This post is in the CRUELTIES category. Don’t read it.
You will find that this makes more sense if you have read the previous parts.
Take the 5:15 from Marylebone, change at xxx, and take the next cross country line. Leave the train at Stodwell Burton. There will be a black taxi with a green sign; ask the driver if he has a booking for ‘Sabine’. If the answer is ‘yes’, then, without speaking, you will simply get into the rear of the car, after putting any luggage into the boot. You will sit on the left; don’t speak to, or look at the driver. Sit quietly and carefully in the car, and look at your knees, not out of the window.
She supposed they had been driving for three quarters of an hour, or so. It was hard to say — she was in no state to tell, really, so distracted was she; the train journey had been surreal — such a normal, humdrum thing to do, sitting with office workers travelling back to their commuter suburbs, their dormitory towns, but all the time gripped by urgent, terrible fears that she knew she would not act to defend herself from.
She had made her decision at the station (anew, again — how many times had she had to re-confirm it — each time another step deeper into the grip of the madness?), seen off by Justin and Maddy, the weirdest send-off ever. She hadn’t been able to make eye contact with either of them. Blushing, feeling herself blushing, feeling strangely special, lightheaded, intensely private; knowing they had to be there to be sure she did as she had agreed to do; already the creature of the unknown sponsor and his friends.
The feeling had been growing in her for days — the feeling that she was no longer, not completely, at least, her own — that she had, somehow, less rights over her own body than a normal person.
It had started, really, with the making of the video.
Maddy’s shocking script, key lines from it, had stayed with her, repeated in her head, insisting — some part of her, responsible for the repetition, insisting that she pay attention to what she had allowed herself to be recorded saying — recorded naked, having voluntarily stripped, knowing it would be shared with men whose only interest in her was as a willing rape victim; men — strangers to her — who wanted to defile her.
And with those repetitions, so frequent, so insistent, came the demand that she pay attention to the weight of each word — the unspoken question being; Did you mean that? Did you really mean that?
The initial motivation — the urgent, desperate demand, in truth — was that she should repudiate her words, rescind her offer. That she back out. That she should wake up; realise that this was madness, dangerous, life-altering madness. That she must, while it was just words, no more than an embarrassing video, no more than a broken relationship; a broken heart, a stupid, stupid error. That she should stop, right now, with no more damage than that.
Before they burn her, whip her, gangbang her, degrade her, humiliate her, terrorise her.
Before letting them destroy her.
It is bizarre beyond belief, each time, to make herself repeat the words. Repeat them slowly, carefully, definitely. Make herself imagine what the reality of those words will be like for her, her imaginings not softened by the slightest doubt that every invitation she has made will be fully taken advantage of; the evidence of the other victim’s DVD more than enough to convince her that there will be no restraint — if she goes through with this, that the levels of aggression, cruelty, greed and humiliation unleashed upon her will be extreme.
The strange truth, though, is that each period spent in such chilling, heart trembling contemplation, far from building resolve, or frightening her into flight mode, instead seemed to strengthen in her mind the inevitability of it, and build the feeling that, with the making of the video, she had stepped through a door into a new reality — one which now possessed her. One from which escape would take a degree and strength of resolve that she was ever more certain she could not achieve.
Sometimes this would leave her crying soft tears, other times shivering with despair; other times, strangest of all, suffused with a soft and heavy vulnerability that was almost sweet, when the prospect of brutal shaming seemed somehow desirable, important, a priviliege to be met with gratitude; her breathing would slow down, and she would become deeply passive, deeply emotional.
When she felt like this, she found herself trying to stay lost in that state, to become that feeling, to welcome it, open herself to it — as if being able to have pleasant feelings about offering herself up to the darkest desires of cruel strangers was a benificence.
Of course, normality would inevitably intrude, and she would recoil, almost horrified that she could have entertained such thoughts. At the same time, it was undeniable that those moments were the only ones since Justin had told her what he wanted of her that she had felt at peace, and she found herself increasingly wanting to experience more of them, so that latterly, the forcing of herself to remember what she had promised, what she had asked for, what she had offered herself up for, had become almost a daily ritual, a guilty pleasure.
So that when she told herself there would be nothing Justin could do if she had simply marched over to the uniformed rail employee and said she wanted the police, it had been no more than something she felt she needed to do; she had not actually even looked to see if there were any staff within range; it was simply something that intensified the moment, the meaning, of almost the very last step of her self-sacrifice which would be truly voluntary.
