Dominating Chloe Ch 1 - 8 NSFW

Chloe is a friend who found out about my massage adventures and new found enthusiasm for tying people up and spanking the shit out of them. She said she was “intrigued and turned on” by my stories, that she “was a bit over regular stuff with guys”, that her favourite movie was “The Secretary” and that she also wanted me to make her free use in some way.

Well I always like to help out a friend so I said “ok”. She was so cute, her safe-word was “Scott Morrison” because she said the image of him shitting his pants at Maccas was the least sexy thing she could imagine.

So as I said I like to help out a friend, and that is definitely true, but I had another reason to want to tie up and smack Chloe: she had wasted hours of time in a stupid fuck up recently.

The fucking GPS fiasco or GPSgate as I call it, her vacant eyes as she drove us straight into that pedestrian tunnel, trapping us for hours, I can still taste the rage. She had the stupid thing on pedestrian mode and didn’t notice we were driving on a footpath for some fucking reason. I was texting and didn’t notice either, but I was not the driver.

Anyway I guess there may be a little resentment on my part still, because she made me miss a session humiliating a real estate agent named Bruce and I was looking forward to it, I really hate those cunts and I was planning to humiliate the shit out of him, just saying.

When she arrives she looks so good it almost makes me feel bad for what I am about to do to her!

The first thing I notice is the perfect line the back of her legs and her arse make as she presses backwards against the wall to steady herself in order to take off her black heels.

The miniskirt is black too, and a small part of it hangs down, breaking the firm, curved line the back of her toned legs make, a line that continues where her round arse stretches the skirt taut again like a drum skin.

She has a white, long sleeved shirt, big where her massive breasts make it swell out and impossibly tiny at the waist where it is tucked into the top of the skirt and I think about the way it won’t stay tucked in for long.

I pour tequila shots for both of us. We laugh a bit first, we drink more. Soon, she’s splayed across my knees, skirt hiked up around her waist, her breathing shallow above the little table where the cheap after-work shot glasses crowd out a greasy pizza box. Her arse is bare now that I have pushed her skirt up and her black knickers down to her upper thighs and her skin shines red already from the rough caresses of my hungry hand. I take up a paddle I have for such occasions and test its familiar heft. The wood shines with lacquer, domed on the back, witness to many arse beatings, not all delivered by me.

I start slow. A single slap, the crack of oak on skin, Chloe’s body jerking as if shocked at the betrayal. Her hips tremor in my grip. I administer the next in strict rhythm, methodical, counting in my head while she whimpers. By the time her arse is colored crimson, my palm aches with effort and Chloe’s tears are real. But she doesn’t say “Scott Morrison”.

OK no worries Chloe, I don’t feel the need to stop either. I really start putting my arm into it. Every hot welt seems to bleed some ancient toxin out of me, or maybe it is just stress. When I pause, Chloe's hands scrabble for the edge of the table, looking for some anchor in the confusion of pain and drunkeness. But I pull her hips back whenever her hands find purchase on an edge. There is no solace here! Not in Goddess Sarah’s house once I am loaded up on Tequila!

"Enough," she sniffs, voice gummy, desperate for dignity. I shake my head: "Not yet, babe. Why the fuck was the GPS on pedestrian mode again?"

I drag her upright by the wrist so her knees thump gracelessly to linoleum, her face splotched red as her arse. She tries to glare, hiccups, then drops her chin, losing the contest. I push her back, unbutton her shirt and get it off of her, and reach for the rope I prepared days ago, thick but soft, minimal grazing on the skin (hopefully).

The rope bites into her wrists as I bring them together and secure them in front of her. When she is tied I pull her back up onto my lap, lift her skirt and start again. The wooden paddle cracks against her flesh again and again until crimson blooms across her skin like artillery bursts across a disputed territory. The noise is loud now “CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!” I wonder what my neighbours think is happening in here?

After a while I give her a break, it’s time for something else. I take a piece of paper and throw it in front of her.

"Write it," I command, throwing a pen at her trembling hands. "I will not be stupid. Five hundred times." When she writes "stuped" on the fifth line, my finger traces the error. I reach for the bedside drawer, grab my vibrators, one pink, one black. Her eyes widen, pupils contracting to pinpricks. The lubricant bottle clicks open, cold gel glistening as I coat each device methodically. Her bound and reddened wrists strain against the thick rope as I position the vibrators under her skirt, her breath catching with each slow insertion. I twist the dials clockwise until they buzz like angry whipper-snippers. Her handwriting dissolves into jagged lightning strikes across the page, pen skidding off the edge. A teardrop lands on the "S" of her sixth attempt, bleeding the ink into a blue-black pool. My phone screen illuminates my face blue as I type to the number labeled "Marcus - 2B": "Door's unlocked. You won't believe what I caught."

This is the free use bit if you didn’t realise. And for the record she still hasn’t said “Scott Morrison”

The reply is five letters: "omw : )" and a GIF of a throbbing eggplant with tears next to it.

Chloe’s head bows, her mess of hair curtaining her face as she tries keep still and act normal. But her body, her body is where the confession takes place as it often does.

Shuddering breaths, thighs slippery and trembling, hips forever wiggling. I hammer the paddle one last time on her inner thigh, watch the line bloom, then peel her knickers down to her knees. The smell of her is: sharp, animal, wet.

She looks up with eyes gone glassy, something inside overturned. "Please," she says.

