Climax: Volume 2

by Ella Ford

  I returned home and fell back into my life, the charity lunches, the pointless, wasteful spending. I began to wonder what I would even do if Beth did turn up. What would she be to me? My girlfriend? My lover? My maid? I had no idea. What would my friends say, upon finding out that I had acquired a strange young girl, over a decade my junior, and asked her to move in with me? As the days went by and the memory of that hot, sultry night faded into memory, I felt a palpable relief that I wouldn’t have to confront the consequences of my rash actions.

  And then, six days after that strange night, the doorbell rang. I was in the garden at the time, tending my tulips. I looked up and wondered who it could be, never once suspecting it would be anything other than a package delivery or door-to-door bible hawker.

  I stepped through the house and down the long hallways, my flowery summer dress flowing around my long legs, the delicate tap of my cork wedge sandals on the polished wood floor echoing around the empty house.

  I pulled the door open and there she was. Beth. Winsome, elfin Beth, looking nervous and doubtful. I gasped and inhaled sharply and she lowered her gaze to the floor, a strange echo of how she had reacted when I’d opened my hotel room door to her in Vegas.

  “Hello Beth,” I managed to say, fighting back the warring feelings of dread and excitement that were washing over me. “Won’t you come in?”

  Beth nodded and stepped past me. “I-I’m sorry I took so long to get here, Miss Ross, I had to quit my apartment and put my things in storage,” she added.

  Oh God, this was real, I thought to myself.

  I studied the girl as she gazed around my hallway in awestruck silence. She was carrying nothing more than a simple rucksack, slung over one slender shoulder. She was dressed in a tight, white t-shirt, with skinny jeans and white sneakers. Her dark hair was held back in a short ponytail, revealing her pale neck.

  “I-I wasn’t sure if you were serious,” she breathed.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, knowing exactly what she meant.

  “You said I belonged to you now… I… I hoped you meant that…” she said, hanging her head, sounding nervous and guilty.

  “Do you want to belong to me?”

  “Y-yes.”

  I cocked my head to one side. “In what way?”

  She sniffed and blinked. “I want to be yours, completely… like a, like a doll...”

  My heart skipped a beat and I gasped. I sensed my world changing, and I wanted it more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life.

  “Beth,” I said, summoning the feeling of command and control that I’d felt that night in Vegas. “I want you to go upstairs, and enter my bedroom. It’s the third room on the right.” She nodded, raising her head for the first time. “I want you to strip naked and put your clothes in the hamper you’ll find in the closet. Then I want you to look in my drawers - you’ll find a pair of white, silk stockings and a garter belt. Put these on, then select a pair of white shoes from the closet. When you are done, I want you to come downstairs and find me.”

  The girl nodded and turned quickly, hurrying up the stairs.

  I sighed and shook my head. Was this really happening? I thought.

  I turned to my left and stepped into the dining room, a long, open space that was dominated by an extravagant dining table. The room also contained a number of plastic crates, the final legacy of my late husband. The crates were bound for Goodwill. At least Jeremy’s death would allow those less fortunate to enjoy the luxury of tailor made shirts and pants! I stepped past the boxes and stood by the window, enjoying the view of my garden, trying not to think about the obedient girl who was naked upstairs.

  A creak on the stairs roused me from my thoughts and I turned around to find Beth standing in the doorway. “Is this okay?” she asked, her arms hanging limply by her side.

  I took a step towards her, unable to look away from her captivating body. Her naked breasts were small and round, her perfect pink nipples firm and taut. I allowed my eyes to crawl down her stomach, taking in every sensual inch of her young flesh. I lingered for a moment on her pussy. She’d shaved herself since last time I’d seen it, giving her sex the pristine appearance of unsullied youth. I gazed at her puffy labia, enjoying the faint hint of the delights within.

  Her pale legs were clad in white stockings, held in place with a lace garter belt. She’d selected white sandals from my collection, high stiletto heels that wrapped around her feet with a mesmerizing array of delicate leather straps.

  The girl looked like a perplexing contradiction - virginal and pure, yet sensual and provocative. I was filled with a need to both mother her and to violate her. I supposed that I would do both.

  But, for now, I was content to simply look at her and bathe in the realization that she was entirely mine.

  A sudden thought crossed my mind. One borne of desire and a sordid sense of control. I looked over at the plastic crates at the side of the room.

  “Beth,” I said, “I’d like you to step over to those crates and climb up onto one of them. I wish to see you properly.”

  The young girl turned to the boxes, looking confused and scared. But she quickly obeyed, taking tiny steps over the polished floor. She paused by the box, then turned and lowered herself down onto it until she was sitting on the edge. Then she lifted her legs gracefully, up and to the side. With considerable trepidation, she lifted herself to her feet, taking care not to lose balance on her precarious heels. She stood and turned to face me, replicating the simple pose she’d had beside the door.

  “Like this?” she asked, unsure of herself.

  I paused and lifted a hand to my chin, studying her as she stood above me.

  “Not quite. I want you to pose like a mannequin, perfectly still. I want your expression to be blank and mindless. I want you to be the doll you spoke of,” I said, suddenly sure of what I needed.

