Miss Whitfield is Leaving
“Revenge is an interesting topic, Ms Whitfield. Isn’t it?”
Ms. Whitfield stares blankly at Ms. Cortingham, silent. Ms. Whitfield is preoccupied.
“You offended my client, Ms. Whitfield. It isn’t really important who he is; you’ll meet him again in a few days, and he’ll be a brand-new man in your eyes. And you’ll be a brand-new girl.”
Ms. Cortingham leans in a bit to Ms. Whitfield, her eyes bright and savage.
“He could have had you killed, or injured, or all sorts of things. But he desired something... special. He wanted to own you. He wanted you made helpless, and humiliated. He wanted you to be transformed into a pet. Fortunately, I specialize in this sort of thing. I’m quite good at it.”
“That’s one of the things I adore about this process, Ms. Whitfield. I’m going to strip many, many things away from you. It’s a fairly quick process, but it goes in layers, like an onion. One of the first things I take away is your womanhood. You aren’t a woman anymore. You’re a girl. You’re very, very feminine, but you don’t have any maturity. You barely have any agency. All the important choices in your life, from this day forward, are going to be made for you by other people.”
Ms. Cortingham takes a drag on her cigarette.
“And you’re going to fucking love it. It’s going to make you feel amazing. You’re going to love to obey. Submissive... oh, that word doesn’t even begin to cover it. And I’m the one who gets to make it all happen.”
Ms. Cortingham shifts in her seat and takes another deep drag on her cigarette. Ms. Whitfield stares back at her, mute. There’s a little needle stuck into her head, just behind her ear. The needle ends in a large, pearl like bead, that’s receiving instructions from the briefcase on the low table between Ms. Whitfield and Ms. Corningham. Ms. Whitfield’s memories are being blurred, jumbled, resorted. Her emotions are being brought to heel like a dog on a leash. Her thoughts are being trimmed like a bonsai tree.
Ms. Cortinghamsits back and waits for Ms. Whitfield to blink three times. That’s the signal from the needle, and the pearl, and the box, that Ms. Whitfield isn’t Ms. Whitfield anymore.
The girl blinks, slowly, three times. Ms. Whitfield, waving goodbye.
Ms. Cortingham stands up. She takes the girl’s hand. Her fingers are soft, delicate, strengthless. Ms.Cortingham gently pulls the girl up out of her seat. The girl stands placidly her eyes still blank.
Ms Cortingham leans close.
“Let’s start by stripping off the most obvious layers. Hold still, you pretty little girl. Don’t resist me at all.”
Ms Whitfield had worn a sensible business suit to this meeting. Ms. Cortingham slides the black blazer from the girl’s shoulders and lays it carefully over a chair to one side. She then takes a small pair of brass scissors from a chain around her neck. She delicately cuts the buttons off the cuffs of the girl’s blouse. Then the buttons up the front, one by one. She slides the blouse off the girl’s body only when it’s been reduced to a useless rag. Ms. Cortingham unbuttons the girl’s slacks, then snips that button as well. The girl steps out of her slacks without any prompting as they pool around her ankles.
Ms. Cortingham smirks at the girl’s underwear. It’s rose red and lacy, nowhere near as sensible as the business suit.
She doesn’t bother to unhook the bra. It falls in rags to the floor, the straps useless. The girl’s breasts, just a little too large for their confinement, bounce slightly as they come free.
Ms.Cortingham gently pulls the panties free after cutting their waistband at each hip. They’re slightly wet. Her sex is smooth, hairless, polished, clean.
Ms Cortingham looks over the nude girl appraisingly, enjoying the moment. It’s clear that this girl liked sex, and her own body, before today. This was excellent news; it would make for far less hassle going forward.
She leans over and kisses the girl’s ear before whispering:
“Now. Let’s begin.”
Slowly, gingerly, she slides the needle out from the girl’s head. It’s long and thin; it got even longer as it did its work, but now it has contracted in preparation for this release. Ms. Cortingham holds a cotton ball to the hole; it stops bleeding in just a moment.
The girl blinks, waking up from a deep sleep.
“Oh... Oh, Ms. Cortingham, I’m so very sorry. I must have dozed off, or... I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. What can I possibly do for you?”
The girl speaks in a soft, singsong voice quite unlike Ms. Whitfield’s brusque no-nonsense demeanor. She’s so worried about pleasing Ms. Cortingham that she doesn’t even register her state of undress.
Ms. Cortingham steps in front of the girl. The lapel of her jacket brushes against the girl’s bare nipples. Ms. Cortingham’s hand slides over the girl’s bare flank and cups her cheek. Her nails are very long and slightly curved. The image of a mouse caught in a falcon’s talons flashes, vividly, through the girl’s mind. She can just barely feel the tip of Ms. Cortingham’s index finger brush the lip of her sex.
The girl’s eyes widen in surprise, and shock. Ms. Cortingham raises the girl’s chin with her other hand. Their eyes lock.
“It’s all right, pretty little girl. You’re supposed to be naked. You like being naked. A girl like you should always be naked. Clothes aren’t meant for girls like you.”
The words drench the girl’s mind like acid.
“Say it back to me, pretty little girl.”
She slowly chants it back, soft, high-pitched, girlish.
“I... I’m supposed to be naked. I like being naked. A girl like me should always be naked. Clothes aren’t meant for girls like me.”
She swallows, hard, deeply aroused, trying to think. Her thoughts slip away, slick, like oil-covered balloons. Her mouth makes words while her arousal drowns her.
“I... did you undress me, Ms. Cortingham? Thank you. I... I like being naked. I don’t understand why I was dressed. It must have been a terrible mistake somewhere. Girls like me should always be naked. Clothes aren’t meant for girls like me.”
