Giving Myself Over, Part 1

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

This a very old story— albeit I have worked on it a little. It’s an unusual one for this site. I rarely write about ‘other world’ type scenarios— finding it easiest to relate to the psychology of a submissive in the context of the worlds we all know. But this story is set in some sort of ‘enslaved women’ setup— where it has become commonplace, for some (unspecified) reason for free women to be relatively easily enslaved and used in obscene ways, including public torture and execution.

So there you go. DON’T READ IT! It’s set in a ridiculous world, which isn’t explained, it’s nasty, not terribly well plotted, and it only gets nastier!

Master had been away for weeks. I had nearly died (felt like it anyway) from missing him. I kept telling myself I was crazy. He wasn’t my boyfriend, he was my boss— and not just my line boss, but the owner of the company, while I was just a regional marketing exec. It had been clear from the start that he saw what we had as a ‘fling’, nothing more— no illusions, no lies.

I had been shocked to find him attractive— I hated him on principle before I met him— I had heard all about his behaviour with women, his slavegirls as society called them, his openness about how he treated them— and I was something of a feminist (it is strange to recall) in those days.

But when I met him, I had not only found him attractive, I had fallen for him, hook, line and sinker. Even then, though, it was obvious nothing would happen. Why would he notice me? But he did. Stranger still, he was courteous, attentive, civilised, witty, well-read, controversial— and searingly honest. On our third date, I found myself telling him how evil I had thought him, and he simply laughed, and said— but it’s true! I am that man. He laughed at me again— Don’t you believe it’s possible to simultaneously enjoy a consensual relationship, with mutual respect, and go back to my villa and whip a slave girl’s breasts? He laughed at me again, and I retreated in total confusion.

A week later he invited me to his villa, and I, very nervously, accepted. And there, I saw, not one, but eventually five, slave girls— in pretty, but very skimpy and demeaning uniforms, with cruel high heels, as well as four or five other female staff who were obviously treated as sexual playthings at will, but whose exact status was not so certain.

He watched my reaction as we encountered the first— a maid, who curtsied, smiling prettily, lifting her skirt to her Master to show a carefully trimmed and shaved pubic area, a pierced clitoris (actually, it was the hood, I later realised), and a bold, almost crude tattoo of his name on her thigh, along with the number 23.

I was trembling— it was all true, all those terrible stories that I had decided must be jealousy— he had not been teasing when he said he had slavegirls— here was one! And she was gorgeous!

He was still watching me as he lazily reached out to touch her pouting pussy— a move she obviously welcomed, making a little coo of pleasure.

“Well, 23, have you been fucked this hour?”

“Yes, Sir”

“And whipped?”

“Yes Sir” a shadow flashed across her face, but she held her skirt up, still smiling, and rolled her hips subtly against his prying fingers; I could not look away— he had two fingers actually working inside her!

I knew I should leave, but I … I just didn’t want to. I had no illusions about what he shared with me— it was a temporary relationship only— but it was wonderful to me that it was even possible for a day— let alone nearly two weeks! If I flounced out now— would I lose my job? I was near tears, standing there, flushed, trembling, chest heaving, watching him discuss the future length of her punishment term— it seemed she was on four days with a ‘fucking and whipping’ each waking hour, and she was only just over half-way through.

“Taken any on your pussy yet?”

She simpered, pathetically, blushing like a schoolgirl while he casually talked about her being whipped at her sex! And when she shook her head;

“No Sir”, she said;

“Well, we’d better do something about that, then, hadn’t we? Ask Mr Jenkins to make sure you get it between the legs every three hours at least for the rest of the punishment. Oh— and just in case it isn’t obvious, you’re to be fucked in that hole immediately after taking the whipping there.”

The girl’s reaction was bizarre— instead of misery, or defiance, she giggled again, as if she had been given a present, and said ; “Yes, Sir.”

“Ask him to make you scream, mind! Now, we’ll be in the blue room— ask Mrs Norris to arrange tea, please”

And he ushered me into a gorgeously appointed salon, handed me to a small sofa, sat opposite, still watching me, laughter in his eyes;

“Poor little Cerys! That was really too much for you, wasn’t it? I told you— all the bad things they say are true. I am a cruel slave-owner, with a mechanistic view of the purpose of women. At the same time, I am the person who has been enjoying your company, in all sorts of ways, very much indeed. I do apologise, but at the same time, I needed to do it— it was so clear that you didn’t really believe me— I had to show you. I have nothing to hide, and I would hate you to be disappointed in me. I had to show you everything that I am, or what we have would be debased.”