I take the pen and force it into her hands, still bound together and guide her to the page. "Fifty more, then you can stop." She writes, scrawled loops and jagged upstrokes, each letter a little seizure. The vibrators hum and I modulate the frequency, learning her tells: the sharp inhale at level eight, the trembling stillness at ten, that distant, dissociative moan at eleven. I let her hover there, two clit-strokes beneath detonation point, until she’s quaking and looking up into her skull, the pen dragging pale blue furrows in the paper, the letters barely decipherable.

Chapter 2

I hear the door before she does. The knob rattles, and then it’s Marcus in the doorway, all muscular shoulders and careful leer. "Evening, ladies" he says, but his gaze never reaches my face. Chloe makes a strangled noise and tries to pull her hands apart, but the ropes hold. There's a moment, a heavy, almost polite silence, during which both of us assess the next move.

"She’s been very, very stupid," I say. Marcus nods solemnly, like he’s witnessed a dog shitting itself. He sloughs his jacket, cracks his knuckles.

“Do you mind fixing my car after this?” I ask.

“Yeah no worries foxy.” He says.

I position myself behind Chloe and palm her scalp, turning her head upright and whispering, "You’ll be good for Marcus, won’t you." A nod, barely perceptible, but it’s enough. I push her skirt up over her waist again then unhook her bra with a movement so quick it looks like a magician’s trick. Her body shivers in the draft. Marcus traces his calloused thumb along her bare shoulder and says, "Let’s see those eyes" and I tilt up her chin so she’s forced to meet him, the vibrators still humming between her legs.

She trembles, but not from cold. Marcus kneels at her level, and for a moment, I study the symmetry of their faces: Chloe’s wet, mottled red and gasping, Marcus’s sharp and precise, a surgeon before the operation. He tucks a sticky lock of Chloe’s hair behind her ear with a tenderness neither of us expected. Only then does he reach out, two fingers dragging slow from Chloe’s navel down to the toys crammed between her legs. He thumbs the roiling black one, presses deeper, tests her like you’d check a steak for doneness.

“Fuck, you weren’t kidding,” Marcus says. “How long have you been edging her?”

“Not sure” I say “I lose track of time.”

I nudge the vibrators to their level 11 crescendo. Chloe’s knees start to jackhammer and she cries out loud. Her toes flex, splayed and ink-stained from the stack of crumpled paper beneath her shins. Marcus hovers, waiting, reading the weather on her face. When the storm breaks her entire body locks for a moment, her breath freezing, then she explodes into a series of uncontrollable spasms. I reach around and kill the power on the vibes, leaving her twitching on her knees.

She sobs for a second time before finding the breath to say “More.” But it’s not really a request, more a formal acknowledgement that the universe, for now, has put her on pause and is having it’s way with her. Marcus cleans his hands on a napkin, throws the vibrators over the tabletop and onto the floor, then tugs the knotted rope to see if it holds. “Do you want her on the couch?” he asks me, as if arranging a tarp for some messy project.

“Yeah,” I say. We move as a team, lifting Chloe by armpits and hips, balancing her limp exhaustion between us. Her skin feels feverish; her sweat dampens my forearms. We prop her arse up high on the arm of the couch, her hips resting on it, her legs hanging over the side, her toes on the ground squirming. Marcus whispers something into her hair: a single syllable, nothing to my ears. He circles, studies her, and sinks down by her ankles, one hand on each calf.

He doesn’t rush. He’s better at this than I assumed, detailed, as if every little thing required a pause for making sure it was done right. His mouth explores, tongue flicking behind the knee, then the red-shaded thigh, then finally higher, deeper, where the salt of her sweat blends with the cheap mango lube. Chloe whimpers with every micro-movement, some new flavor of submission discovered in her body’s unwilling lunge toward pleasure. She’s not fighting anymore. Maybe she’s surrendered completely, or maybe she’s gone somewhere else, left behind the day dreaming girl who drove into a tunnel and evolved.

Either way she is ready for his dick. She’s panting in great, disbelieving gulps, her painted fingernails gouging the upholstery, a slowly sobering witness to her own self being used. Marcus unzips and lines himself up, he doesn’t make a ceremony of it, just presses in, no fucking around. Nice style Marcus. I think Chloe expects him to destroy her, but the first thrust is slow and deliberate, a test of her limits. Her eyes flip open in satisfaction, then roll shut. She’s so wet the sound of her being fucked is almost embarrassing. I catch her bound wrists and hold them, watching the sensations being reported through her face.

Marcus works her steadily, not too softy now, but with a deep, smoldering enjoyment that is palpable, each push matched to the microflinches of her body. I hold her jaw now, make her look at me, make her remember who commissioned this ordeal. Her mascara has bled; her lips are glossy with spit, trembling with each new impact. "Fucking hell" Marcus grunts, but never loses his measured pace. Chloe is tight I saw, now her insides must be bearing down with every second, matching him grip for thrust. Her breathing has become something animal, uncoiling in these strangled, low-pitched moans against my palm.

I keep her face pointed to mine, don’t let her blink away into some private void. "You getting this?" I whisper, and she nods, cheek wet against my knuckles. I’m not sure if she’s crying or if the tequila just wants out any way it can. I let the tears come. This is the penance part after all.

The air in my apartment is thick with the signature of bodies: sweat, lubricant, the metallic breath of sex. Marcus is methodical, making every stroke count. He stops only to grab her heels and hold the soles of her feet up. Chloe’s toes are painted the same chipped coral as her fingernails. A tiny, idiotic detail, but that’s the sort of thing my brain bothers to notice. I flex her wrist and smooth her hair back.

