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 part.
The shooting really started then, from different places — different colours of paint, too; sometimes they came in close, more masked men in camouflage, some trying to be subtle, others wanting her to see them, have her understand that they are aiming and shooting at her. All of them seemed to be aiming for her sex parts — her breasts, her belly, her buttocks, but mostly achieved near misses at best. She realised, soon, that she was being herded, not hunted — attempts to veer off from the general downhill direction were met with more shots, but none came from in front of her.
They weren’t in any sort of hurry, it was clear — only she was running, panting, desperate. There were many of them, one of her. They knew the territory, they had a plan, she was in the dark, lost, naked, terrified, terrorised by her vulnerability, horrified at the reality that she could be hit again at any moment — the hits hurt like hell, and somehow it got worse with each one, worse as she got colder, worse as she grew more desperate. She kept stumbling, too; falling, trying to run in the dark in high heels.
The head torch either showed the way, or the ground in front of her, but not both — if she looked ahead, branches and dips in the ground had her falling, often onto other branches or rocks, or brambles — her legs, hips, forearms were marked with rips and scrapes — but if she tried to see where to put her feet, she would walk into low branches, or dead-ends.
She knew, too, the the torch made it easy for them to find her — but when she turned it off, things became almost impossible, and still they found her and shot her, using the powerful lights they had mounted on their guns.
She was panicky, desperate, despairing, and so there was no second of respite, no moment to recover, and all the time the knowledge that the dogs were there, that he had said they would fuck her, his voice so certain, so assured; the voice of one whose predictions always come true; that knowledge churned in her belly.
It was agony. It couldn’t continue like this — she couldn’t continue like this — it was impossible. And yet … and yet it did; relentless, searing fear, forcing her, driving her to scrabble and scramble, to run into the dark, knowing she was only going to end up where they wanted her, where unspeakable things would be done to her. But she could not stop. How could they be so heartless? So cruel? She had done nothing to them — nothing, that is, but offer herself to their pleasure.
And that was it, of course. This was not their fault. Justin had merely asked. They had merely responded to her Yes.
She had known, in advance, what they would do to her, and she had asked for it; more than asked, she had made significant efforts, over weeks, to enable this. Self hatred boiled in her.
But none of this made any difference to the fearful, hunted, naked animal she had been reduced to; crying and moaning and panting; yelping pathetically when the paintballs hit her, all dignity gone, possessed by the seeming certainty of the impossibility that was the image of those dogs fucking her, that those horrible red nightmare cocks, all glistening hot and veiny, would be thrusting inside her, spurting dog come inside her; that these men would be watching and laughing at the spectacle, at her degradation; that one of them would be Justin. Justin, whom she had already suspected would like that to happen to her, would like her to suffer such defilement.
Then, without warning, she came to the clearing.
It was immediately obvious that this was where they wanted her — the big tree stump in the centre, with chains and other things around it; the old sofas and armchairs, the fire burning in a big iron bowl off to one side, the back of a truck visible beyond.
The man with the dogs — Weinstein — sitting, lordly, on a large, carved wooden chair that was almost a throne, looking immovable. His dogs were there, too, alert, but sitting quietly enough either side of him, sniffing her — horrible to see, but not directly threatening.
He shot her then, and his gun was some sort of automatic, so that five or six paintballs hit her belly, and at least two of them had at last ‘hit the bullseye’, as her pussy erupted in pain.
She went down, imediately, balled up around her hurt, in her terror, appalled at the foreknowledge of what must come to her, knowing, too, that no amount of foreknowledge would help, knowing that her attempts to imagine the horror of this thing, the hope that this might lessen the agony, were all in vain.
The reality of this was nothing, nothing at all like imagination; it wasn’t that reality was more, so much as that it was totally immersive; immediate, raw, ugly, messy, traumatic, degrading, painful, shaming and destructive.
It was the knowledge of destruction that made it impossible. She had told herself all along that this would destroy her, had tried to frighten herself out of it that way. But that was imaginary destruction.
This was reality. Unimaginable reality.
The experience of being destroyed; of being permanently, irreparably damaged, of feeling it happen to her, understanding that she was being ruined, knowing that she would never be able to forget this; the searing impact of the fear, the horror, the terror, the humiliation of her very soul, eating into her.
That she had asked for this. That the Mia who had done the asking would be destroyed by it.
That there was no way out.
That no matter how impossible it was that this should happen to her, it was nevertheless an iron certainty that it would not only happen, but be unbearable, and a thousand times worse than anything she had tried to prepare herself for.
She had been dimly aware that other men had been arriving as she grovelled and cried, and that things would soon move on; desperately wishing it were not so; knowing it would be.
“Mr Cveck! Collar the cunt, will you — kick her in the pussy if she’s any trouble — hard, mind; no mercy for this dirty whore. We can count up the colours, then, for anyone interested in the score. Then I think we’ll hose her down before burning her.”