I began to cry, then, but stopped myself as another gorgeous girl in a skimpy maid’s outfit came in with tea things, and demurely began to arrange them for us. Despite her incredible beauty, despite her proffered breasts above the low-cut ruffled lace blouse; her lovely thighs visible between her lacy stocking tops and the hem of the ludicrously short skirt— the chain that hung between her thighs, adorned with a little tinkling bell an indication that her sex, too, was pierced— despite all this, he ignored her completely, and was looking at me, eyebrows raised, sympathetic, questioning;

“If it’s too much, then I’ll call Jenkins— you don’t need to stay. And, just in case you are worrying, your job is safe. This is purely personal.”

And the offer of freedom without negative consequence sealed the deal for me. A ragged breath shook me;

“No! Please. Please . I … I’ll stay”;

and I managed a lop-sided smile, hoping to cover the turmoil within me.

Three weeks later, he had left on a world tour— his business had operations in 13 countries, and although he was a hands-off owner, he was also a very interested owner— managing mostly by asking insightful questions; expecting that the answers would provoke action— rather than by giving orders. It was this approach which was widely regarded as one of the reasons his business grew steadily, despite the unending series of mad upheavals the world seemed to be going through.

Then, without warning, there he was, back again, in my office as I came back from a meeting.

I almost cried with pleasure at the sight of him, and then with sadness at the shape of his eyes. It was plain to read there— it was over. I had known it couldn’t last, but had never wanted to experience the end. I bit my lip, trying to hold back the tears.

He smiled at me, touched my cheek gently, almost regretfully, stroked my hair for a minute or two, then;

“Don’t worry, pretty, let them come; after all, not only tears, but screams and cries of pain will be normal for you in a few weeks time— no point holding back now.”

I reeled, shocked. The only possible implication of what he had said was that… my mouth half open, I stared at him, staggering back a little, pulse suddenly racing, my whole body tingling— alive, electric…

He took my hand, held it up, gently, softly, and looked into my eyes.

“I see that you have guessed it, pretty— yes, I’ve decided to take you as a slave. Not immediately— you will tell me when you are ready. But when you are ready, you will be taken in a matter of minutes. Your transition from free, proud and independent woman to a helpless slavegirl, when it comes, will be sudden and brutal— utterly without sympathy.”

“You see, I cannot trust myself not to get sentimental in your case, so, contrary to my normal mode, I have engaged contract slave takers, and requested them to be rather brisk with you— to degrade you harshly, mechanically; break you utterly over a very few days. To all this I will be a fascinated spectator— I won’t take part, but will keep watch by video link.”

“Then, when you are ready, I will take you on a lovely holiday I have planned for this summer on an island off Sardinia, where I will enjoy putting you through your paces and having you entertain my guests before you become part of the regular rotation of pussy in my stable— until you are disposed of, in due course, to make room for a fresher piece.”

I was in shock, of course; I stared at him, shivering softly, with the most incredibly powerful sense of deja-vu— this had all happened before— it was a memory; I was already a degraded slave whore— pierced, whipped, opened, used, degraded, under sentence of death.

This hallucinatory experience— so powerful, so disorienting— made it hard for me to react as I obviously should have— with a slap, or a cold sneer, or a jolly laugh— what a good joke!

But instead I simply stared, before slowly, hopelessly, lowering my head. Big, slow tears flowed freely then, and I felt terribly weak; shivering, breath coming slowly, irregular, with a strange fore-knowledge of what it would be to be a legally owned sex slave passing into the deepest parts of me— I can’t describe it; a complete closing down of options, while at the same a paradoxical liberation, a freedom.

A freedom I used almost at once— the freedom to talk about myself as a sex-object. For some reason this was the first thing I managed to say;

“Will … will I have a … a diamond in my … my pussy?”

