Perdita Pt.1 - The Aftermath

This post is in the CRUELTIES category. Don’t read it.

When, at last, it seemed that they had finished with me, they simply left me as I lay, a trembling, frightened, broken doll; naked, hurting and marked. Bruised, torn, stained and streaked with the drying traces of the uncountable violations, excesses and cruelties which had been enacted upon me; upon my body; upon my psyche.

I could hardly bear to breathe, let alone sob, much less move. I was remotely aware of the obscenity of the way they had arranged me, legs spayed wide, buttocks jutting, one knee bent up beside me; could feel, inside me, the awful knowledge of how degraded I must be to allow myself to lie so while they, from the noises I heard, were pouring drinks and resuming their business conversations of earlier in the evening, ignoring me- ignoring the evidence of what they had done to another human being, to an innocent, as if such a scene was not unusual for them (which, of course, as I was to learn, it was not — not-at-all).

But at that moment, splayed on the floor at their feet, my inability to muster even enough self care to move the little it would have taken to make my position less humiliating made their lack of consideration for me simply further evidence of my unworthiness of even the smallest iota of decency- let alone care, kindness or compassion.

And love? Well I had never, except in my most fanciful moments, let myself indulge the hope that he might have even some small feelings of love for me, but at that moment of bleakness it seemed obvious to me that I was not, had never been, and now would never be, worthy of love (I nearly wrote ultimate bleakness— and indeed at that moment such was what it seemed- but of course the bleakness I have since endured is, and seems always going to be, ever more grinding. How strange it is, to feel a surge of pride at my ability to write those words— to acknowledge the reality of my existence. How strange, given that I seem to be unable, despite regular efforts, to convince myself that I have been driven mad by his usage of me. Not for me the happy release of insanity, of madness. It just won’t stack up. I am sane. I am here, beyond all reason, perhaps, but still here, on the basis of free and conscious choice, which I believe myself to be in a position to make; that I am, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, ‘of sound mind’).

And so I simply lay, sex splayed wide, elbows tied behind me, half turned up at the shoulders, so that my breasts were open to their lazy, casual gaze, too fearfully docile to do anything but weakly open my bruised lips to the toe-tip of an elegant italian leather shoe which was pushed at me, tasting street dirt on my tongue, earning a low, unemphatic ‘huff’ of satisfaction from the tall, overweight one who wore such strong cologne.

I may have slept, then, or dozed at least, unable to bear the horror of what had happened. What I had— I could not pretend otherwise— collaborated with.

Certainly, when I was next in a position to pay attention to my surroundings, had any capacity to spare beyond the terrible requirements of continuing to breathe, continuing to be myself, be what remained of me, if nothing more; by then, it seemed, the guests had left, and I was alone with— with whom? With the man I had considered my lover? Or with a monster who had replaced him? It didn’t really matter. Nothing mattered. Perhaps I would die, soon. I couldn’t imagine living with what had been done to me. Which I had, in some sense, invited.

I don’t know how long it was that he sat with me— watching me, I was sure, although I dared not, could not actually look. But I knew it was him; knew his breathing, knew his presence.

After a little while, it changed; I don’t know how. It was him. It was, still, him. The idea in me that he might have been replaced by some devil— been possessed— himself gone insane, been driven to such aberrant behaviour by some bizarre combination of events, or a stroke, or something— all those desperate graspings at excuses, at explanations, all faded away. I knew. I knew it was him. Him, the man I had been so ecstatic to have found myself the regular, charmed companion of, over those last enchanted months.

It was him, now, the same man, exactly; never more himself, sitting in his favourite chair, looking at me, watching me as I lay there. Destroyed. Destroyed by him— by his design. For although I had consented, at some level— at least by the omission of resistance, by stripping myself, displaying myself as he had asked— I had had no part in the preparation of this tragic, terrible violation, this destructive, inhuman despoliation of someone who had offered him nothing but sweetness, eager acquiescence and consistent, willing, delighted service of his pleasure.