  Beth capitulated instantly, falling into a doll-like pose. Hands raised, palms upwards, legs spread apart slightly. Her face became rigid, eyes raised upwards, mouth held open slightly.

  She became lifeless and blank, entirely mine, totally possessed. And the sight thrilled me. At once, the realization of what I wanted washed over me, what I needed, what I had the power and desire to obtain.

  My pussy sang out with waves of pure arousal as I gazed at the motionless, frozen girl. Hot warmth that demanded attention, a slick desire that I now had an outlet for.

  I gazed around the room. The box on which Beth posed was only one of many. Countless empty stands, countless opportunities. I realized then that Beth was only the first, that in time I would fill all of those places, with girls of every kind. And they would be mine to do with as I pleased!

  Epilogue: Collected

  Now

  “Why am I here Miss Ross?”

  I turned from the window where I stood and looked back across the viewing room. I’d drawn back the drapes and the long room was bathed in the long light of late afternoon sun. The ruddy glow cast the onyx plinths - no longer occupied by my frozen dolls - in stark contrast. Elise was standing in the doorway, totally naked, her hair sticking to her damp forehead in tangled strands. As I watched, she gripped her left arm with her right hand and shifted nervously from foot to foot, lowering her gaze.

  “Why do you think you’re here Elise?”

  Elise furrowed her brow in concentration and looked up towards me. Her gaze scanned the room and a look of realization settled on her face. “There…” she began, her eyes flicking between the unoccupied plinths. “There were six before, now there are seven,” she added under her breath.

  I followed her gaze to the end of the room where I’d placed the seventh plinth. It was set back against the far wall, equidistant from the two rows of three that lined the other walls. I said nothing, allowing Elise to process this new information.

  She looked up at me again. “When I asked you before if you knew me… I was right, wasn’t I?”

  I smiled and took a step towards her. “What
does it mean to know someone?”

  “I-I don’t understand…”

  “I was aware of you, that is true.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I paused and studied her. This was the moment of truth, the point at which my scheme was revealed. “I first saw you six months ago in a coffee shop. You were with friends. I overheard a part of your conversation and watched the three of you talk. While your companions spoke of the men in their lives, you sat back and listened. You played along, but there was no sense of belonging or commonality there.”

  She nodded numbly, shocked but not surprised.

  “I saw you again in a bookstore downtown, several weeks later. You were browsing one of the less-travelled sections on human sexuality; in particular, books about submission and domination.” She looked away and blushed. “I tracked you down on Facebook and Twitter - remarkably easy to do if you know the smallest details about a person. From there, I learned that you were single, that you hated your job, that you longed for simplicity. I used your details to contact your high school teachers, posing as a potential employer, looking for references.”

  Elise gasped, and turned away. I could only imagine how violating it felt to learn that someone had delved so deeply into your life. “That’s… you can’t…” she began.

  “Your teachers responded with a remarkable uniformity. You were a diligent student, quiet, accomplished. But there was a word that they all used: obedient.”

  I took another two short steps towards her until I was standing mere inches from her naked body. I could see her breasts rise and fall with each short breath and the intriguing glint of moisture on her pussy hairs. I reached out and touched the back of my fingers to her upper arm. She flinched but didn’t back away. Instead, she turned towards me and lifted her head, fixing me with a numb stare.

  “Why are there seventh plinths, Miss Ross?” she asked, but the question had no real conviction.

  “Why do you think there are seven plinths Elise?” I asked with a warm smile.

  She sighed and her shoulders slumped, an internal surrender. For the first time, I allowed myself to relax.

  “I am being collected,” she breathed, gazing off into the distance.

  I lifted my hand to her cheek, touching her burning skin. She leaned into my hand and sighed. “If you want to be,” I said. “You’ve seen what we have here. You’ve seen what I demand of my girls. You’ve experienced the kind of life that you could enjoy. But it is up to you, you must give yourself to me. Your life is not mine to claim.”

  I stepped back away from her and crossed my hands before me, studying the tormented girl. Elise turned her head and looked back into the hall, at the doorway that would take her back to her life, away from this crazy situation that she never asked for, and never wanted.

  Then she looked back into the viewing room. Her head dropped and she closed her eyes, lost in an internal struggle that I could only imagine. And then, as the first creeping signs of doubt began to re-enter my mind, she took a single small step forwards. Then another.

  With glacial slowness, the tiptoed across the room, through the shafts of amber light that poured in through the windows. I followed her progress, admiring her young body, studying every toned curve. She reached the seventh plinth and paused before it, then looked back at me with a look of agonized indecision on her face.

  I gazed back and nodded once, firm and clear.

  Elise turned away and took a single step up onto the ebony cylinder, pausing as she lifted herself up. Then she turned her body to face me and fell into a mannequin pose. Arms held out before her in a submissive stance, head raised, painted lips slightly open and eyes wide. In the ruddy glow, her skin appeared marble hard and pristine, and I sighed at the perfect beauty before me, an avatar of obedience, my newest living doll.

  THE END

  Collecting Chloe, Society Brat

  by Ella Ford

  Chapter 1: Play Time

  Now

  My name is Claudia Ross and I collect girls.