At the last moment, then, she had looked up at Justin, met his eyes and held them, neither of them speaking, looking at each other like fascinated, almost horrified strangers more than intimate lovers, until she had found herself on the edge of hysteria, only just in control, heard herself say;
“I hope I’m good enough. I … I’ll do my best for you, but … well; I’m not sure how … how …”
Tears had welled, and, feeling lost, in limbo, she had done the only thing that made any sense at all — even if it was someone else’s sense — she had picked up the handle of her little pink wheely-case, turned, and walked to the train, without looking back, feeling her buttocks moving in the unaccustomed high heels, feeling like dying, feeling special again; remarkable, totally free — outside of all convention, for the first time in her young life — and at the same time completely without choices.
Ecstatic, and despairing. Elated and terrified. And all the time, a part of her that was semi-detached, watching; watching herself, a pretty young woman, in a pretty, skimpy dress, rather too skimpy for the time of year, no coat, a tiny bag and a little clutch purse, setting off for god knew where, to be raped and degraded.
Watching herself, fascinated, interested, feeding on the intensity of it, utterly without morals, utterly without sympathy, savouring the insane intensity of it all.
That part of her wouldn’t have missed this for the world.
Each time the train had stopped, she had made herself feel the further waning of any possibility of escape, feel her body’s tremulous stillness as the doors slammed shut before the train moved off, taking her inexorably towards that which would end her life, end her old life — finally kill off what she had signed the death warrant for when she had made that video, and make possible the birth of whatever her new life was going to be. The life which, impossibly, was based on the premise that she would be a girl who had offered herself up to be violently gang raped by cruel strangers.
And then it was her stop. Standing, collecting her case, pushing the button to open the train door, stepping down, had all seemed in slow motion, requiring total concentration — her last moments of innocence, so precious to experience. Not even innocence, she had forfeited that by making the video, by endlessly repeating the script to herself — freedom, then — her last, precious moments of utterly meaningless freedom, walking along a train platform to the little gate that was almost the only feature of the station apart from the platform and a few signs. No buildings, no people, no sight of a village.
And then there was the black taxi, and the walk to it, desperate to look good, without really knowing why. There was the driver, nodding as she said the code phrase, looking at her breasts, not her face, grinning broadly, silent, until she remembered and put her bag into the boot.
He’d stopped, now, it seemed, and she couldn’t help but look up, at last, look out of the window, at the place where her ordeal would, finally, begin.
Except that, no; there was another car, a plain grey hatchback, in the small, otherwise deserted layby. Her driver was already putting her case into the rear of that car, waiting for her.
There was nothing to do but do what was expected of her, once again. It was unbelievably hard, now, just to walk, to stay calm — her heart was hammering in her chest but the need to act normally was painfully insistent.
As she approached, he opened the rear door for her, shared the briefest of grunted acknowledgements with the new driver , then reached for and took from her the little clutch purse that contained her house key, her mobile, a credit card, and dropped it over the seatback, to lie next to her case.
Run! Run away, NOW! Start Screaming! came the thought, and she had faltered, her whole body twitchy with the contradiction of it all, the sense of doom, the madness, her head lifting suddenly, to look at the trees, the fields, the sun glancing through the last blue patch in a sky that was clouding over, before she made a small sound that was almost a tiny laugh, almost a frightened sob, but which came out as nothing more than a soft, helpless little hmh?
The taxi man made an expectant motion — he wanted her to get in, and that was all it took;
“Oh! Sorry!” said Mia, as politely as if everything was normal, and stepped into the litle grey car, feeling suddenly lightheaded; almost happy.
The new driver didn’t speak either, though he looked at her in the mirror, she noticed, before she remembered her instructions and dropped her gaze to stare at her knees, feeling, for the next minute or two, that he must be looking at her, that he must know what she was here for, skin crawling.
But nothing happened, and she got lost again; lost in her own feelings.
Another period of time that was neither short nor long, climbing now, twisty roads; a time during which Mia found herself unable — gratefully unable – to think at all; a time of limbo, during which all she could do was feel — not emotions, even, but only her body — her breasts, her neck, her thighs, her tongue, her sex, her belly, her hands, her buttocks — experiencing them, she realised, as a way of saying goodbye. Goodbye to her body. A body which she had offered up, given away, relinquished rights to; a body which would never again be fully hers. A body which could never again trust her to be its guardian. A body she was soon to be forcibly estranged from.
Silence made itself felt; no movement, no anything — the sky grey, and darker, too.
They were in a small parking area, deserted, high up; heathland, open, with clumps of trees, bracken; a bumpy, tussocky landscape, rising and falling, rough looking. No houses or signs of habitation were in sight. It was still light, but dusk was coming.