It was a ridiculous question— it accepted so much, that I could not believe I had actually said the thought out loud; but I had, and I realised that it was a real question. I did want to know the answer. Ever since I first noticed that all the girls at his house had different colour stones at their clit-hood piercings, it had been a secret, shameful obsession of mine— to wonder what colour he might choose for me.

Realising the enormous implications of this silly little question, I was blushing, pink and hot, but I could find no willpower to do anything other than stand, my hand still in his, my chest heaving with the craziness of it all.

He on the other hand, was cool and calm. After all, he had done this many times, with all sorts of girls, and he had always been on the winning side. I was just another pussy to him, now— just another slave cunt to toy with. Briefly, I wondered when he had changed his view of me, and why. But it didn’t matter, really, did it? The simple fact was that he had. And that I somehow did not even have it in me to protest.

“Oh, the pussy ring!“— he grinned, genuinely amused, genuinely enjoying himself.

And then I realised, that was when it was— the instant he had seen my face as I looked at that first pussy ring. Since then, he had known he could have me, that I was available. And that, too, was why he had invited me to his villa - to see, from my response, whether he should take me. The knowledge was like a cool, heavy stone in my belly. Another brick in the wall of my inevitable fate.

“A guy announces he is going to enslave you and in a particularly brutal way, too; gives you notice, and what do you do? Run? Get a lawyer? Slap him? No, you ask what colour pussy ring you’ll get. My dear, I knew that you would be easy, but even I am surprised. Maybe Jenkins will win his bet after all.”

A pause, during which I wished that I could die, right there and then. My life was not going to be worth living, anyway, so I might as well check out.

Only, of course, I didn’t die. Didn’t really want to, either. It was just fear. Fear and shame. Fear and shame— those two constants of a slavegirl’s— of my own existence, since that moment.

I became hyper conscious of my appearance, of the way my breasts sat in the second-best bra I was wearing, of the fact that my heels were not as high as the ones I’d been practicing in at home; practicing for his benefit. I could not understand how it was that I was standing here with him, having such a conversation. It was impossible! Unacceptable!

At the same time, I had no wish to be, could not imagine being, anywhere else. It occurred to me that it would be simplest just to kneel before him, right there, and give myself to him. I bit my lip— crazy thinking!

“Well, pretty, I have thought about colour, in an idle moment, and I think aquamarine will be your stone— you may be also be interested to know that you are one of the rare girls who will suit a direct clitoral piercing. Exquisitely painful at first, of course, but apparently incredibly stimulating once it has healed— you won’t be able to think about anything but getting off. Not that you don’t fuck like a rabbit already.”

I felt as if I would die, then— die of heart failure. Everything went misty for a second, and I was desperately grateful for his hand as he saved me from falling when my knees went all loose. I was kneeling, then, panting; lost. My heart was working away again— but pitter-pattering, wildly, and there was a burning question in my dazed mind;

“Wh … what bet … with … Jenkins?”

He laughed a little;

“Oh, that. Well, Jenkins said it would take you less than a week to beg to be enslaved; I said it would be longer. I bet him exclusive use of you for a week against a week’s salary, and he said he would quadruple if I would double; so that’s where we are; two weeks of you versus a month’s wages, depending on whether you can last a week before begging to be enslaved.”

“Notice that neither of us even contemplated that you might resist. As you have a perfect right to, I must remind you. There is nothing in the world that says you have to ask me to turn you into a piece of meat. I won’t come to you— you will have to make a positive effort to end up as a slave. My offer, indeed, is only open for a month from today. After that, if you decide you want to be a slave, you’ll have to find someone else to master you. Oh, and just in case you are wondering, your job is safe. Indeed, that will be the major downside of taking you for pussy— it’ll be hard to get someone as good as you are at running this department.”

My head was swimming, and I hardly noticed when he left, so lost was I. It was taking all my effort just to remember who I was, and to keep breathing— just about; my diaphragm kept going into spasm, and I was crying continuously, steadily, occasionally hiccuping, sniffling.

I was in a bad way, because whenever I did manage to put two thoughts together in a straight line, I found I was thinking about what it would be like to belong to Jenkins for a fortnight, and whether my fear of that could help me hold out for a week. And then the sane part of me would start screaming inside my head; ‘No! No! No!’ and then I would be lost in the brainfog again.