Chloe shouts into the crook of her elbow as Marcus starts to fuck her properly, his hips rising to hit from a better angle, detonating the pieces of her self-control that remain. I watch her shut her eyes, and when the next orgasm overtakes her, she bites her own arm hard enough to leave a circular line of impressions.

That is what Marcus needs to finish and he cums inside her with the loudest bellow going completely stiff and cumming with such volume that half of it squirts out over my table and floor, Chloe’s feet jerk in his hands, her hips heave, her dignity is destroyed by a guy she doesn’t even know and yours truly and I fucking LOVED IT!

Chapter 3

Work sucks. The boss tells me to do something and I do it exactly the way he wants. When it is ready he screams into my ear that it is all wrong, to start again and next time to pay more attention. If I thought I could get away with it I would put crushed glass in his coffee.

On the weekend Chloe is telling me how much she enjoyed our time together with Marcus, that she wants to do it again and that she wants more attendees at the party next time and for it to be even kinkier.

“OK honey!” I say brightly. Marcus only half fixed my car last time and I need his painter friend to sort out my shitty laundry walls. This could work out for both of us.

We stop at Bunnings to buy zip ties, soft white braided marine rope, chunky looking green clothes pegs, fat blue fly swatters, candles, a bright orange harness, thick chain and a whole basket of padlocks and a new pond pump for me because the old one is fucked.

The old Stephen King looking guy at the front gives the two of us the weirdest look and I lift the bottom of Chloe’s tartan mini-skirt a bit and tell him he can join if he wants, Chloe ain’t fussy. It looks as if something shorts out inside his head and he doesn’t even ask to check our bags.

Chloe giggles and her face goes red, but she is into it. Chloe is always into it, as long as “it” is something sexual.

Back at home I message Marcus “You up for another party? Chloe wants more guys this time!?!? $100 each for cost of gear.”

His message comes back so fucking fast it may have broken the speed of light. This time there are three eggplants and three tear emojis! Chloe giggles and grinds her tartan clad arse around on the velvety purple couch.

“Chloe why do you have clothes on? Visitors are coming” I say.

“Oh sorry.” She says.

“Sorry what?”

“Sorry Goddess Sarah.”

“That’s better, now get all those clothes off and we will get this harness on you to make things easier for the boys.” I say.

She giggles and squirms and starts stripping off with a cheeky little grin. Once she is fully undressed I slip the harness up her long, elegant legs until it frames her pussy like a portrait. A really hot and enticing portrait. Much, much better than the Mona Lisa. It has me rubbing myself just like the time in the art gallery when I got escorted out.

“Wow look at you all dressed up for the dance!” I say

“Tee hee” is all she can manage.

But that is ok, I don’t see any reason why Chloe needs a lot of dialogue.

Then the sound of shuffling work boots in the hall, a loud booming laugh, the sound of someone opening a tinnie and then a loud knock cracks through my apartment. “HOY HOY!” yells Marcus.

“Coming!” I shout and unlock the door for them. Chloe’s blue eyes are wide with slutty anticipation.

At my door stands Marcus and two of his friends. They looks like tradies. All of them are completely piss drunk.

“Come in.” I say in my most sultry voice. “Oh wait have you each got a hundred first? That gear was expensive and my pond pump was fucked so I got a new one.”

The three of them each hand over two rolled-up fifties. Marcus puts his in my bra so I slap him across the face and tell him I am not the merchandise. Chloe is red from her cheeks to her collarbones, but she’s also giggling and wiggling her legs, lifting her knees, which makes the harness dig in and her big tits bounce in the sweetest, hottest way. I try not to start rubbing myself again there and then but the images of her in the fluorescent orange harness and nothing else is really working for me, if I am being honest.

I pocket all the notes. “Alright, gentlemen, the rules are: Goddess Sarah is in charge, Chloe is free use, and if anyone hears the words ‘Scott Morrison,’ you pull out and stop immediately. Got it?” I say.

“Wow Scott Morrison, that is the least sexy safe-word I have ever heard in my life, that alone is sure to make my dick soft. Bravo, chef’s kiss Chloe! Nice fucking safe word! Fucking Bravo!” exclaims Marcus.

They all nod. The one called Doug is already staring so hard his bogan jaw is sagging like a flat tyre.

I make all three of them kick off their work boots right at the door. They’re so drunk they nearly topple each other over, boots clunking against the ground one by one.

Chloe looks like she’s about to pass out from the attention. Three pairs of eyes on her, and not a stitch of clothing or even drunkenness to hide behind. I can see her nipples go hard. I can see her knees start to knock together. She’s doing that thing where she’s trying not to look at anyone but also can’t stop making eye contact with everyone at the same time.

“Alright, boys. Ground rules again for the people in the back: Chloe does what she’s told, no fucking around with her safe word, and if you break anything in my place you fix it or you’re next in the fucking harness. Got it?”

“YES, GODDESS SARAH,” Marcus yells, and then Doug and Painter Guy echo it with this weird drunken harmony like a shit-faced choir. Chloe laughs but then clamps her lips shut like she’s afraid the noise will make her explode.

I drag Chloe up by the harness and pull her roughly into the centre of the semi-circle of already undressing and semi-hard men.

Chloe stumbles. She’s giggling, but it’s that tight little giggle where you know her brain’s shorting out. Her harness is glowing in the shitty rental’s lights, her massive tits bouncing and heaving with her breath, and if you think the three guys are looking at her face, you’re hilarious. I don’t even try to fake it. I stare dead at her nipples, her stomach, the way the orange straps of the harness make her pussy look as enticing as the vision that was the last temptation of Christ, but framed by fluro orange and with way more wetness.

Doug and Painter Guy (I swear Marcus just said “Painter Guy” so I’m not even gonna pretend I know his fuckin’ name) are getting their shirts off. Tradie arms, large muscles covered in that white dust they always have on them and sunburn.

Chloe wobbles in her harness, blinking up at me like ‘What now, Goddess Sarah?’ and it’s actually kind of adorable.

“Now? How about we suspend you from the ceiling in that harness? I am fairly sure that ceiling fan can take her weight right guys?”

“Yep definitely.” Painter Guy grunts.

They hoist her up and get a rope through the loops of the harness and then around the blades of the fan, which creaks and groans but holds her off the ground so that her toes can’t quite reach ground any longer, they only scramble about uselessly, seeking purchase and finding none.

Chapter 4

For a while Chloe just hangs there by the harness, bare and pink all over, three dicks halfway out of their jocks in record time.

Her face could fry an egg, it’s so red. She keeps looking down at her own floating far away toes, then at my straight face, then at the unsympathetic floor, like maybe the right answer is somewhere in the shitty carpet. I have to fight not to piss myself laughing.

Marcus doesn’t even hesitate. He’s already dropped his pants and is lining up behind her, like he’s clocked in at a gloryhole and has three minutes before he gets kicked the fuck out. Doug and Painter Guy, still no idea what his name even is, start rubbing Chloe’s breasts and pulling her hair.

Chloe makes the weirdest squeak, like a cartoon hamster getting pinched in it’s wheel, and Painter Guy just grins like he won a meat tray at the local. Doug’s got both hands on her tits now, squeezing them like he’s stress-testing a pool noodle, and Marcus, classic Marcus, is already yanking her head back by the ponytail so she’s forced to arch her back to compensate.

The harness is honestly a fucking masterpiece of slutty ingenuity. I have to admire my own work. It lifts her up so every interesting bit of her is lined up for the horny cunts. Paint this, Painter Guy.

Marcus is the kind of man who’s spent a lot of time thinking about this exact scenario, I can tell. He’s stroking himself and holding her steady while Doug is just going full goblin mode on her boobs. Chloe’s nipples have gone bright pink and stiff as tacks, and her moans are this kind of half-choked, half-wailing mess, and it really does sound like she’s being murdered by anticipation.

Marcus starts slow, just pushing into her cunt from behind in shallow, steady thrusts, and Chloe’s body kind of jerks, like a puppet. Like the harness has her locked up but everything inside her is just going haywire. Doug is mauling her tits and also licking her shoulder like a puppy, which is unexpected, but you do you Dougie!

And I’m honestly not judging. Painter Guy is pulling her hair and doing this thing where he pinches her cheek and then circles her nipple with his thumb like he’s testing a rock melon for ripeness at the fruit market. I almost want to laugh, but it’s actually really hot? Like, I can’t even explain why, but the way Chloe is blushing and drooling and twitching in the harness is just wow.

Her thighs are shaking. Her toes are doing this little tap-dance in the air. I bet she can’t even feel her feet at this point. There’s no way she can. Her feet are twitching a mile a minute, the harness is biting into her thighs, and Marcus is pounding her slippery hanging cunt now like it’s the last job he’ll ever get paid for. Her head keeps jerking back on the pull of her own ponytail and every time Doug pinches her nipples I swear her eyeballs do a full lap in her skull.

I get this weird urge to laugh because she’s just dangling there, blinking like a goldfish, mouth open and drooling, hair going haywire, and all three of these idiots are just obsessed with using her like a new toy at Christmas. Like, genuinely, Chloe asked for this, but even I’m shocked how much she seems to be loving it.

Marcus is pounding her with real vigour now, making her bounce forward in front of him and then catching her hips so she doesn’t crash into the wall. You could probably use her like a sex wrecking ball and knock down the whole kitchen. I’m almost tempted, there is not enough cabinet space, but then as I said it’s a rental.

Marcus quickens his pace until he could not go any faster, his rock hard dick thrusting into Chloe from behind with a desperate thirst for her soft, wet Aussie flesh.

Chloe is just fucking dangling there, literally dangling like a thug taken out by Spider Man, and Marcus is pounding her so hard the whole ceiling fan is starting to wobble and the harness straps are digging in and leaving red lines. The noise is next level: every time he slams into her, the harness squeaks, her boobs slap together, and her mouth makes these insane, helpless sounds, like she’s being tickled and tortured at the same time.

Doug’s got her left nipple pinched and stretched out so far it looks like he’s trying to set a world record. His other hand is everywhere at once. He keeps trying to smack her but Chloe is a moving target and he misses half the time, sometimes only slapping air but getting off on it anyway. Painter Guy is kissing her neck and biting her ear. He does not let go of her ponytail. Not for a single fucking second.

Marcus starts to struggle and grunt and sweat in streams down his chest, then he yells “FUCK!” and cums inside Chloe with a massive groan and falls off her, twitching on the ground like a fish on the bottom of a tin boat.