The driver was out of the car; her door was opened; he was waiting. She was to get out of her own accord, she understood; another symbol of her consent, of her acceptance of the unacceptable, of her submission to an offer that had no promise for her except despair.
But here, alone with this silent stranger, miles from anywhere, what else was there to do?
It seemed, though, that she could not. Could not make herself get out of the car. She wasn’t tense, wasn’t frightened, wasn’t angry, or sad. If anything, she was happy, in a loose, floaty way — at peace, almost.
But she couldn’t see why she should move. It was alright; sitting there, in the silence, the door open, the grey light, the driver seemingly patient, undemanding, silent.
It was alright.
And then, another timeless time later, it was alright to get out, made sense to get out, and so she did, very conscious indeed of a deeply felt requirement that she appear elegant, controlled, desirable.
Another still moment, then, although she was conscious that she was breathing deeply, that some part of her was becoming distressed, but which she was able, for the time, to ignore, until the moment was broken.
His hand, shockingly warm and meaty, slightly sticky, was suddenly there — high on the inner thigh of her right leg, moving upward, under her skirt — and she was instantly filled with hysterical energy, running, shouting, yelling, without words, everything she had completely committed to the idea of escape — to reject the insanity of it, to push him away, to express her urgent need not — not! — to be raped, not to be touched, not to be shamed, not to be hurt, not to be humiliated, not to be degraded, not to have her Justin see her treated so, not to throw her life away, not to betray everyone who had ever loved her, not to be lost from her body’s loving embrace, not to become an object of pity, not to … not to lose at life.
She had no sense at all of what she was doing, no plan, no ideas beyond that overpowering No!, as she blundered across the heathland, her eyes in immediate, tactical mode only, navigating long grass, humps, patches of mud, reed, thistle, thornbush, until, inevitably, she tumbled and fell, her hip in muddy water — cold and sour-smelling, and there was silence. Silence within which was the dying sound of a car in the distance, driving away.
He’s gone, she realised. He had not pursued her, not raped her, but simply left. And a cliched image comes to her, from many westerns, of a man delivering a careless slap to the rear end of a horse, or a steer, not to prosecute violence, but simply to cause the creature to run, run off, run away.
She had been dismissed, sent careening into strange, empty countryside, and abandoned. He had her clutchpurse, too, she suddenly thought. She was alone, with nothing, she knew not where, with night coming, and too few clothes — she was hot right now, not cold; hot from her exertions, from her adrenalin-forced scrambling run — but the cool of the wind was already stealing that heat, forming goosebumps on her forearms, on her thighs, and she knew just how fast she would get cold, in that skimpy dress.
Nervous, working hard, then, to control her fear, her new panic, she made herself attempt to retrace her steps; he’ll have left my case, my purse, before he went. They’ll be there in the carpark.
She was crying before she found it, astonished at how lost she had become, and so quickly, how tricky it was to select and fix on any feature of that bleak, monotonous landscape for use as a guide, discovering the road by accident, angling across her path in a direction which made complete nonsense of the picture she had built in her head of where she was, had turned left and walked some way before changing her mind, turning to walk rightward for even longer, still without coming to the wider patch of tarmac which was all the parking area had been, and then, anguished, sobbing with frustration, had fought with herself about turning back once more, to go left again, then still, finding it impossible to be sure, then, when she might have passed the point she had joined the road, all sense of distances lost to her, the evening setting in, mist rising, until at last, crying continuously, pathetically by then, she had come to a widening of the road.
There was no case, no purse. There was nothing.
There was no sign, even, that it was the right parking area, no memory in her head that was strong enough to rely on to help her even be sure about that.
She had spent all that time searching, and for nothing. She had no idea, she realised, which way they had been going when the car had arrived — she had been looking, obediently, at her knees, unseeing, focused on her body, oblivious. Oblivious little fool. She hated herself then.
Hated herself as she walked along the road, having chosen the direction at random, quickly unable to remember even whether she had turned left or right, all landmarks rendered the same by the gathering gloom and thin mist.
Hated herself more as it became clear that the road was petering out — first with grass appearing as a strip down the centre, increasingly muddy, narrower, until it ended, abruptly, at a cattle grid, with a high wall either side, stretching off into the murk. She had chosen the wrong way.
Or had she? The track continued, un-metalled, beyond the grid — would she have noticed, in her reverie, if the car had been on rough ground for a little way? Even if she were wrong, was this not likely a track to somewhere? To a house, perhaps — somewhere she might find help, warmth (for she was begining to shiver), food?
Equally, might such a house not be the place where her fate awaited her? Where she would be destroyed?
Mia sank to the ground, in abject despair, only to jump up again, galvanised by first the sound and then the terrifying sight of two large dogs, emitting harsh warning barks and running toward her, from the direction she had arrived.