  Does that surprise you? I collect girls like you might collect stamps or comic books. I am a vociferous collector. I see one that I want and I acquire her, going to great lengths to put her into my collection. I treat her like a possession, using her as I see fit, playing with her. She is a toy, and toys should be played with. When a girl joins my collection, she becomes a doll, and I immerse her in a world of total obedience and utter pleasure.

  I sense your disapproval, you think I’m some kind of monster? A wretched human trafficker, taking that which is not mine, abducting girls for my own perverted needs. No! If you believe only one thing I say in this testimony, believe this: I only collect those who wish to be collected.

  Thought let’s be completely honest here. There are collectors out there who employ less acceptable means of acquisition. Unscrupulous women and men who wield a formidable array of narcotics, hypnotic suggestions or plain, old fashioned brute force to achieve what they desire. But that is not me. I want you to understand that. Maybe you will come to believe me in time...

  Collection is a thrill for me; acquiring a pretty, submissive girl to stand beside my other girls; to pose, to dress, to use. But part of the thrill of that collection is the intoxicating allure of consent. My girls come to me because they want to come to me. When I own them, it is because they wish to be owned. Every single piece in my collection is there because she wants to be there.

  For some girls, that consent is immediate. An innate need for submission that finally seeks an outlet. When they find out the truth behind my intent, they capitulate in an instant, becoming the doll that I require them to be. For these girls, there is a relief in surrender, a casting off of modern responsibility, the pressure to conform, the expectation of agency. As they take their place in my collection, adopting that blank, mannequin pose, one can almost feel the weight of their former lives draining from their minds to be replaced by obedience, capitulation, submission.

  These girls know, in the deepest, darkest recesses of their minds, that they want to be collected. I simply show them this truth.

  The life I offer is not for everyone though, and when I seek a girl for my collection, I do my homework. I am diligent and responsible, employing my considerable resources to the task of verification. I delve into the lives of my targets, picking apart their pasts, profiling their personalities. I look for signs, indications that they fit the slave archetype - a history of implicit submission; a series of failed relationships that were one-sided and unfulfilling; dead-end careers with little progression; high-school assessments that speak of quiet girls, obedient girls, middle-of-the-road underachievers who seem almost afraid to succeed.

  Does that shock you? Does it disgust you? Does it sound as though I am preying on the vulnerable, the weak, those unable to resist?

  Perhaps you’re right. It is a thought that occurs to me frequently. But as I walk my collection room, stepping between my posed dolls, studying their soft skin and expressionless faces, I see only contentment. I see girls who are free to leave at any time, but remain nevertheless. I have no hold over them other than the promise of satisfaction, of safety, of pleasure. Any doubt I have about my motivations or my intent evaporates in the instant that I select a girl, or several, to accompany me to my bedroom that night. Any guilt evaporates, swept away by the animating look of gratitude and anticipation that lights the faces of the dolls I select.

  Like it or not, some girls simply want to be owned. They want to be free of modern expectations, giving themselves to another. I simply provide that opportunity.

  But not all girls come to me so easily. There are girls who simply do not possess this need for submission, or don’t yet realize they do. There are those who fight against their urges, railing against their capitulation at every turn, unwilling to face the implications of what I offer.

  And there are those that I do not intend to collect, girls who find their way into my life and my home nevertheless. Accidental acquisitions
, the chance finding when you least expect it.

  Girls like Chloe…

  ---

  When I was a young girl, I liked to play with my toys. Though my family was never wealthy, not by any stretch of the imagination, I nevertheless always had the latest playthings. I would spend long hours alone in my room, dressing my dolls and using my imagination to conjure sprawling and endless adventures. My favourite doll - Marnie - I imagined to be a college graduate, finding romance and excitement with her boyfriend - my only male doll, Jones. But it was her adventures with her special girlfriends - Victoria and Penelope - that I enjoyed the most. Sending them on imaginary shopping trips, on holidays, to parties. The adventures of my toys were as real to me as anything.

  As an adult, I still like to play with my dolls. But now, our adventures exist beyond the frail bounds of imagination. Isn’t it funny how things work out?

  ---

  Wednesday night was play time, a regular indulgence where I selected several girls to help me live out my fantasies. It was half dress-up, half pornographic scenario, and it excited me like nothing else in my privileged life.

  On this particular Wednesday, the session began with me sitting at the desk in my office. My role in this scenario was to play Miss Ross, a strict hotel manager. I was dressed in a smart business suit, with tight skirt and prim high heels. I was gazing down at a pile of papers, acting the part of a distracted boss, ticking here and crossing out there.

  Opposite me sat Sarah. Sarah was one of my dolls - I called her The Virgin. Each of my dolls had a role and a title, an unofficial classification of her inner nature. Sarah was petite and winsome, an elfin brunette with pale skin and a tiny body. Her hair was a mess of dark curls that framed her delicate features and almond eyes. She was quite beautiful and enticingly delicate, appearing far younger than her years. When I posed her, I usually dressed Sarah in a lacy white negligee, with flat shoes and little make-up. I liked her youth, her freshness, her innocence. I liked to corrupt it.