It wasn’t pride — far from it; she was intensely embarrassed, even after all this time — quivering with shame to be so exposed, so present herself so wantonly.
It wasn’t sex, really, either — although she knew that she was wet down there, that there was a tingle in her belly which she knew from experience would only be extinguished by rough and repeated penetrations.
It wasn’t pain — although she knew, offering herself like this, that she would be hurt — she was always hurt — one at least of those who used her would prefer seeing her eyes full of pain to sex, prefer to hear her beg them to stop through broken sobs than to use her body (there were those who did both of course — and nothing to stop them) — but she didn’t dream of pain.
It wasn’t money. She would be given money, after this, probably. Often quite a deal of money. And she liked money, of course. But she had done it for nothing before, would again, if she had to. She would pay, in fact. Work hard to earn the right to be here, if that were what it took.
It wasn’t validation — although it was true, she had been a virgin until 18 months ago, had considered herself plain, unattractive, undesirable, unlovable — and the unmistakeable evidence of sexual arousal, of desire, sometimes direct praise of her body from those who used her was something that occasionally consoled her.
It wasn’t fear — although she had to admit that the fear which caught her, every now and then — like now, just before it all began, or sometimes, when she recognises a sadist who has hurt her in the past, and knows she must open herself nevertheless — has to admit that it has become a little addictive; but truthfully, she would happily never feel this fear again.
None of these.
No. Although all of these were of course present in varying proportions at the moments she needed — those fleeting, transcendent, excruciating moments when, through some unlooked for, unpredictable coming together of her offered vulnerability and the unleashed and savage desire of her abuser, something took her and racked her body with electricity, overloaded her, transformed her, turned her into some creature of infinite and tender submission, after which, for the remainder of the session, she was consumed, totally taken-over with a soft but urgent need to offer herself to each new visitor just exactly as they would wish her to be, to suffer as they wished, to be aroused as they wished, to open herself, just as they wished, to be what they wished her to be.
It was this intensity, this deliverance, this terrible, enforced and irresistible transcendence that she was hooked on, that she could not live for long without. More, it seemed that, each time, it took a little more before she would finally look up at Nora, after one had left and she was being prepared for the next, and say, at last;
“Enough.”
Increasingly, this meant that, by the end of the session, she was all but broken; marked, torn, bruised, bitten, burnt, wrenched, aching (last time, it had taken 15 hours before she could bring herself to ask for it to stop).
But she would have achieved peace. A peace that could last weeks, leave her free, able to face the sun, meet people, read, dance, converse, laugh …
Until, once again, the shadow began to rise. The shadow she welcomed, the shadow she feared.
Until, one day, she would ring the bell at Anne-Marie’s discreet town-house, be admitted, and strip, right there in the hallway, without a word being spoken; accept the collar, and be led to this room, where she would be kept, alone, naked, unspoken to, fed with gruel and water, use a china bowl for her toilet, a jug of cold water to wash with, scrutinised always by the cameras, which buzzed and whirred as they turned blindly to find her. The last few times, she had found herself intentionally masturbating for the cameras, marketing herself, her vulnerability, her neediness, despite the agonising shame this brings on.
At some point, after several days, as long as it took (once a whole fortnight) — Anne-Marie would have arranged something.
Then, without warning, Nora would enter and fill the old stand-alone bath, cleanse her, adorn her or not, as was desired, then indicate to her how she was to present herself. Occasionally, she was whipped by Nora before or after the bath. Once a fat old man had raped her in the bathtub, using her rear passage, holding her head under the water, overpowering her desperate struggles, her panic-induced thrashing, while Nora calmly watched, hands loosely clasped.
Then, after some variable interval, it would begin. Visitors, masked or not, male or female, alone or in pairs, groups sometimes — armed with instruments of torture or pleasure or both, in their street-clothes or nude, sometimes fancifully dressed. All to take their pleasure with her, in whatever way, whatever way at all, took their fancy.
She has imagined, many times, that she might be killed, here, in this room — whether intentionally or not. That no-one would intervene — no screams, no cries for help could be more extreme than those which have been brought from her many and many a time already — so she has had to accept the knowledge that no help would come, that she could die here, become nothing more than an embarrassment, to be cautiously disposed of.
She doesn’t want to die, she thinks. Not soon.
But still, she comes.
She is trembling, now, with the intensity of it, the need, the anticipation. The hidden microphones pick up her breathy voice, so soft and quiet, the cameras catch the uncontrollable small surges at her groin, her buttocks lifting just a little off her ankles each time;
“Please … … Please … … … Please … … Please … … …”