They were clearly not friendly, and coming fast, with no owner in sight. Breathlessly, with the road closed off to her, she scrambled along the side of the cattle grid, gripping onto the wall, cursing again the choice between the high heeled, ankle-tied espadrille sandals and bare feet — she had experimented without the shoes for a few feet only, before giving up — her feet were city-soft, and far too tender.
She had hoped that they would find the cattle grid difficult, as she ran as fast as she dared down the rough track in the gathering darkness, but it seemed that they knew the place well, and were closing rapidly, undeterred. It became impossible for her to run any more, so fearful was the thought of one of them landing on her back by surprise, and she turned, like a deer at bay, trying to frighten them off; They were German Shepherds; mouths very red in the grey landscape, teeth very white.
Her shouting and waving was futile, and she knew it; they came on without pause now, barking loud and short, then went either side of her, circling her menacingly, growling now — clearly very well trained. At her slightest move, the growling became louder, or broke into savage, terrifying barking, and she froze, as, up the track, two figures appeared, walking toward her, in camouflage jackets, heavy boots, wearing ski masks. They carried sticks, and moved casually, in no hurry, talking calmly to each other, laughing occasionally.
“Call them off, please!” She heard herself whining, knew she sounded pathetic, but could not stop herself, tears streaming from her eyes, fighting to prevent herself dissolve into hysteria; “Please, please; I’ll … I’ll …”
She couldn’t find words to offer herself, which was what she had intended, assuming that these must be her rapists, closing in — but even when she tried, her mouth, her throat, had got stuck, muscles clamped too rigidly for her to make anything but idiot noises.
They weren’t listening in any case, it seemed, as one of them, in a sneering, upper class accent, called;
“Sabre, Seax, strip her!”
The two men moved apart, then, holding their ‘phones out, filming her from different angles as the dogs reacted to the order, darting in at her — as she shrieked in fear — to snatch with their jaws at the short hem of her dress, tearing it away in strips. Quickly, though, the larger one got bored with this, and, standing up on its hind legs, made a lunge for her neckline. Frightening as it was to have the beast’s claws tearing at the skin of her shoulders, its huge mouth snapping so close to her breasts, what struck terror and insane strength into her was the sight of its penis; huge-seeming, engorged, a lurid red, jerking wildly at her.
In her desperation, she fought back, thrashing wildly, pushing forward against the beast, trying to grab its forepaws and throw it off her.
To no avail; instead it brought complete disaster, as the beast simply dropped away from her, while its partner leapt onto her back, bearing her to the ground, face down in the stones and mud, the growling amplifying her terror, the feel, against her naked buttocks, where the dress had been entirely ripped away, of a hot, slick fleshy thing which could only be a dog’s cock. Her reaction was as if she had been burned by red-hot steel; screaming a banshee wail, she flipped like a fish, a move which generated much interest later when the recordings from the ‘phones were shared — it seemed frankly impossible that anyone but a trained and well prepared gymnast could have achieved such speed and power from a prone position.
Once again, a panic move just made things worse. On her back now, frozen in terror, she could see the dogs, still focused on their task of stripping her, as they lunged at her, tearing what remained of her dress from her, then attacking her brassiere and panties. Worse still, she could see their jutting red cocks, swinging and jerking at her.
She was begging and babbling, certain, refusing to believe her certainty, unable to contemplate the thought in her head, that, whatever had been said, she was about to be raped by two vicious dogs while strangers watched and and filmed her. Every time she tried to move, the dogs became more aggressive (in point of fact, although she had been nipped many times, the dogs’ delicacy and skill in pulling at cloth, not flesh, was remarkable). She couldn’t understand how she had not died, such was the unbearable intensity of the pressure felt in her head, in her heart. She was babbling constantly, wrenching herself feverishly, unable to hold herself still; begging, crying, demanding, screeching — generating nothing, it seemed, beyond entertainment value, as the two masked strangers pointed out particularly choice flashes of her breasts or buttocks, as she writhed in terror.
She was desperate, urgently needy; wanting above anything else to be up off the floor, not below them, not with those cocks coming so close to her head, her face — to her mouth. But she dared not lift herself up, for it had occurred to her that the way a dog was built it could not actually fuck her if she lay flat.
She had pissed herself, then, in her fear; another gut-wrenchingly awful mistake, as both dogs became interested in the smell, the liquid, and, rather quickly, its source; both of them taking turns to sniff and then — horrors! — to lick at her groin. Desperate to roll onto her belly, then, she dared not, and became hysterical again.