To hear such words! To know that they are real, that they describe her future, her reality! To know that this is her lot for days and nights to come!
She was up and screaming, then, somehow, despite the hopelessness and the fear. It was imperative that she escape!
“No! no, you bastards, you … you can’t do th … Akk! Aaaiieeek!“
Something had ripped a hole in her side, she was sure, some explosion, something infinitely bigger and more damaging than a paintball. It had knocked her to the ground, had her contorting herself around the devastating insult, convulsing, conscious that a part of her was grateful that this must kill her, and so save her from further torment.
It didn’t go that way; instead, there was a second, blunter agony between her legs as the one called Cveck kicked her there, hard, and, through the fog of useless outrage and misery and pain, she knew that the thing at her side must have been some pain maker that did not really damage, for she was not dying, not losing consciousness, but despairingly aware of being roughly manhandled, hauled by the hair toward the middle of the circle, arms flailing wildly, uselessly, as she was thrown onto her face, a heavy knee planted in her back, winding her, tasting dirt, her legs kicked apart by other men now standing over her, hands ripping the last shreds of clothing from her; her whole body began to shake, violently, sure that this must be it — the prelude to her first actual rape, the prospect unimaginably awful, even in the context of what she had already been subjected to.
Again, though, she was wrong; she was merely being immobilised — a man at her head end, pulling on her arms, two others holding her feet out and up, joking crudely about her ‘technicolour cunt’ — marked with coloured paint splashes — speculations about ‘the score’ while the man on her back fixed some heavy, metal collar at her neck. It had hard corners, and was tall enough to keep her neck very straight, her head constrained in its movement.
There was a chain on it, too, she discovered as the men stood back from her, a short chain, linked to a stout wooden pole, and she was jerked at hard by the man holding the pole — was that Cveck? She didn’t know — they were dressed so alike, and the head torch was gone, ripped from her at some point; only the flickering light from the fire illuminating the scene;
“Up, cunt, unless you want another shock, and more kicking.”
It was shameful, how eager she was to obey, how desperate to communicate her willingness to comply; how quickly she had been tamed.
She was naked, fithy, cut, bruised, bearing marks of dog teeth and paintballs both; collared, chained, and fearfully, shamefully eager to appease these cruel strangers — within a few hours of leaving London, she had been reduced to this.
It was foolish, ridiculous to think about it, but she had spent hours — Maddy too — in choosing the dress, the shoes, the lingerie; hours at the beauty parlour, having her hair cut and styled, spent the morning having her makeup done professionally, all to present herself for this; all of it meaningless — ignored, ruined, dirtied. Pathetic, but heartbreakingly sad at the same time.
Weinstein’s sneering voice broke in;
“That’s better, pussy girl. Do as you’re told, and we guarantee to make this life-changingly awful for you. Cause trouble and it will rapidly get indescribably worse.”
“Tell us now, whore; tell us why you’re here.”
The silence that followed this was a new kind of hell, one which she had not even considered about beforehand. Everything thus far had simply been her trying to survive; reacting, doing what was necessary, urgent, required of her.
But this! They want her to speak, to think of words; what to say. To answer at all, she saw immediately, was another capitulation — like the video — a creative act from her which would validate their abuses. They wanted her to put her head in their noose. Again. It had happened in the DVD, of course, but she had assumed that was about the legal stuff, hadn’t really registered what it would take to offer them her words, to tell them what to do with her.
She wouldn’t do it. Not now. She wanted out. It must stop. It had been a terrible, foolish mistake of hers; all of it. This must end. It could not continue. It was as simple as that. They must know. Rape was illegal. If she told them, they would have to stop.
She couldn’t speak. Wouldn’t speak — not what they wanted. Frantically, her head tracked, then, looking for Justin, looking for a face she knew, to ask, to beg, to plead for release from her promise — to explain that this was not what she had imagined, not what she had expected, not what she had meant — to try, however useless it might be — to do whatever it took to make them see that she was just a girl, a silly, foolish girl, in love with a boy, who had led her astray; that they must see how terrible this was for her, must let her go, must understand …
Yaaa-Ayyh! Agghghghgk! YmmnNNAaah!!
The pain stick had touched her right breast, that time, and it took two of them to keep her upright through her hyperventilation as she suffered in front of them, naked, laughed at, commented on. She had pissed herself again — just a trickle, but horribly humiliating, tears coursing mascara down her cheeks, making her misery visible, piss tracks down her muddy legs making her shame visible.
There had been no sign of Justin — he could be any of them, in the moving shadows, heavy masks obscuring all but eyes and mouths. She had, though, seen someone else; a girl, with a video camera. Maddy. The thought was like poison. Maddy, here, filming this? But there was no time even to consider what this might mean.
“I gave you an order, cunt. On your fucking knees — now! Open your fucking legs, get your hands behind your back, and tell us, bitch. Tell us what you’re here for. Or, alternately, have us hurt you until you tell us what you’re here for. It’s up to you — we’re in no rush at all.”
