You will find that this makes more sense if you have read the previous episodes of Odile’s Story.
The first two votes for this are downvotes.
People are not enjoying this story: its definitely not for everyone. Very dark and awful.
Trigger warning, graphic non-consensual bestiality. Harshness 6
Really, don’t read it.
A terrible and agonising fate has befallen Odile, all unplanned; she failed; she could not hold herself together; her author failed her, and all too soon, she has ended up here, in the Cruelties category. You should not read this.
Every second of that walk was to be etched into Odile’s memory; to be re-lived, countless times, in all its many agonies, its terrible intensity, its sharp brutality, its final, awful tragedy.
Just the walking, at first; naked, blinded, bound, pulled relentlessly forward by the chain which cut painfully into her sex, the double-time rhythm and pace of its tension and release so recognisably the pattern of a dog’s walk, the horrible machine in her sex constantly reminding her of its existence, its malevolence (for she could not rid herself of the notion that it had evil intent).
She hardly knew how she could keep putting one foot in front of another, save that it was impossible that she should not; that she had nothing else in mind; nothing at all, beyond …
Nothing.
The bleakness of her shame, her meaninglessness, her abject failure, His unending, detailed, careful debasement of poor Odile; Odile who was already lost, already gone, drowned in shame and shameful lust and pathetic weakness.
Nothing but being fuckable, the need to feel fuckable, to make herself fuckable by His standards.
The awfulness of thinking like this while being dragged by this dog who was apparently going to fuck her himself, one day…
The cold dampness of this underground space, the fear of the unknown, unable to see, even … where am I being taken? Nowhere good, nowhere nice, nowhere happy, nowhere pretty, nowhere kind, that’s all I can be sure of.
Round and round in her head, amplifying, tormenting her, maddening her, until she felt she must scream and rage and moan with it, give up, fail even at this…
Concentrate on Him, on Andrew. Andrew’s will is what I need; His will for me, his interest in me. Him. Him. Him. He wants this, wants me to be strong enough for this so that He can ruin me until I am His perfect fuckdoll and I want to be that for Him, I want it I need it: Him, Him, Him…
It’s this, this constant requirement of myself to think about being fucked, to get myself hot and needy. This is what will rot my brain, turn me into a silly, sex-addled child in a woman’s body, this making myself do it.
It was tragic, really; what had been so wonderful about Andrew at the beginning was that he had made her feel complete— as a woman— finally, she had learned how to have sex as an adult, not a frightened child; it was how he had conquered her. How bitter-sweet that, in order to have any chance of Him granting her that privilege again, she must accept, she must lose it all, give up on everything, relinquish any claim to womanhood, and turn herself instead into a sex toy; not just lose her self-worth, but become weak-minded, pitiable, nothing but despicable needy cunt.
Oh, but He will force you, and give you to others; to this dog, even, have you mauled and manipulated, exhibited and raped, hurt and shamed, so that you become a creature of sex, an animal yourself, worse than a dog because you know, you know…
Exactly what any adult Frenchwoman would most despise, be appalled and disgusted by, would reject out-of-hand as beneath contempt…
She made a picture in her head, then— a caricature of herself, amalgamated with half-remembered images from the pornography the boys at college had tried to shock them with, some of which, of course, had done more than shock her; had ignited lust even, and in this manner, brought herself to this place where it seemed as if an opening of her mind to the lowest, most animal of her instincts might …
… and it did; abandoning herself to those instincts took her, with a flush of soft heat, into her body, into the need in her groin that she was learning to surrender to, rather than seek to manage or deny (as a Frenchwoman must), and she blushed to herself at her weakness, her neediness, at the way her taut body, even now, was responding to the thing in her sex, to its horrible machinations…
But when she stumbled badly; nearly fell, wrenching her ankle as she all but toppled from the excruciating heels, stumbled for no obvious reason save that she was overwhelmed by the ruinous mixture of horror and despair, shame and helpless lust, when she realised that she was not strong enough, that she was already failing, then, when the dog’s occasional warning growl grew in intensity, became a snarl, when the creature tugged at her, hard, making the chain bite into her sex in a way which suddenly was the worst sensation in the world … then the fear took her, shaking her with increasing violence, dragging weird, whining, whimpering sounds from her trembling throat; no coherent words, just animalistic noises. She found herself wrenching her body into contorted shapes, twisting as if to leave her trapped body behind, unable to take another step, suddenly unwilling. Not rejecting anything of her new truth, but rather accepting it completely; that she was over.
No resistance, none, but a simple inability to control her body as it twisted and turned and the noises from her throat got weirder and louder and more crazy, making everything worse, as her head swam with dizziness and the tears began to spurt painfully from her eyes as panic rose in her, driving out all reason, and she lost control completely; everything getting worse and worse, more unbearable, knowing she was about to fall apart, terrified that if she did, she would be lost forever, gone, never again be herself.