After half-an hour or so (I really don’t know how long), I realised that I must get out of there— I could not risk being asked to talk with a colleague while I felt as I did. I straightened myself up as best I could, then told my PA I was feeling unwell; that I had to go home. She obviously thought I was love-sick (our affair had not been a secret, she had seen him leave), and was kind, sympathetic.

If only she had known what he had actually done to me, I wonder what her reaction would have been? The opinion of free women toward other free women who are on the brink of slavery is often very complex— full of fear, wonder, horror, fascination, anger, all jumbled up. Such a strange change in the world, in so few years— is it any wonder that we are all so confused, so full of distrust, so willing to take a disgust of one another?

But I didn’t go home— back to my little flat— it would feel like a prison, I knew. I found my way, somehow, to the city park, and walked, and walked, and walked some more; trying not to think.

I lasted two nights.

Calling in sick each day, I walked through the city, hoping that constant motion would keep thoughts at bay. A cycle developed; over a couple of hours, I would become calmer, more able to think, though the argument in my head remained the same; give in immediately, accept that Jenkins would use me harshly (and, increasingly, I had to accept that I was horribly obsessed by that prospect - terrifying, skin-crawlingly awful, yes, but at the same time, such a perfect crystallisation of the idea of becoming a nameless sex-toy), or hold out for only a few more days; then I would start screaming at myself, inside my head, for even thinking such shit. Because it was shit. I didn’t need it. I didn’t. I didn’t want to give my life away— become one of his pieces of cunt— to be disposed of as he saw fit; whipped, pierced, tattooed, fucked by anyone he chose; sold or mutilated at his whim, alwys facing the prospect of being cruelly terminated. Of course I didn’t! Crazy!

Sanity regained, I would allow myself to stop for a coffee and a nibble (I could not really bring myself to eat more than a few mouthfuls at a time. There was, in me, always, the knowledge that I was perhaps a few kilos overweight— that his slavegirls were all, without exception, toned, trim and slim).

Then it would start all over again. I couldn’t get the memory of watching Jenkins— at Master’s instruction— push a lighted cigarette into one of the girl’s open, damp sex; her horrified, appalled gaze fixated on the glowing tip, tears gathering, her thighs obscenely and obediently spread; the jerk and the soft, despairing moan as her flesh briefly sizzled (I had even got a whiff as of cooking meat), she holding herself pretty and open throughout; her careful, sincere-sounding ; ‘thank you’, the way she had immediately knelt before him, ready to take his fat, stiff cock into her lovely mouth— I had run away, then, conscious of Jenkin’s considering eyes following me.

If the first night was terrible, the second was infinitely worse; I hardly slept; pacing the floor in my little flat, sometimes hysterical, at one point dressing in shapeless outdoor gear, stuffing a rucksack, spending an insane amount of money on a last-minute internet booking for a plane to Australia, in an intense fever of determination to be finished with the insanity of it, before I collapsed in tears, then got out my ‘phone for the millionth time, and brought up his number, before throwing it down again, in an agony.

At last, I stripped naked, and stood in front of the big mirror, looking at my body, my long legs, my breasts, the way my pussy sits above a neat gap where my legs join my torso, my soft belly. I tried to tell myself I was beautiful, but immediately begin to wonder how overweight, how out-of-shape I was, whether he would be happy with the way my hips curved, my nipples jut…

I stroked myself, and soft tears came as I thought of the whip, the piercings, the lighted cigarette, the nasty, sharp-toothed clamps, the ugly cocks of cruel strangers, the hands, the humiliation, the vulnerability, and, too, the ever-present fear of being ‘disposed of’.

And then I found my pussy wet, and stroked myself more urgently, remembering again the girl and the cigarette; the maid on that first day; the shock of seeing her pussy pierced by metal, remembering what he had said about my clit, the way I would be….

I stopped, then; horrified— but I was at it again within minutes, watching myself come, knowing, deep down, that I was giving in to this madness, that these were my last few hours as a person in my own right, that I was wasting them, masturbating at the idea of being used as a slave.

That I was lost.

I was there, in front of the mirror, for a long time, until somehow the sun was well and truly risen, and flooding the room with beautiful, but harsh light, although it was still ridiculously early, and suddenly it became easy, obvious, incontestable.

The end of indecision.