Chapter 5

Painter Guy gets a turn next. He slides his hand up Chloe’s thigh, almost tender except he’s got sausage fingers and is breathing like he’s about to pass out. "You ready for this?" he asks her, but it comes out more like "uh

uh, you, like, want it?” And Chloe just nods, but her eyes are already rolled halfway up and her mouth is doing this weird little open-close thing, like she’s afraid her voice is going to make the moment collapse in on itself.

If you ever doubted this girl was into humiliation, here’s your evidence: she’s hanging from a ceiling fan, three blokes and me all completely obsessed with her, and instead of screaming “Scott Morrison” and calling it, she’s just blushing, leaking, and making these gaspy little moans that all sound like they’re coming from the inside of a half-drowned kitten.

Painter Guy, who really should have a name but I refuse out of principle, starts slow, lining up in front of Chloe and her pussy is just at the right height for his cock. Genius, honestly. They will thank me but the harness does all the work.

He grabs her hips and holy shit, it’s like Chloe’s body just wakes up into this next-level zone. She’s hanging there completely at their mercy, and Painter Guy (that’s his name now, sorry mate) gets his cock lined up and just shoves it in with a “fuck, I need this” kind of thrust that bangs into her so hard the ceiling fan actually rocks. That fan is not built for this, by the way. I am 99% sure if the body count gets any higher, we’ll all get buried under a pile of rubble, timber and harness straps.

But, okay, focus, I need to be getting these details right. Painter Guy is fucking Chloe and it is loud. Chloe’s moans, Painter Guy’s loud grunts and that wet slapping sound fills the room, and even Doug’s eyes go a little wide like, fuck, I never heard fucking so loud before. That’s fucking loud!

Marcus is just standing there, arms crossed, watching like a supervisor at Bunnings who’s seen it all and still has to sign your fucking timesheet. Someone has to keep order in this clusterfuck. Chloe’s dangling from the fan, getting pounded out of her head, and Painter Guy is fucking her like he’s got three minutes to live, hips slamming in and out and in and out, the harness jerking with every single movement.

I stare at Chloe’s pussy and it’s… fuck, it’s a mess. Painter Guy’s cock is thick and Chloe is just swallowing it up, no resistance at all, just this constant splatter of wet, obscene, suction noises that are bouncing off my shitty rental walls. Her thighs are spread so wide she almost looks double-jointed, Painter Guy hold her thighs apart and the harness is digging in so hard that there’s these red imprints along her hips and dripping thighs.

Doug is just fascinated. He’s not even jerking off now, more just taking notes and filing mental images in his wank bank for later. It’s the same for me.

Chapter 6

I’m not even slightly ashamed about it. I’m just staring open-mouthed at Chloe’s pussy while Painter Guy rails her like a demolition crew with a personal vendetta. Her whole body is vibrating in the harness. The ceiling fan is groaning and Marcus is grinning like a fucking idiot.

If only I could bottle this moment and sell it, I would be rich as fuck.

I look at Chloe’s face and it’s not really human anymore, it’s more sweat and lust and wet hair and the weirdest expression of humiliation blended with pure fucking bliss. She’s moaning like a goddamn animal, not even trying to keep it together. At some point I think she’s going to break the harness or maybe just explode.

Painter Guy speeds up, thighs trembling, his cock hammering into her so hard the smack of skin on skin is louder than my own heartbeat thumping in my head. Her toes curl like little claws. Her hands grip the rope above her, I keep staring at her pussy. I wouldn’t want to miss anything.

I mean, what am I supposed to do, just sit here and not stare at Chloe’s pussy while she gets railed on a ceiling fan? Like, be normal about it? Sure, maybe I’m not the most normal person, but if you put Chloe in a harness with her legs spread and her whole body just hanging there while she is getting tag teamed, dripping all over the carpet, what the fuck do you expect me to do, look at the wall?

Anyway, I want to say Painter Guy has some actual technique, but honestly it’s just brute force and a lot of weird grunting. Chloe doesn’t seem to mind. She’s lost the ability to form words or blink at a regular interval, so you know, it’s working for her. The harness is cutting into her hips and it’s got her cunt basically served up like a hanging platter, and Painter Guy is just slamming himself into her like he’s trying to win a fucking contest.

Painter Guy cums with a massive groan and almost loses balance. He bear hugs Chloe to stop himself from falling and THAT is the exact moment it all goes wrong! The fan can’t take the weight of two people. One horny slut was a big enough ask; two is a bridge too far. The fan is ripped out of the ceiling like a wisdom tooth from a jaw.

The fan comes down, Chloe comes down, Painter guy comes down, they all come down together.

The crash is so loud people must hear it in the next suburb. In the middle of my floor is a massive pile of legs, rubble and fan blades.

“Are you OK?” I yell.

“Yep” says Painter Guy.

“Chloe?” I ask.

“Uh I think so.” she says.

“When is my turn?” asks Doug.

Chapter 7

Marcus and I help lift all the rubble off Chloe and Painter Guy. My ceiling is absolutely fucked, it looks like a bomb has fallen through it, the landlord is going to be absolutely pissed, he once threatened to evict me over chipped paint.

“So um I hope you have enough money to pay for the ceiling Painter Guy?” I ask.

“What? Why me?”

“Well I said no damage to my property, the fan was holding up fine until you decided to use Chloe as a parachute!” I say.

“Aw, come on. It probably would have happened anyway.”

“Nope, you will need to fix it or it will be you in the harness at a big party to collect enough money to pay for this.” I say.

Painter Guy does not know what to say. There is a moment of silence, and then:

“I will do it.” says Chloe

“Do what?” I ask.