Is this what He wants? Does He want me a mindless, raving husk, a body without a mind in place, to be fucked at will?
The fear took a wild leap inside her, then, and hysteria took her; she thrashed wildly, not noticing the pain; driving herself then, almost deliberately, into what seemed madness, as the only possible escape from it all, screaming, and shrieking; lost in one long, unending grinding moan of despair and shame and fear, only to be brutally jolted by cold terror as the dog turned and reared up in front of her, sharp, vicious barking, her mind providing the pictures; a snarling red mouth, frightening teeth, full of purpose, full of threat. He went down, she felt it, down, then up again immediately, claws threatening, round behind her now, the growling continuous, loud, sharp-edged.
Her hysteria, her pain was disturbing him— she knew it in her mind, knew that she must control herself, but was utterly unable, feeling it so deeply, fear of the dog compounding everything. He had tried, intelligent, well-trained creature that he was, to snap her out of her frenzy with a shock, then to capture her attention with his growling, all intended to bring her back to the reality that he, the dog, the alpha, was in charge, in control, and that she must obey.
But she was too far gone, too lost in hysteria, the repeated violations and assaults on her psyche of the last 24 hours had fatally destabilised her, left her with nothing solid inside herself to reach for, to cling to.
He circled back, tried again, rearing up at her, snapping jaws so close to her face, to her naked breasts, his sharp claws at her flesh too, but even though she wanted, wanted desperately for it to work, to be frightened back into obedience, into relative safety, it was all too much, and she went the other way, suddenly lunging at the creature, screaming at it with all her strength, all her fear, all her despair, trying to frighten it away, and then she had gone too far for him.
Well-trained as he was, she was too extreme, too wild, and he had flipped mode, from his learned ability to control a human, back to a simpler level— brute establishment of dominance through fear; he went down, went behind her, then reared up, barking astonishingly loud, very close behind her head, terrifying, then planted his feet on her shoulders, all his weight and the strength of his rear legs pushing at her until, half crippled by the terrible heels, she tottered, stumbled forward, and fell to her knees, then toppled forward, helpless, ripping her shoulder and her knees on sharp stone edges, grazing her face, the awfulness of her arms being useless, locked behind her back, squealing in horror and shock, her hysteria finally strangled by the awful prospect in her mind, by the fear of what might come next, and suddenly, all the shocks and diminishment she had experienced were put into perspective.
This— naked, bound, blindfolded, ankles strapped into crippling heels, collared; in an unknown basement with no-one but strangers in Andrews’ employ knowing where she was, at the mercy of this barking, snapping beast of a dog which wanted to rape her, powerless; this was something else; this was destruction; this was ruin, this was the end of Odile, and it could not be allowed. She must fight; fight with all her power, fight with everything, no matter what she had allowed, what she had promised; no matter what she wanted, this was not to borne, not to be accepted; she must not, could not be defeated here, could not live as a stupid victim of rape by a dumb animal (however much Andrew was to blame for doing this to her, she had repeatedly refused all suggestions that she might rescue herself, ignored all warnings, both from others and from herself; indeed she had voluntarily offered herself up for public humiliation, again and again, in order to get here: but still; still, even this stupid, guilty, despicable slut did not deserve, could not accept being fucked by a dog, raped by a dumb dog; having a dog come inside her, jerk its seed into her belly).
It. Could. Not. Be.
She stiffened, controlled herself with this new certainty; the anger of it. Somehow she would get out of this— she must; there was no other outcome which could be survived.
With desperate cold determination, she found, somehow, a way to stand, to confine her terror of the ravening beast, which had not stopped circling her, barking sharp and deep, threatening, insistent, tangling her in the long chain of the leash, so that struggle as she might, she could not run.
But she could move and she hobbled backward, and by sheer force of will managed to get herself, back to a wall; cold, wet, slimy against her nakedness, but solid; he would not again get behind her.
Any sense of achievement was immediately ripped from her as the beast reared up, sharp-clawed paws raking at her shoulders, barking directly in her face— she could smell its breath, foul, hot, fetid; it made her retch, for a second, which was brutally cut short by an awful realisation; that the hot, slimy cock of the beast was bouncing off her belly as he lunged and thrust at her, his barking unceasing now, slaver dripping onto her breasts; the terror, the fear, the anticipation of the horror, the impossible degradation mounting in her, hysteria threatening again as she in her turn screamed back;
“Fuck you, dog, Fuck OFF! Die, fucker; I’ll never, never be yours; I’m a human, I’m a person! I have rights you disgusting beast … Fuck OOOOooooffff!”