Her voice is utterly, transparently sincere. Her eyes are wide, a bit startled that this pretty little girl would be saying such things. Her pupils are dilated, doelike, hungry.
She leans back into Ms. Cortingham’s hand. She shifts her hips, trying to get that long finger deeper into her sex.
“Can... can I do something to thank you, Ms. Cortingham? For stripping me naked, like the pretty little girl I ought to be? I’m so very grateful...”
The girl arches her back. Ms. Cortingham smirks, cupping the girl’s cheek tighter. Then she withdraws her hand, and—lightly, but firmly—spanks the girl across both cheeks. Not hard enough to raise a welt, but hard enough to snap her out of her trance of arousal.
The girl squeaks in surprise, blinks hard, her mouth an “O” of surprise.
“Not yet. Soon, not just yet. Kneel over by my chair; I need you to do some things for me”.
The girl steps over to the chair with tiny, mincing steps. She tucks her ankles behind her and crosses her wrists behind the small of her back.
Ms. Cortingham doesn’t seem to notice the elegant little performance. She reaches into her briefcase and fetches a clipboard thick with several dozen papers and a long ball point pen.
“Here. Sign this. Don’t bother reading the words on the paper. They’d only confuse you. Here, on the line.”
The girl signs, her eyes glossing over the document without comprehension.
“And here. And here.”
She keeps signing. As she does, the oddest thing happens: it becomes harder and harder to write her own name. She has to stop and think after the first few times, remember the words that she’s supposed to write on the paper. The name “Whitfield” beings to feel alien, not a part of her. A few lines later, and she has to think about what letters she needs to write: First a “W”, and then.. An “I”? An “H”? By the next line, she has to focus and remember how many lines it takes to make a “w”. Her signature has degenerated from a confident swirl to a shaky childlike scrawl.
She looks at the next to last page in utter bafflement. She has no idea what to put there. The words on the page swim, utterly meaningless.
She looks up at Ms. Cortingham in total confusion.
Ms Cortingham laughs at her. “Oh, my poor pretty girl. Did you forget how to read and write?”
The pretty little girl blushes and bites her lower lip, humiliated. She hands back the clipboard. “I’’m so sorry, Ms. Cortingham. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“It’s all right, my pretty little girl. I’m just impressed that it took so little time for you to forget. You did a brave job of pretending, but you really aren’t smart at all, are you? So many facts and figures, ready to spill out of that pretty little head of yours. You had to work so hard to keep it all straight in your head.”
She moans softly, just a tiny bit, as Ms. Cortingham’s words soak into her. She relaxes as her thoughts go numb, then white, then blank. An empty little smile plays over her face as her eyes widen, become shallow.
“But now, my pretty little girl, you don’t have to pretend to be smart anymore. No one wants you to be smart. As long as you’re gentle, and sweet, and obedient, and do whatever pops into your empty little head, you’re going to be fantastic. Do what men tell you; do what I tell you. We’ll keep you from being foolish and stupid, as long as you’re obedient.”
“Ohhh”... she moans. “Oh, thank you, Ms. Cortingham. It’s so... so hard to think. I’m glad I don’t need to think anymore. So glad you’ll do all my thinking for me. What...” Swallows hard; licks lips. “What do you want me to do now, Ms. Cortingham? I’ll do anything you want. Anything. I promise.”
Ms. Cortingham smiles.
“Hold still. Put your hands on your head, just over your neck, and pull your hair out of the way.”
The girl obeys of course, and she isn’t event surprised or worried when Ms. Cortingham produces a pink leather collar from her briefcase. There’s a little plaque on the collar, with elegant, flowing letters. The girl has no idea what they say. She doesn’t know how to read, after all.
The collar locks into place with a low, soft, “click”. Ms. Cortingham stands, pulls the girl to her feet. The girl releases her long blonde hair. Her hands drift behind her back again, wrists crossed, almost as if they were tied together.
Ms. Cortingham whispers into the girl’s ear and pulls the leash tight.
“You aren’t Ms. Whitfield anymore; did you know that? That’s the name of a strong, important woman, and you aren’t any of those things anymore. He chose a name for you, the man who’s punishing you. He wanted you to be transformed into a naked, helpless, sexy girl who can’t keep a thought in her tiny brain for a minute. And he wanted to name you Fifi, like you were a pet.”
“So now you are Fifi, my pretty little girl. It’s such a good name for you. We’re going down the service elevator together, Fifi. We’re getting into my limousine, and I’m taking you to my home to teach you everything you need to know about sex. It will take some time, because you’re not smart. Not at all. But eventually you’ll get it all into your pretty little head. And then, little Fifi, he’ll take you home, and you’ll be his pet until the end of days.”
The entire time Ms. Cortingham is telling this to dear, helpless Fifi, she is sliding her free hand down the girl’s neck, over her breasts, over her navel. Fifi’s skin is smooth and soft and as pale as cream, and quivers under Ms. Cortingham’s strong fingers. Ms. Cortingham tells Fifi about home and training and submission to a man very, very slowly, and the entire time she is fondling Fifi, stroking her sex with confident fingers that know just where to stroke and gather and pinch, and Fifi is utterly powerless to stop Ms. Cortingham from taking her.
And at the end of Ms. Cortingham’s little speech, Fifi comes.
She clings to Ms. Cortingham, trembling, a leaf on a branch.
“Thank you, Ms. Cortingham. Oh, thank you. Thank you oh so much.”
Ms. Cortingham smiles, and pats Fifi on her bare cheek.
“You’re welcome, my pretty little Fifi. You’re welcome.”