Only for it to end, then, as quickly as it had begun, with a curt order;
“Sabre, Seax, enough! Heel boys; heel!”
And unbelievably, the dogs retreated, ears flattening, tails lowering, looking for approval at the man who had spoken, as if they were puppies again, gratefully receiving whatever treat it was he pulled from a pocket.
The men simply stood, then, and watched her, naked but for scraps of cloth, only her high heeled sandals intact, hyper-ventilating, desperately suppressing her hysteria, scratched by stones, nipped by teeth, unable to tear her eyes from the still pink tips of the dog’s penises, still certain that she would have to suffer them, still unable to believe that what had just happened could be real.
When, after a few minutes, the horror of the situation became more powerful than the terror, she fell silent, shuddering and frozen.
“They’ll fuck you when I tell them to, but not until I do. And you’ll have begged for it, too, little girl.”
She still was unable to speak, all her energy going into slowly, carefully, trying to raise her body, just a little bit, onto her elbows, crooked behind her. Anything to not be lying, head down in the dirt, any longer.
“That’s right, pretty — up with you. Because you’re going to run, now, run from us as we hunt you. Get up, little bitch, or I’ll set them on you again. Violence makes their dicks hard, you know? I’ve trained them that way. UP! NOW, CUNT!”
“Good, girl! Obedience is important from bitches, as well as dogs, you know.”
“Wilder, the head-torch. Got to give the prey some sort of advantage — wouldn’t be sport, otherwise.”
The second man approached, and she had flinched, pathetically attempting to shield her nakedness with her arms across her breasts, her hands at her groin, trembling, hating herself for being too frightened to resist, to even spit at him. But he didn’t touch her, just fitted her, quite carefully, with a head-torch, making sure the straps were well adjusted.
He spoke to her then, quite softly — almost gentle;
“I’m going to enjoy you, little cunt. You won’t believe how hard your tits can be bitten without me taking the nipples off.”
He backed away from her then, grinning, clearly enjoying the shudder of fear that showed across her face, across her belly, as she all but fell with the insanity of it all, the fact that this could actually be happening to her, so messily real, so horribly, shamefully ugly.
“Show her the gun, Wilder. Shoot her in the pussy; that’ll get her running.”
The other man pulled a strange gun from over his shoulder — even in the near darkness she could see it was plastic, brightly coloured. Her brain suggested it must be a water pistol, but her hands stiffened at her groin, protective, anyway, as he shot; the high pitched ‘crack! was not from a water pistol, and the appalling sting at her upper thigh not from water either, nor the instant splash of red, and she knew then that she had actually been shot, and turned, screaming, to run, only to hear another crack and feel a jolting pain at her left buttock, then a different crack and more pain on her back, then a rolling wave of laughter;
“Bloody excellent! Did you see her tits bounce when that hit her? Priceless. Pity there’ll be no video of that…”
She was wondering why she wasn’t dead until she realised that these were paintball guns. She’d avoided them mostly, but Justin had done some bullshit team-building thing and she’d had to turn up as ‘the girlfriend’ to get him full points for participation. He’d told her then how much they stung, even through protective clothing, and she was all but naked.
She ran as fast as she dared, reaching up to fumble at the headtorch until it flicked into life, the visibility allowing her to go faster, too desperate to allow herself to cry, fearing pursuit, fearing the dogs again.
It seemed that they weren’t chasing, though — not running, at least — she’d have heard them.
After a little while, winded, exhausted from the emotional turmoil of the day, she slowed to a walk, knowing she couldn’t sustain such a pace; although she had been warmed by the effort, she knew she would cool fast, that she had limited energy (she’d had almost no appetite for days, so sick with apprehension had she been).
As soon as she slowed, though, the horrors threatened again. What had been done to her, already, was far worse than her worst imaginings. The images of the dogs’ cocks, so vividly red and shiny, the way one had lolled so close to her face, to her mouth, its rank, pungent smell … She had to shake her head, hard, physically shake herself, to shift her train of thought into less self-destructive lines.
It didn’t last long, though — for what, exactly was there to hope for, to make effort for? She was lost, in the dark without a map or the slightest clue where she was (within an hour or two’s drive of Stodwell Burton — as if that would mean anything to anyone, even if she had a ‘phone, even if there was any signal in this god-forsaken place).
She crumpled in despair, only to hear — and instantaneously feel the result of — another crack!, and a blaze of pain at her left breast, a splash of green, this time.
Jerking herself upright, almost falling immediately, she lurched into the closest thing to a run possible in her heels; on, despairing; on, into the darkening night, into the woodland at the side of the track where, perhaps, there might be more cover.