It gave her strength, wild strength, and she forced herself somehow, tried to walk, to run, even, to escape the beast, only to quickly discover her stupidity, the crushing, devastating idiocy of her failure, how ridiculous her attempt at resistance was as she stumbled, staggered and was knocked flat again, a bruising, smashing fall, uncontrolled, onto hard wet stone; deep, aggressive barking in her ears, terrifying her, robbing her of all strength, so that she heard herself suddenly changing tack, her voice pathetic, urgently pleading, full of faked empathy;
“Oh! OoOoh! I’m sorry. Sorry! Please! please, good … good dog … it … it’s OK, doggie … please … calm down, please, I’ll … I’ll walk, I will … what … what you want … I … promise I’l be good, just pleeeeaase, please don’t … "
Then, with dread finality, she fell silent as it came to her, without possibility of doubt, what the beast wanted now, was determined to force upon her, as he mounted her from behind, claws scrabbling at the sides of her ribcage, ripping her flesh. She was forced to realise that she had been defeated, that she could not fight him, had no more strength, no more options; that she was about to be raped by a raging, savage beast of a dog, and that she could not prevent it; could no longer fight, even, so devastating was the defeat, so deep, so terrible, so world-ending.
A terribly hot, sticky hardness assailing her buttocks and thighs, as the creature jerked itself about, growling in a different register now, as she wailed and cried out and cajoled, as she wriggled and cringed and twisted, feeble in her chains, utterly pathetic, despairing, appalled beyond anything, the shocks and cruel indignities of the previous 24 hours luxuries a pampering in comparison with this terror, this soul-crushing agony, this grinding, tearing hopelessness at what was now certain to befall her; that must kill her, end her as a human being, this ruin, as, with appalling inevitability, the dog’s shifting and jerking finally found its mark, and a terrible slick hard hotness stabbed into her sex, and she wailed and shrieked, helplessly, transfixed by the impossible, insupportable horror of the reality— that she had a dog’s slimy cock stabbing into her soft, defenceless sex, inside her, jerking and thrusting; impossibly hot, impossibly alien; stabbing at her with violent, urgent, animal abandon, destroying her, destroying everything, besmirching everything beyond repair, casting her into permanent self-hatred as he finally found his pace and his angle of attack and she nearly swooned with the sheer sensation of being penetrated so fast, so deep, so violently, so shamefully, as she knew her body’s response, felt some deep, urgent part of her recognise the thrust, feel its power as welcome, as needed, as deserved, as righteous, and her body collapsed completely, leaving her face down in the gravel and damp of the broken stone floor as the dog found his stride, as he transfixed her, immobilised her by taking a purposeful hold of the side of her neck with sharp teeth, not at all gentle (she felt her skin punctured, experienced his harsh growling more through direct vibration than by hearing him), convinced her throat was to be ripped from her, frozen in fear as he began to rut himself; ever more rapidly, ever more forcefully into her poor sex, the mechanical thing in there too, jerking and twitching until it was caught in some way and drawn out through the energy of the dog’s frantic thrustings; she heard the clatter on the floor as it landed with a bizarre clarity, even as she hoarsely, desperately, hopelessly cried out her horror at what was happening to her, at what could not, simply could not be true, while at the same time the violence and panting urgency of the dog’s repeated thrusting penetrations had her hips splayed, her pelvis moving of its own accord, had her squealing at the top of her register, until with even deeper horror she felt his jerking change its pattern and knew that a dog, a brute animal, was jerking its alien seed deep into her belly and suddenly she was gone, broken, done, and it was a pathetic, grinding relief to finally give up on Odile, give up on herself, give up on everything and die … … …
Except, of course, that she had not died.
When she regained awareness after her self-protecting swoon, her withdrawal from a world that was too awful to be conscious in, her body; when her traitorous, animal body brought her back; back to consciousness, back to awareness, back to a living hell, there was a new horror— an appalling, hurting stretching in her sex, right at the mouth of it, bigger than anything ever, hurting like nothing ever, shaming like nothing ever, destroying her all over again except that she could not faint again, could not however much she wished it, wished to die, wanted to have been extinguished by the horror, the infamy; the bitter, cringing shame of it, the appalling horror of having to be conscious of being complicit in her own suffering of this life-destroying shame.
He was still inside her; not on her now, but behind her, making his own strange noises (she realised that she was whining too, their two noises hardly distinguishable as distinct; dog and human both in the aftermath of intensity).
It took an age; a lifetime of grinding, unliveable despair before she sensed some lessening of the terrible pain, the appalling stretching and pulling (he had not ceased yanking and dragging at her sex as he wilted inside her, as the horribly hot slime he had pumped into her seeped and oozed and cooled and ran down her leg, as the certainty that she must die to escape this terrible pain in her heart grew in her, as she prayed for death, for release, for oblivion; for hell even, the hell she had rejected as horse-shit so many years ago now worth praying for in her ruination.)
An age before he was able to pull away from her, an age before the pain in her sex was revealed to her as hers, not imposed on her by the stretching, but still with her, and she died inside all over again at the certainty that she had been physically as well as mentally ruined by the unspeakable rape, and she heard herself whining, heard herself how utterly broken, how pathetic she sounded, and hated herself more than she hated the world, and welcomed the blackness that came up to claim her.