It was him, my lover— as I had considered him— he who had so tragically, so comprehensively organised my degradation, my humiliation, my violation, my torture, my destruction.

And it was him, now, who was sitting, quietly, calmly, surveying the aftermath of that appalling betrayal, that monstrous horror, which had been so dispassionately, so ruthlessly, so painfully, so shamefully perpetrated upon me by him and his guests, all three of them strangers to me before that night; strangers still, indeed, except for the awful, horrific reality that they had, each of them, plumbed my most intimate depths, penetrated me, shot their semen into all my orifices, had seen me, writhing and screaming as they forced me to orgasm for them, watched me as I hated myself in the spasms of climax, had their fingers in my sex, in my anus, as I had spasmed, moaned and sighed for them — for their entertainment.

They had had me crawl for them, terrified, desperate to avoid even one more stroke of the horrid whip, the cruel crop, the damp knots of the many-tailed flogger, had had me tell them I loved them as they raped me, had ground my pussy onto their bunched knuckles, hands behind my neck, making my breasts sway for them, as one of the others had thrashed my bleeding buttocks. Had had me kneel, tilt my head back, open my mouth wide and beg for the ash from their cigars.

They were that kind of strangers to me now.

Dimly perceived, blurred, since they had early on washed the contact lenses from my eyes, so that everything since has been hazy, disorienting, the fear of the imminent multiplied by the uncertainty of what my weak eyes told me.

But still, despite all that, right there, in that room, still slumped, spread, shoulders burning, skin chafing from the constraints at my elbows, knowing, without doubt that it was him, the same him, my him; despite all that, I found comfort stealing up on me, unexpected, profoundly strange, desperately welcome, cruelly compromising; for how could I derive comfort— accept comfort from— the man who had done this to me?

He was with me. Shamed and ruined as I was, dirty, defiled, disgusting, degraded as I was, he was still with me, watching me. Even if he was gloating at what he had made of me, he was, still, at least, with me; could still bear to look at me.

And, madness as it seemed at the time, even, this was reassuring. Comforting, yes, but actually even more; it was precious— a tiny morsel of something good that was still true about my world. Something— the only thing— I could cling to.

He was still interested in me.

After a long while more, during which I managed, once, to stir myself a little, only to cease, with a soft moan, as I found just how sore I was, in so many places, how cold and stiff I had become— for the fire in the grate had long since burned down, and his house was heavy masonry, hard surfaces, never really warm, even in summer.

So I relapsed into stillness. Increasingly, resist as I might, my attention, my being, was focused on my crotch; on my sex. Split as it was, exposed as it was, thickly sticky as I could feel it to be, it was the part of me closest to him— and I was sure, too, that it was that part of me he was looking at.

That part of me, with its special place, its uniqueness, which my whole culture and upbringing had taught me to protect and defend as the seat of my dignity, my mystery, my decency, that part on which they had concentrated their violations; the other place too, the place of shame and dirt— invasions there, too; both orifices repeatedly and forcibly penetrated; with hot, stiff cocks, yes, but also fingers, whip handles, cigars, chair legs, dildoes, necks of wine bottles; and blows in both places, too— from palms, fists and feet as well as the crop, the whip, the flogger; those most private parts of me continually, repeatedly, forcefully, stretched open, manipulated, entered, fucked, raped.

I had been upended, splayed across the table, two of them at a time in me, jounced around like a rag-doll as each sought his own rhythm, hearing the laughter of the others as my poor breasts swung wildly; my jerky, ragged attempts to breathe, my mouth filled with a gag shaped like a cock, a hand at my throat, gripping harshly, a fist in my stomach winding me as the man in my rear jerked his come inside me, tears in my eyes.

Those parts of me which had been so throughly, so carefully despoiled, so purposefully degraded, so violently used; plundered, stretched, torn, abraded, bruised, pummelled, slashed by the whip, brutalised.

That was what he was looking at.

He spoke, then, at last; his voice as it always was; calm, deep, certain, unexcited, casually assured, utterly incontestable.

“I’m going to rape you again, right now, pretty girl. In your ass. You can resist if you want, but, if you do, I’ll hurt you until you beg me to rape you, and I’ll do it to you then. When I’m done, I’ll tie you to the firegrate, with a constrictor knot at your neck, which means that, if you struggle during the night, you are likely to die. I don’t want you to die— there will be lots of trouble for me, of course, if you do— and no further fun with you either. But that’s your business, in the end.”

“I’ll see you in the morning, in whatever condition you’re in, and then, if practical, we’ll do what we can to get you presentable, and then we’ll have a little talk, so that I can tell you how things are going to be for you from now on. Your breasts, I have to tell you, are even more delicious, striped by the whip, than I had imagined they would be. The nipple on the left, though— I think Roger shocked even himself with that tearing bite; he may have disfigured you there— we’ll have to see if it will need surgery.”

“No— don’t speak. You don’t speak any more, not to me. Not ever; on pain of cruel punishent— not unless I require you to.”

“Now, let’s see …”

He did not speak again to me that night. With a hand in my hair, he lifted me, bodily, squealing and whimpering weakly How was it that I was so pathetically weak, so defeated, so overwhelmingly intimidated? What of the regular gym visits, self-defense classes, the consciously undertaken self-respect boosting, both alone, and with my friends? Where was it all now, as my hands flippered pathetically, useless?.

He dragged me, roughly, yanking me deliberately from side to side, making me feel my weakness, my vulnerability, letting me know how he enjoyed this demonstration of my helplessnsess, the physicality of his enforcement on me of his will, his smallest whim— dragged me across the floor and threw me forward over the low back of a heavy chair— his favourite, the one he had just been sitting in.

He hooked one hand behind my right knee, lifting it, holding it, out and up, then kicked my other foot out wide, so that I was once again face down, split, helpless, uttering short, weak, imploring cries— wanting to say ‘No!’ but not daring to, wanting to strive for some shred of self-respect by struggling more than the token wriggling which was all that I could manage, but too terrified by his threats, his strength, cowed by his certainty, his force of will, to do anything significant; moaning and crying then; helpess, despairing, agonised, as he slowly, inexorably, grunting his satisfaction, pushed his stiff cock into my already ripped backside, making me squeal and buck and wriggle, which only made him laugh softly, pleased, as he pulled back and drove into me again.

He took his time— he’d used me several times already— there was no hurry, no question but that he would have me as he wished. He was probably sore, too, but he was relentless; the pace, and his violence, slowly but surely building, lifting me by my bound elbows, setting my shoulders screaming with pain, thinking my arms were to be dislocated as he rammed into me, until some weird sort of peace came over me, as I had what I can only call an out-of-body experience— seeing, as well as feeling, my naked, abused body, face down in the cushions, one knee high and wide, the other foot out to the side, the whole of me jerking wildly with his thrusts as he rutted into me with unrestrained force, as if he was trying to break me in two, shouting his orgasm as he had never done before with me. Knowing, feeling deep inside me, as I watched, disembodied, that there was an undeniable, terrible, glorious beauty about it all. In being the object of this man’s desire, the helpless vehicle for his pleasure; his creature.

I must have fainted again at that point, only coming to my senses again as he pulled a bag of coarse fabric over my head, and began to tighten a thin rope around the bag, at my neck. He tested it a couple of times, snugging the knot down, before satisfying himself with one last three-fingered grasping at my tenderised, sore sex, penetrating me, gripping me there, hard, lifting me by my pussy, lifting my hips up into the air, pushing my knees up under me with the other hand; one last humiliation before he left, before he turned the lights out and walked away, up the stairs, leaving me alone with myself and my self hatred, and my fear and my many, many pains.

Read the next part of Perdita.