WHORY

WHORY

Finally, the last pile. The dregs. WHORY.

She kicked off her sensible pumps and wobbled as she strapped on the six-inch clear plastic heels. They were absurd, degrading, and impossibly arousing. She pulled on the rhinestone G-string. The cheap gems were rough against her swollen, weeping flesh. The "dress" was the last clothing item, a tube of hot pink fishnet that clung to her like a second skin.

She hit record, stumbling as she tried to pose. She looked like a beautiful disaster. Her hair was a mess, her face was flushed, her body was trembling with exhaustion and relentless, agonizing need.

She gripped the back of a chair for support, her ass pushed out, her body on full display. "I'm your whore, Master," she sobbed, the words a raw, broken plea. "I bought these cheap, stupid heels to feel unstable… to feel helpless while I'm on my knees for you. This dress… this dress is just so you can tear it off me when you're done. Please, Master… just tell me I'm a good whore."

She couldn't bring herself to stop the recording. She just stood there, swaying in the ridiculous heels, tears of pure, unadulterated desperation streaming down her face, her hips bucking in a useless, frantic attempt to find release. Finally, she collapsed to her knees, the video still running, and crawled to the phone to shut it off.

She lay on the floor for a long time, naked, panting, a broken, beautiful mess amidst the carnage of discarded outfits. But the task wasn't over.

With the last of her strength, she got back on her knees and began the final set of videos. The training aids.

Record. She held the cherry-red ball gag in front of her face. "This… this is to keep me quiet for you, Master," she whispered. "So I can serve you without making a sound, unless you want me to."

Stop. Record. She dangled the black leather restraints. "These are to keep me still and ready for you. To make sure I'm always open and available."

Stop. Record. She held the elegant riding crop, its leather tail brushing against her bare thigh. The light touch made her entire body seize. "This is for you to use on me," she gasped. "To motivate me. To correct me. To help me please you better."

Stop. Record. The last item. The wand vibrator. She held it in her trembling hand, its heavy head resting against her thigh. The potential of it, the raw power she was forbidden to use on herself, was the ultimate ****. "And this…" she choked out, a fresh wave of tears blurring her vision, "…this is for my pleasure. But only when you decide I've earned it. Only when you allow it."

She stopped the final recording. It was done.

Her fingers worked on autopilot, creating the folder, labeling it, dragging and dropping the dozens of video files. She clicked the secure link Julian had sent. An upload window appeared. She attached the folder.

She watched the thin blue progress bar creep across the screen. 10%. 30%. 60%. It was the slowest, most agonizing countdown of her life. Each percentage point was another moment of her debasement, her submission, her utter and complete self-cataloging, being sent across the ether to him.

99%.

The bar turned green. UPLOAD COMPLETE.

She stared at the words, her mind a perfect, blissful blank. The task was finished. She had obeyed. She had performed.

She let her head fall forward, her forehead resting on the cool surface of her laptop. She was exhausted, empty, and more agonizingly aroused than she had ever been in her life. She had stripped herself bare, literally and figuratively, and sent the evidence to her Master.

All she could do now was wait for her grade.