He would have me. In fact, I would beg him to take me, if I had to. Why hadn’t I realised it before? I could have saved myself two days of torment. So what if Jenkins might burn my pussy? I would scream, and pant, and moan for him, and he would fuck me as roughly as he wished, and I would accept it, and thank him. And beg for more, if only for fear of worse.

There was more, too. For Master had told me that he had his girls very carefully taken through a psychological regime, once they were broken in.

‘Did you wonder how it could be that 23 could giggle with me about the prospect of being viciously whipped on her soft cunt every three hours, then immediately subjected to an aggressive fucking?’

‘Well, it takes time, but mostly works, with the sort of girls I choose— intelligent, high-strung girls like you— the trainer works to embed, very deeply in the girl’s psyche, something which used to be called Stockholm Syndrome— a species of psychological and emotional transference; brainwashing, in the common understanding, although the experts I use consider themselves rather too sophisticated to like the term.

‘Whatever you call it, I use it because, when completed, it results in a helpless, engrained identification, in the girl’s mind, of the innate, unquenchable urge to survive, with the experience of me paying attention to them— even if that attention is cruel. So that, for poor 23, the experience of me thinking up something extra mean for her to suffer, was experienced, in the moment, as very deeply reassuring.’

‘Such feelings, for a slavegirl— especially one whose owner is well known for specifying terminations which are— shall we say— rather picaresque in their cruel perversity— a slavegirl who thus lives with continual, visceral fear of a tortured end, with very well-founded cause for that fear— any feeling of reassurance, for such a girl, is desperately welcome.’

‘But of course, alongside the reassurance that her ultimate fate seems less likely to be imposed in the near future, she has also to contend with the more immediate horror of— in 23’s case— having Jenkins whip her cunt harshly before fucking it. Hence the giggling— classically a response to a hard-to-resolve conjunction of fear and happiness’

All this going round in my head, the enormity of it, the power of it in my imagination, the memory of the lovely girl’s sweet giggles, so emotionally deep as they had been, so genuine, so transparent; more, too— the impossible certainty that, very soon, it would be me that was taken, whether I wanted it or not, into that mental trap, so clever, so dangerous, so seductive …

And I was hot again, and stroking myself again, masturbating, then, and I came, beautifully, gorgeously, desperately sad, and then the tears came, too— soft and gentle, with no more anger or conflict.

I was done. I really was. There was no longer any doubt in my mind, or— much more importantly— in my spirit.

Tragic as it was, my being a person— that stage of my life— the little girl I had been, the hopeful teenager, the hard-working recruit, the assiduous management trainee, with a growing income and sense of her competence and potential, the girl who had had lovers, and hopes for a family one day— all that— all, over.

I was going to become nothing; nothing but a body. Nothing but a chattel, to be used by rich people, for entertainment.

It was the only thing I could do, anymore. He had simply made his offer, good for a month, nothing more; it was my own thoughts, my own feelings , my own weaknesses, my own stupidity which had brought me here, to this choice.

So, wrenchingly sad as it was, it was— it must be— what I really wanted.

I would work with the psychological manipulation expert, I realised— would yearn to achieve the transference Master had described to me— would diligently assist in my own brainwashing, would want to be brought to that condition where sadistic usage would bring feelings of gratitude— so that I could genuinely offer him pretty, helpless giggles in return for his cruel attentions.

It was like a fever-dream; wonderful, despite (or because of?) the enormous unease that coiled in the background, and I … I just went with the flow.

I showered, slowly, taking care of myself, apologising to my body for what I was about to do to it— put it onto the control of a practised and heartless sadist, almost certainly condemn it to an early termination, likely in circumstances of pain, terror and excoriating shame.

Apologising to myself, but falsely; I was apologising for something that I had not done yet, which I did not have to do.

My first experience of the careful, knowing lies that a ‘turned’¹ slavegirl tells herself all the time— to dispel the anguish, calm the terrors, smooth the path to her own destruction.

But I didn’t allow myself long; already, it felt, I was no longer my own, but was trespassing upon his rights over me.

I made myself up a little, put on a mini-dress that he liked, my highest heeled sandals— and nothing else; it was hard, but symbolic, to leave my ‘phone behind. I took a little money and my door-key and called for a cab.

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