“This is really fun. A big party would be great actually!”

“Wow, you really are a needy slut Chloe! Yeah OK we could set that up.” I say. “But no more hanging from the ceiling, we will have to find a better way for people to interact with you.”

During the week I receive a phone call from my real estate agent Nathan. That guy makes me laugh, he looks like an angry baby in a Tarocash suit. One of the neighbours has dobbed me in because of the loud noises in my apartment and the agent wants to yell down the phone at me that it is “completely unacceptable and reeks of anti-social behaviour”. Like, do I seem anti-social to you? I am always socialising.

He calms down slightly "Your neighbours have a right to peacefully enjoy their homes without having to listen to the racket from your address!”

Then he asks “What was the loud noise on the weekend? They tell me it sounded like a bomb went off in there!”

I say “Not sure. Must have been the movie we were watching. I will keep the volume down.” and then I hang up on him. I will have to get that fan fixed soon, that dickhead likes to do surprise inspections and if he sees the fan I am fucked. There is no way I will find another place in this housing market. I guess the reason I love dominating Chloe so much is the lack of control I feel over my own life. Maybe I should talk to a professional or something.

On Saturday Marcus and all his tradie friends are in my apartment again. One of them is a carpenter and he has brought some long lengths of timber to build a large crucifix. Apparently Chloe is playing Jesus this time. Hot, hot, hot. I start making a crown of thorns out of fresh rose stems. I choose the ones with extra long thorns because I know how much Chloe will appreciate the effort.

When Carpenter is done with all the bolting and sanding, the crucifix looks really impressive! It is large, solid and serious, the type of thing you would martyr someone on. I like the vibe that we are just about to execute a slutty messiah, it’s so fucking hot!

We get Chloe undressed and stand her in front of the crucifix. Carpenter guy takes charge like a horny Pontius Pilate. He orders Chloe’s arms zip tied to the cross and her ankles chained wide apart, one ankle chained to the fence, the other to the table. I place the crown of thorns on her head. She looks so cute, like a hot slutty Jesus. I put my pink vibrator in her so she can warm up while we have a drink.

There’s a weird silent energy to the room. Chloe, tied up Jesus style, arms and legs stretched, zip-tied at the wrists and chained at the ankles, face flushed and glistening with sweat. The orange harness is long gone now. All she’s wearing is the crucifix and a pink vibrator that sticks out of her like a little flag claiming slut territory.

And nothing else.

Chloe is a work of fucking art actually. The crown of thorns sits crooked on her head, a couple thorns definitely poking her, cause every few seconds her expression scrunches and she makes this tiny gasp like “oh, ow, but fuck yes.” Every centimetre of her is stretched and exposed. Her tits are standing up and out, nipples stiff, shiny with sweat. Her stomach is so tight it looks like she’s bracing for a car crash, but it’s just the anticipation.

Marcus hands me a shitty beer and then takes a tinnie for himself. Painter Guy cranks the vibe to medium, Chloe’s whole body short-circuits. It’s the funniest thing you’ve ever seen, the way her toes flex and her face just goes blank for a second, like her brain has crashed and is struggling to reboot. The boys are all around the table, beers everywhere, and everyone’s trying not to stare too much but they’re all watching. You can tell by the sneaky, sideways glances and the way Marcus keeps losing his spot in the footy conversation.

It’s funny to watch Chloe try to play it cool while she’s getting turned on by a pink vibrator and the pain from the crown of thorns. Chloe’s eyes look glassy already. Arms zip-tied, tits hanging out, ankles heavy with chain.

BANG BANG BANG! Looks like we have some more friends! I open the door to about 10 more tradies, some with noticeable bulges in their pants. All have beers, one asks if it’s ok to do a line on the table. I say “Sure! But I need one too!” I get $100 from each of them.

Coke Dude is already chopping up a fat line in my good dish, but whatever. Chloe is on a goddamn cross with a pink vibrator sticking out of her and a crown of thorns on her head, so forgive me if I’m not clutching my pearls about a few flakes of coke on the fucking nice dish.

Someone cracks a beer, someone else grabs my TV remote, and Marcus yells “Fucking hell, boys, get a load of this!” because Chloe is now officially the entertainment. It’s like OnlyFans meets bible study and everybody is into it. So naughty, none of us are getting into heaven. Chloe’s not protesting either. Her head is tipped back, mouth open, hair all stuck to her sweaty cheeks, and the crown of thorns has one little drop of blood beading at her scalp. She doesn’t even notice. She’s making these moany, glitched-out little gasps every time the vibe gets nudged or someone jostles the cross to get a better look.

I love this scene so much I want to marry it.

Marcus racks up a line on my kitchen table while one of the other guys, some well built unit in a hi-vis vest, is already stripping his shirt off. Doug opens another beer, drinking two-handed now, like he thinks maybe he’ll need both for reinforcement. Chloe is moaning, not quiet, not subtle, not even pretending she isn’t tied up and loving it. Sweat is pooling in the dip between her huge, bouncing tits and trickling down over her stomach in this little river that catches the light and reflects it back at us.

I do the line. I don’t care if it’s paint thinner, tonight is about commitment. My nose burns, then my whole skull feels like it’s lifting off. Everything gets loud, and sharp, and the image of Chloe on the cross is the hottest fucking thing ever.

If there’s a reason to worship anything, it’s the image of Chloe right now, literally strung up on a crucifix, arms and legs tied, feet bare and black underneath, trembling, sweat rolling off her tits in tiny silver rivers and every guy in my living room pretending to have a casual Saturday beer while unable to stop staring at her like she’s the last waterhole in the fucking Outback.

And if you thought Chloe would be bashful or beg to get let down, you don’t know Chloe. She’s up there writhing against the rough pine, hair stuck to her face from the sweat, and every time someone even looks at her or the vibe gets thrust in and out of her cunt, it’s like she gets zapped by a live wire and makes these little guttural noises that are half pain, half “please more, I am a slut in case you couldn’t tell.”

I stare, I cannot look away. Not even for a second.

The vibrator falls out and Dougie decides now is his time. No more blue balls like last week. He is in faster than a kookaburra spotting a snag dropped from the barbie. He is inside before Chloe even knows what hit her.

Like, no warning. Zero. The second the vibrator drops out, Doug’s cock is already just there, and then it slides in like a canoe into a quiet lake. I don’t know how he does it, but he gets his dick inside her almost like her cunt is a magnet and his body is just getting sucked straight into the centre of gravity. The enthusiasm actually rocks the cross backward and there’s this moment where every dude in the room freezes like, is this thing gonna hold.

It holds. It fucking holds. Carpenter knows how to build shit that lasts.

Doug’s hands are all over her hips, grabbing her tight, and he starts fucking her so hard the whole crucifix rattles against the wall and makes the kind of noise you can only describe as “structurally concerning.” Chloe, holy fuck, she is loving this, head rolling to the side, mouth open, drool leaking out. She’s breathing hard and moaning like a slut.

She’s fucking back against Doug’s cock hard, the cross is shaking, Doug’s hair is sticking up like he just electrocuted himself. Her eyes are rolled so far up she might as well be staring at her own brain. Every time Doug slams into her, the cross THUMPS against the wall.

I can tell Doug is close already from the constipated, strained look on his face.

He’s fucking slamming into Chloe so hard it sounds like the crucifix is doing a haka against the wall. The whole thing is vibrating. Chloe’s body is vibrating. All the blokes are vibrating. I am vibrating, guess it’s the coke or maybe just the sacrilege.

Chloe is making these weird, ragged moans and every time Doug pounds into her the entire cross rocks again. Her arms flex in the zip ties and her body arches like she’s about to fly off over the fence. Massive coils of chain weigh her bare feet to the ground, the chains were long and the excess was would around Chloe’s ankles before being padlocked.

There’s sweat flying everywhere, and the room smells like a mixture of beer, lube, and aroused young men who probably can’t spell “crucifix” but are certainly getting their money’s worth out of one.

Doug groans. He’s huffing. It’s all sweat and beer and frantic little animal sounds and the way his hands are just welded to her hips, fingers crammed together tight. Chloe is shivering and melting at the same time. Her hair is stuck to her face, chest is heaving, the crown of thorns is half collapsed over her forehead like a fucked up flower girl at a Tim Burton movie wedding. I cannot look away, it would be wrong.

Doug’s cock is absolutely jackhammering in and out of her, and every time he’s bottoming out she’s making these moans and strange little hiccup noises that only sound half human. It’s like the pain and the pleasure are knotted together and now they’re just tangled up under her skin. The cross is rattling like an old washing machine. You can see the screws wiggling in the wood. It sounds like someone is trying to audition for a “loudest sex noises” compilation and, honestly, they’re nailing it.

With a massive groan Doug cums inside of Chloe and then pulls out. Thick ropes of cum drip down her legs and onto the chains wrapped around her ankles and the floor in between. The next guy starts unzipping. I rack another line.

Chapter 8

That’s when it hits me. Nobody is dressed appropriately except for Chloe! Hi-Vis and work boots are not correct attire for a crucifixion!

“EVERYBODY GET IN HERE!” I yell.

They each get a pot slapped on top of the head like a helmet and I wrap tea-towels around their waists like loin cloths. I only have one brown leather jacker and the Carpenter gets it. One gets a broom handle to hold like a spear, I give the most sober one my largest knife and tell him it’s for show only.

Everyone’s howling like banshees now. Chloe is on the cross, ten blokes out of their minds, all of them in “loincloth” tea-towels and with kitchen pots on their heads, which is so fucking stupid but also so fucking perfect. The guy with the big knife holds it up like he’s about to make the evening news, but nobody cares about that because Chloe’s tied up, moaning and dripping down her legs. The blood is trickling around the crown of thorns, down over her tits. If anyone ever doubted the power of sacrilege to get a party going, look no further.

Marcus says “Have you got any clothes pegs?”

“Sure” I say, “what else?”

“Um… We need more sex toys!”

A cheer erupts from the lads. I am happy to oblige. There is a bunch of stuff in my room from when I was addicted to shoplifting toys from sex shops. Four vibrators, two Magic Wands, a vibrating butt plug, a massive black dildo and a strap-on that I save for special occasions (which this is). I grab all of the latex goodies, the fly swatters and the basket of chunky clothes pegs and then go back to them.

They laugh when they see me coming. Marcus grabs the clothes pegs and starts clamping them onto Chloe’s nipples, lips, ears, fingers and eyebrows. I lube up the butt plug, power it up to 10 and press it into her with a cheeky, elfish smile. That really gets the rest of them into it and they each pick up a fly swatter like they are arming themselves before a bank robbery.

Someone gets a Magic Wand and just jams it between Chloe’s thighs. No “how do you do?”, nothing. It’s not on a low setting either. That’s the kind of party this is.

Those armed with fly swatters begin whacking Chloe on the thighs, her hips, her chest and anywhere else they can.

Marcus is laughing, holding a beer with one hand and just ramming the big black dildo in and out of Chloe’s mouth with the other. He’s not even watching himself do it, he’s got Painter Guy’s phone and he’s taking pics of the crucifix, zooming in on Chloe’s face while the dildo is almost choking her.

One of the new guys (I think they’re all called Josh or maybe Blake, but who even cares, right) takes two vibrators at once and tapes them together, so it’s this insane double-ended jackhammer of love, and then he lines it up with Chloe’s pussy and just shoves them both in, like, no chill, no deliberation, just straight in. Chloe gasps so loud it’s like a fucking airhorn in a library. Then Jake holds the Magic Wand against her clit since it can’t fit between her thighs now.

Every dude in the room just freezes. Even the guy with the fake spear. Chloe is hanging off the cross with her mouth open, pink vibrator on the floor, still on and rolling around, Chloe’s mouth moving but she’s not making actual words now, it’s like there is no breath left in her.

The Frankenstein vibrator is going mad inside her with this insane intensity while the Magic Wand buzzes the hell out of her clit. It’s like they have found a way to super-charge the wand, I have never seen one vibrate with such intensity before. Chloe’s legs are shaking like she’s having a seizure. Her toes curl. Her arms jerk in the zip ties. I don’t even know if her brain is still online. She’s just writhing and moaning and dripping sweat and small amounts of blood from her scalp but honestly, this is one of the hottest things I have ever seen.

Chloe’s entire body starts to spasm. She’s jerking in the zip ties and everything is bouncing, like the crucifix is trying to hold down a fucking kangaroo on meth. Her toes curl and her head tips back against the timber. Her large, heaving breasts point upwards now. She’s drooling, sweating, maybe even crying, but if she is, it’s the kind of crying that’s more pleasure than pain. The two vibrators inside her are going crazy, her hips and thighs jerking and shaking, her eyes roll back.

She shakes so hard the crown of thorns falls sideways. A couple guys laugh, but nobody’s looking away. She’s on display for the whole party and Chloe loves it, eating every bit of attention, every single pair of eyes locked on her. Attention is Chloe’s drug and we will get to that soon.

One guy’s got her left tit and he’s twisting the clothes peg on it hard. Another guy’s got the butt plug, rubbing it back and forward in her ass like he’s never seen one before. I don’t know who the hell thought taping two vibrators together was safe, but that thing is going off in Chloe like she’s getting shocked with a cattle prod.

The double-vibrator guy pushes them in harder and even he looks shocked at how much her pussy just swallows the toys up. “Fuuuuck,” someone yells, and it’s like a thunderclap in the room.

Nobody even breathes. It’s just her, stretched out, dripping, mouth open, sweat and spit and tears and probably snot running down her face, and those two vibrators forcing her open, obscene, so fucking mesmerising. Absolute fucking art, if you love depravity.

The guy with the butt plug shoves it in deeper, and Chloe’s hips start spasming. Her massive tits are shaking, and the pegs on her nipple pinch so hard it’s like pain and pleasure are just the same cable plugged straight into her skull. Every time the Magic Wand presses into her harder, Chloe’s whole body just goes rigid, like the world is white noise for a second, and all she can do is ride it out. She’s not even moaning anymore; it’s just this helpless, stunned sound, like maybe she’s being electrocuted and the only thing keeping her brain alive is the feeling of the two vibrators buzzing against each other inside her cunt.

She can’t even close her legs if she wanted to. There’s no moving, there’s no hiding, not with her arms zip tied to the cross, her legs chained apart and a fucking army of horny tradies watching her get absolutely demolished by every sex toy in my rental. Her tits are soaked. There’s still cum all over her thighs from before. There’s sweat pouring down her body; her face is splotched red and her hair is stuck to her cheeks and she’s just leaking everywhere. Sweat, spit, tears, cum, Chloe is basically melting off that cross and every guy in the room looks like he wants to taste it straight from her.

Fucking hell, there is no way to describe how turned on everyone is watching this. Even the guy holding the broom handle is breathing like he’s run a marathon. Every eye is glued to Chloe’s cunt, being battered by the double-vibrator and Magic Wand, and her whole body just THRASHES. Like, the cross is shaking, her tits are shaking, her fucking SOUL is shaking trying to get out of her body because Chloe’s body suddenly jerks, hard. The crucifix shudders and all the muscles in her thighs snap tight around the double-vibrator, and she lets out this howl that sounds like she’s being murdered but also like she’s cumming harder than anyone ever thought possible.

Her orgasm is like a bomb going off. It’s like every muscle in her body just riots at once. Chloe’s entire body snaps tight against the cross, back arched like a power line in a cyclone. Her hands, zip-tied and shaking, rattle the timber. She screams loud while she’s locked up in this full-body slow motion quake, and the sound that comes out is a wild, animal howl that gets every guy in the room to just freeze like it’s a fucking wildlife documentary and the alpha lion is about to eat.

Two vibrators jackhammering in her, butt plug buried all the way, Magic Wand glued to her clit, and this crowd of horny, beer-soaked men in kitchenware “armor” just staring, open-mouthed, while Chloe shoots the double vibrator out of her cunt from the sheer force of the muscle contractions, then squirts a gigantic stream that hits the vibrators like they were a bulls-eye.