whispered, the words ash. “Please fuck my slutty body.”
"Not good enough." Chew replied, disappointed. "Go home and grind your clit against your bathroom sink faucet all night while you practice begging more earnestly. Watch the desperation grow on your face, the lewd need, as you are forbidden from orgasming."
His command was a hook set deep in my spine. It pulled me upright, out of the kitchen’s lingering scent of soup and shame, and into the twilight. The drive home was a blur of shadowed pines and the raw, throbbing emptiness between my legs. The vibrations had stopped, but the phantom echo of them buzzed in my teeth.Every nerve was a live wire, stripped and sizzling.
My cabin was dark, silent except for the hum of the refrigerator.I didn’t turn on the lights. I walked straight to the bathroom, my footsteps loud on the old floorboards. Moonlight filtered through the high window, casting the clawfoot tub and the sink in a cold, blue silver.
I looked at the faucet.It was a simple, chrome curve, a mundane object. Now it was an altar.My breath fogged the mirror, obscuring my face. I deliberately wiped the glass clear with my palm.There I was.Beth.Her eyes were wide, dark holes. Her mouth was a soft, shocked line.“Please,” I said to the reflection. The word hung in the quiet.
I hitched the denim skirt higher, baring myself completely to the cold air and my own stare.I turned the cold water on, just a trickle. The porcelain sink bowl began to fill with a shallow, chill pool.I didn’t want the water. I wanted the hard, unyielding lip of the faucet itself.
I stepped closer, until the edge of the sink pressed into my thighs.I positioned myself, angling my hips. The chrome was shockingly cold against my swollen, oversensitized clit.I flinched. A hiss escaped my lips.The reflection’s eyes screwed shut.“Open your eyes,” I whispered to her. “Watch.”
She obeyed. I saw my own gaze, glassy and fixed, lock onto itself in the mirror. I began to move my hips in small, desperate circles, grinding the tender nub against the unforgiving metal. The cold became a burn, then a sharp, bright pain that was indistinguishable from need.“Beg,” I commanded the woman in the glass.
“Please, Chew,” she gasped, her voice mine, ragged and thin in the empty house.“Please use me. Please fuck your stupid slut. Please, I need it.” The words were rote, learned from the journal, from the stockroom.They felt hollow. Chew’s voice in my memory was flat.“Not good enough.”
I pushed harder against the faucet, the pressure bordering on true pain. My hips jerked erratically. “Please,” I sobbed, watching tears cut tracks through the dust on my cheeks.“I’m empty.I’m just a hollow thing. Fill me up.Use my holes. Make me your thing.” The desperation was real now, a frantic animal scrabbling at the walls of a cage. The arousal was a relentless, throbbing wave, building with each brutal grind.But the orgasm was forbidden. The command was a wall holding back the tide.Every instinct screamed to crest, to fall, to find release from the building agony. I couldn’t. I watched my face contort, saw the lewd need twist my features into a mask of pathetic hunger.My mouth was slack. My pupils were vast, black pools swallowing the reflected moonlight.
“I’m your thing,” I chanted, grinding harder, faster, a punishing rhythm.“Your dumb cunt.Your filthy ass. Please, master, please just let me come.” The title, ‘master’, slipped out.It felt true. It felt like a key turning in a rusted lock deep in my gut. A fresh, more profound wave of shame washed through me, hot and slick, feeding the frenzy.I was close. The edge was a razor against my nerves.I could feel the orgasm gathering like a storm, a promise of obliteration. My body tensed, begging for the final permission. I watched my reflection’s hand fly to my own breast, pinching the ruined nipple through my shirt. The pain was a lightning rod, focusing the chaotic energy.
“Don’t you dare,” I snarled at myself, my voice a guttural thing.“You don’t get to. You don’t get anything unless he says.”
The contradiction was exquisite torture.The physical act demanded completion.The command barred the door. I was split, a mind screaming denial at a body buckling under need. The woman in the mirror was a stranger, a weeping, grinding animal, utterly conquered.
I saw the exact moment the last thread of my will snapped.It was in the eyes.Something behind them just… dissolved. A final, surrendering blankness.The begging shifted.It was no longer for permission to come. It was a simpler, purer plea.
“Make me,” I whispered, my movements becoming slower, more defined, a deliberate obscenity.“Make me your thing forever. I don’t want to think.Just tell me. Just use me.”
I begged for hours, body dripping in sweat, as I watched the desperation transform me into a wanton slut, my need to cum so clear it was disgusting. I pinched my nipples, fingered my ass, and ground my clit against the faucet, covering it my lewd juices as my mouth learned was true begging sounds like.