It turned out that she didn’t dare delay; not any more, not after understanding that that terrible, instant, atrocious pain could be instantly applied to any part of her body, many times — that she would not die, not physically — but that mentally, it might as well be death, each time.
She found herself, again, even in this new horror, eager to demonstrate her obedience; knelt, carefully; opened her thighs, carefully, extra wide, folded her hands behind her back like a naughty schoolchild, feeling the waves of shame and fear wash through her, the one following the other in dreadful lockstep; then heard herself speak;
“I … am here to … to be raped.”
No other answer was possible. It was also, unavoidably, the truth. Mia could hear the truth in her own voice. She was, indeed, here to be raped. She was going to be raped. She had asked them to do exactly this to her, and now they were doing it.
Long silence then, as tears ran down Mia’s cheeks, her eyes tightly closed, her lips trembling badly, only just able to keep herself upright on her wide-spread knees, her nipples jiggling interestingly from the way her whole body shook.
“Were you abducted?”
“No … No; I … I arranged my own journey” — abject misery throbbing in her every word.
“And how did we know you would be coming?”
“I … I sent you the details, so that you … So that you would know where to collect me.”
Each answer was like a nail through her feet, fixing her here, in this hell, installing her here, to suffer.
It broke from her, then;
“… but … but I … I’ve changed my mind. It … It’s not what I … I don’t … I don’t want it. Please! Please, I can’t bear it. I can’t. It will kill me; I know it; I’ll die! You can’t … you mustn’t do it to me. I’ve changed my mind… please …”
The strength in her voice had ebbed fast, and she tailed off weakly, imploring.
Another long silence.
“You gave us very clear instructions, in your cute little video, cunt, about what to do if you said something like that — if you were to change your mind. It was very clear, wasn’t it?”
In the end, the man with the pain-stick had to show it to her, caress her inner thighs with the business end of it (her whole body trying to rearrange itself as far from the awful thing as possible, even though she was held by the collar) before she answered, in a low, defeated voice;
“I … I told you that you must ignore me; that … that I should not be permitted to go back on my c…consent.”
“So, the right thing for us to do, right now, little slut, is to carry on with our plans to rape and degrade and hurt you? Is that correct?”
It took an age; they made no more threats, but simply waited, as she shivered, and emitted despairing little noises, as her body made repeated, involuntary starts, as if it was going to attempt to run of its own accord, as blushes mounted in her cheeks, then faded again into desperate paleness, as tears dried up, as the cold ate into her, as her shivers became more intense, until, at last, in a low, breathy tone, came the clip that was shared and replayed so many times;
“You … you should rape, and degrade, and hurt me. Yes. I … I have ch … changed my mind. Honestly, I have. I … I don’t want this. Any of this. Not any more. I … I don’t know that I ever did. But … I … I’m not permitted to change my mind. So … so all I can do is … is ask you to change your mind. To let me go. Please? Let me go?”
“The thing is, pretty, that you’ve already told us. Asked us, ever so nicely, doing your sexy little striptease, to ignore pathetic snivelling like that — to be hard with you; merciless. You told us that any holding back would be a terrible thing — make a mockery of your experience. And, here’s the thing. You made that video when you were calm, in your own space, without pressure. Whereas now — you’ll forgive me for saying so — now, you’re not really in any fit state to decide anything, are you?”
“So we’re sticking with the plan, bitch. Which is, as you just reminded us, to rape and degrade and hurt you.”
“And, actually, we’ve put quite a bit of work into our plan, to be honest, so that it’s just a little rude of you to be telling us to ditch the whole thing — an action-packed week’s worth of savage fun and cruel games, which we’ve thought through quite carefully — and you want us to casually give up on it all, just because you’ve ‘changed your mind’!?”
He was savagely mocking her tear-stained voice, her accent.
“Well, gentlemen, I guess we should just put it to the vote, in case one of you has felt your heartstrings tugged by pretty Mia’s weak little pleading. So; show of hands; anyone want to let the cunt off? Say a polite; ‘sorry it didn’t work out’, give her a chance to shower and clean up, find her some comfy clothes, maybe a quick bite to eat; help her calm down, then put her on a train back to Marylebone, no hard feelings?”
A theatrical pause, entirely cruel in intention, then;
“Thought not. Not a softheart among us, bitch. You’re ours, and you’re going down. We’re going to take you down; force you down; hold you down while you drown in shame and despair, so that you never come up again. And it was you; you who asked us for this. Never forget that. We; we are the servants here, and you, you are the Princess. Princess Mia, wasn’t it? Last year? Princess Mia, queen of hearts. And the Princess will get what she asked for; whether she likes it or not. In fact, we’re determined to make sure that she hates it. And we haven’t even started, yet.”
CRUELTY TAGS:
