This post is in the CRUELTIES category. Don’t read it.
Around this time of the year— in early summer— The Castle holds its annual Garden Party.
The Castle gardens are really rather wonderful— unlike most French gardens, which tend towards carefully manicured beds and regimented planting, this one is in the more natural English style. It was mostly laid out in the 1920s by an acolyte of Gertrude Jekyll, a Society girl, whose husband had found her, one day, in bed with the youngest, prettiest housemaid, and decided to send them both to the Castle, his wife to be trained to share her perversions with him and his friends, the housemaid to be debauched and sold into slavery to pay for his membership.
Little is recorded, as might be imagined, of the poor housemaid, save a single ledger entry; Maudie, english, branded ‘453’, transferred to Sultan of Oman, FF500.
The wife apparently took to the regime rather well, and although she returned to her English ‘Society’ position after the brutalties and humiliations of her three months confinement as a Castle girl, she agreed to return for 6 weeks every year. The contract— written in her own rather beautiful cursive— specifies that she is to be used, abused and beaten as viciously as the very meanest of the girls held in servitude, her husband (and owner) particularly requesting that she be made to perform with trained dogs for the entertainment of the membership at least once each week.
Each year, she had arrived earlier and earlier, to work on the gardens, rather than to begin her term of debasement (although rumour had it that the garden staff and the stable boys made very free with her during their breaks, and that at night her room in the guest wing was often invaded by groups of men who ignored her feeble protests, thrashing and raping her mercilessly).
Whatever the truth of the rumours, the reality and delightful quality of the gardens is remarkable. It was the genius of the Anne-Marie of the 1950s, to realise that a Garden Party could be the ideal setting to introduce potential novices— both Members and girls— to the delights of The Castle in a ‘soft’ way.
Members would be invited to bring with them girls whom they hoped or intended to deliver into the cruel clutches of the Castle, for whom the prettiness of the gardens and the relatively sedate nature of the afternoon section of the party would help to establish the Castle as both rich and sophisticated, well managed and well connected, in a girl’s mind, and so add weight to the inevitability of her surrender. Depravity was not so much hidden away, as presented elegantly. As well as girl guests, the Castle fillies were present at the party, most wearing summer dresses that were superficially ‘decent’ (though not all achieved this standard), while being at the same time very short, very revealing, often gauzy, and of course offering easy access to groin and breasts both.
Since a summer garden party is often a place a perfectly ordinary girl will choose to dress to impress , and since the young girls invited are mostly in sexual relationships with controlling and demanding men whom they are already at least partially in thrall to, it is often only possible to tell the difference between Castle inmates and vistors by the slave collars Castle girls wear.
Picture: Girls of the Castle Garden Party
Even then, there can be confusion, since some of the guest girls are already well on the way— having attended the evening dinners which some members choose to bring girls to in order to prepare them— (for more on these dinners see the first part of She Asked for it— although there is not yet a story which lays out those evenings in full). These girls, some of them, choose to wear slave collars.
This confusion, plus the free bar, well stocked with Bollinger and Remy-Martin, means that, as the evening wears on, the younger members, naturally wishing to use the Castle girls as they are intended to be used, sometimes make mistakes; there is often a filly in residence at the Castle whose time began earlier than intended (if it was intended at all), with a violent gang-rape of a relative innocent during the evening of the Garden Party. The screams and begging of these girls are of a particularly desperate piteousness, which can drive members into a frenzy, so that they actively hunt other victims.
This is considered highly entertaining, of course, in the Club Room; girls who arrived in this way are made to tell the story of their trauma, as often as not resulting in a terribly distressed girl being further traumatised by a rough and heartless re-enactment of the tragedy that had destroyed her life. These ‘accidents’ can of course create significant reputational risk for The Castle.
One year a girl who was really rather damaged by her ordeal turned out to be the wayward daughter of a important industrialist (physically, she healed, but never recovered from the terror of that night, so that she was became almost pathologically eager to please, a helpless and desperate nymphomaniac). The negotiations around this incident were lengthy and awkward, but in the end Anne-Marie achieved a notable success. The industrialist, having sampled a few of the Castle girls as an initial consolation (they had been shipped to his island, off Brittany, in large packing cases, and were held in deep damp cellars for a few weeks as he had discovered just how far he could go with them— and how much he liked pushing that envelope), eventually agreed to a free lifetime membership, and to have his daughter fully broken in by Anne-Marie, to the point where she willingly signed a lifetime indenture, which her father bought and then gave to a Russian oligarch who had been holding out particularly hard on a massive deal. He had been introduced to the girl at the Castle, of course, not knowing who she was, and had become infatuated (she had been trained, very specifically, to please, in relation to a couple of his rather disturbing fetishes). He had offered to buy her from the Castle but of course her father held the indenture, and he could not have her without doing the deal.
For Castle girls, the Garden Party is a rare ‘special’ moment in the otherwise relentless round of dungeon and club-room service, occasional maid duties at the Paris dining rooms. Monotony is part of Anne-Marie’s regime, another ‘inevitability’ about the life of a Castle girl. Up at the same time every day (no matter what the depravities of the previous night), a simple breakfast in silence with the other fillies of her dormitory, followed by cleansing and dressing each other— always the same style of outfit, always the same duties, always the same afternoon nap time, a ‘teatime’ with Anne-Marie each week, always the need to earn ‘doses’ of semen. Of course, the details of the fuckings, beatings, cruelties, humiliations vary wildly from hour to hour, day to day, but the framework rolls on, unstoppable, like time itself.
This means that there is much excitement in the weeks leading up to the Garden Party. Girls are assigned small groups, and work together to design their outfits, within a budget. During these weeks, at set times, girls are allowed to talk to each other (always supervised, of course). They can increase their shared budget by achieving targets allotted to each— mainly in respect of ‘doses’, but each with an additional, unique challenge— to do something that they find too repugnant to do beautifully, or to achieve orgasm from something they find appallingly degrading, ask to be tattooed or branded, or sign up for another three months of slavery.
Since the budget is shared, and it will be the one time in the year that a girl gets to wear an outfit of her own choosing (albeit that choice is very heavily constrained by the Castle’s requirements), each girl finds herself under heavy pressure from the others in her group to achieve her individual target. The emotional and psychological temperature gets very high in these weeks— girls fight, fall out for life, enter into strange pacts to inflict awful things upon each other, simply to be able to have a pretty dress for one night.
In the picture below, the dark haired girl, Q, second from the left, has never been receptive to anal sex, although she has more than made up for this with her exceptional skill with both her mouth and the internal musculature of her vagina. For this Garden Party, then, the challenge she was set was to have her mouth and vagina sewn shut for three days, with the third day being that of the party, during which she was to go round signing as many men up as she could for an anal gang-bang, to begin at 10pm next to the bonfire.
Having tearfully agreed at the beginning of the dress planning sessions to take on this challenge, and insisted that she would be able to do the sewing herself (although the treatment is definitely a horrifying thing to think about, and shocking to witness, although the impact on a girl’s psyche is normally immense, in practice it is a relatively simple and safe thing to achieve, using normal needles and button thread, and need cause no lasting effect, not even scarring).
However, as the weeks passed, the enormity of the challenge had begun to loom in her mind— not just the appalling idea of sewing closed her own sex, and then her mouth, for three days (she would be watered through a pipe inserted through her nostril, but otherwise be forced to fast), which would be followed by the differently appalling anal gang-fuck. When the other girls asked her about her preparations for the sewing, she was first reticent, then mulish, then aggressively rude, then tearful.
Pressure was applied in a number of ways, but as the day approached, and various aspects of their costumes seemed likely to be confiscated due to Q’s failure to comply, the other three, along with the warder assigned to their sessions, took matters into their own hands, and ganged-up on Q, wrestling her to the ground in a rush, she screaming and thrashing, seeing what was up, only to be overpowered as the warder simply fell onto his knees on her back, crushing her to the floor and winding her. By the time she could pay attention to anything but the necessity of finding out how to breathe again, she had been laid onto the divan, on her back, hands cuffed beneath her, one girl at each ankle, the warder, at the head end, manhandling her so that her head was off the end, pushing his cock deep into her throat, at the same time as she she could feel the delicate hands of Therèse, the tall, skinny brunette with the large breasts, carefully and tenderly straightening out the folds of her labia, kissing her deeply down there (something else Q found horridly disturbing), which was, of course, the prelude to a series of sharp pains as those same labia were pierced, again, and again, and again, the strange and distressing feeling of the rough thread being dragged through her tender membranes adding to her distress, to the crushing reality that for three days, now, she was going to be so visibly and crudely shamed.
The pain was not really the thing; it was the awfulness of it, the knowledge that she would now remain cuffed for three days (to prevent her picking at the threads— infection being the major danger of the procedure), that everyone would see what had been done to her, that her mouth was sure to be next, and that she was going to lose one stupid last holdout of hers— her resistance to anal sex. She was going to become even more interchangeable with the other dirty whores in this godforsaken hell.
A fit of horrifying despair overwhelmed her then, and she only just managed to resit biting the fat cock that was filling her throat, just to set the seal on the awfulness of the stupid decisions which had brought her to this brutalisation, rescued at the last from doing something that would have brought down even worse on her by the simple fear of being cast out of Anne-Marie’s regard— the fate of those girls who harm a man’s member, the inevitable follow-on from which is to be sold on the black market, disappeared at dead of night, gone from the ‘safe’ life of the Castle, doomed.
And so the dread procedure had followed on— the warder’s cock deep in her ass as her mouth was being sewn shut, tears streaming from her tightly closed eyes, her whole mind closing in on itself.
Castle girls, though, have something in common; a deep, indistinguishable core of toughness, of animal will to live (read Becoming a Creature for more on this toughness). It is this characteristic which Anne-Marie is most careful to develop a good understanding of during the first days and weeks of a new girl’s stay. If she does not possess the toughness, she will either not be considered elegible for future admission (in the case of a volunteer or suborned girl), or ruthlessly broken and then immediately sold on (in the case of a girl acquired without her consent).
Q has the toughness; it is what carried her through her first ten days, what had helped her, driven her, wondering at her own lunacy, to beg to be allowed to stay for a further three month term, had helped her survive that, and then had fortified her as she had offered herself up for the ordeal Anne-Marie had proposed for her as a test before she would be allowed to sell herself to the Castle.
And it is the toughness which, on waking early on the morning after being forcibly sewn shut (after a few scant hours of sleep only, the throbbing of the stitches making it impossible to forget what a terrible thing has been done to her), had made her look at herself in the mirror, had made her stand there, facing up to it, to the ugliness, the pity, the terror, the horror of it, as the tears spurted from her eyes, as her belly roiled, as her hands and knees shook; forced her to wait, to stay there, forced her to look closely at the strangeness of the thick button thread, pulling tightly at her soft lips, upper and lower, at the dried blood around each tiny wound, scabbing now, made her tell herself, over and again I gave myself to this place, I knew this could happen, I want to be here, I can’t imagine not being here.
Just standing there, with the degradation of herself, seeing, without the possibility of telling herself a comfortable lie, just how low she has fallen, how beyond hope she is, little memories of her childhood, her girlhood, happy times with friends, before she had met the man who had showed her that having her nipples bitten, hard, as he fucked her; she bent double, on her back, holding her legs so wide it hurt, giving herself to him, how that experience did something to her that nothing else had ever done, took her somewhere she needed to be able to get to again and again. Remembering herself as she had been, her silly hopes, her fantasies. Letting herself mourn the loss of all that, for the gain of nothing more than the certainty of being fucked, hard; hard and often.
Because that was it, really. She liked to be fucked hard. More than anything, really. Pathetic, to have given her life away, for such a simple thing.
Waiting.
Waiting for the voice that says; but here you are, Cunt.
That asks the question; Do you, Cunt, want to be ugly, unwanted cunt, or pretty, fuckable cunt, Cunt?
Waiting for the answer— the only possible answer, but which must be supplied by the toughness, since everything else is broken.
Waiting.
“I need to be fuckable. I want to be fucked. I want to be fucked, hard.”
That was all there was. And she did. Right there, she wanted to be fucked hard, and the need was desperate, the most important thing in the world, and she banged on the door, even though it was too early, and banged and banged until the morning warder was heard, his key scraping as he pushed at the lock, his voice angry, and she arranged herself, before he opened the door, even though the voice was that of a man she hated, found repulsive, bent herself over the high frame of the bed end, face down in the mattress, legs obscenely wide, arms doubled behind her, up between her shoulder blades, and set her hips rolling, tears pouring from her eyes, and it had worked. He’d thrashed her a bit first, of course, and made her scream in fear and pain, of course he did, but this had only increased her need for being fucked.
And he had, and he had fucked her; hard, as she needed it. And in her ass-hole, of course, once he had mauled at her sewn shut pussy, discovered that she was unavailable there, laughing scornfully at her, hurting her deliberately, squeezing and pulling so that the bleeding started again.
And being fucked was good. Even though it was in her ass. Indeed, she had to accept, probably was more use to her because it was in her ass; so violent, so sore, so transgressive. It was awful, but the truth was that it calmed her, made sense of her, as so often before, insane though that seemed. It had worked, and afterwards, unable to perform cleaning duties for his sticky cock with her mouth, she had grovelled at his feet, intentionally debasing and humiliating herself, thanking him, wanting him to know how deeply grateful she was to him for that fucking, for being the man who had shown her that she liked being fucked hard in the ass, too; just like all the other whores. Her sisters.
He had used her hair to wipe himself while she wept, softly, as the reality of it all sank in.
She made herself go to the mirror again, afterward, and had made herself acknowledge just how wild the being sewn shut thing would drive the members, how avidly they would be at her; how she would be special, even if for a couple of days only. She had made herself thankful for what had been done to her, just as, in the past, she had made herself thankful for the way welts from whippings brought out the curves in her flesh, the way the brand on her backside made her into property; Q, a cunt, no longer a full human being.
Thus does a Castle girl work with the regime to degrade herself, It’s a one-way road, of course, with a grim cul-de-sac at the end, but the journey has its sweetnesses.
At Anne-Marie’s invitation, she has knelt at the feet of her three friends, kissed them, softly and gently, with her disfigured lips, and made a noise that is trying to be ‘thank you’ to each of them. And she had meant it.
After all, she has the pretty metal ring arrangement she had so wanted for the front of her dress. And her favourite members will like her even more when she can massage their cocks inside her back passage just as well as she can in the other hole. She will be able to do two at once, she realises, and, aware of how sick it is, actually feels herself preening a little at the thought, knowing that she will be making a point of showing everyone just how far gone she is tonight, how hard she will be fucked…
As we see her here, on the night of the party, with the girls who had forcibly done the terrible thing to her, she is almost in love with the stitches, almost in love with the idea of being the centre of attention later, as she is buggered in the glow of the firelight by man after man (and some women with strap-ons, too— she has collected twenty three names so far).
Picture: Therése, Q and the others, a group photo before the party goes wild
