The Maid
She’d been a maid at the Castle club for a while - hands up her skirt, slaps on the bum, ‘please pick up these cards I dropped’, grabbing her tits in the filmy blouse - she had put up with all of that, while watching the club girls proper get thoroughly and selfishly used, fucked, beaten, degraded, always doing their best to stay pretty, submissive, eager to please.
The maid job paid good money, and it wasn’t so bad, really.
So why had she asked to be initiated?
It didn’t really matter now. Too late. Here she was, naked, collared, in front of them all.
Next, her elbows would be linked behind her back, a leash fixed to her collar, and she would be whipped, then raped.
If she made the grade, this would be her lot for a year, at least. There was no backing out, no possibility of changing her mind now.
She kept her body language as submissive, her attitude as pretty as possible.
The night would change her, she knew. Some part of her understood that this was probably the end of her independent existence; that her choices, her experiences from now on would be decided for her by Anne-Marie on behalf of the members.
It was wonderfully strange to be at the same time so terrified and so tremblingly grateful.
Before the Performance
These moments ..
These moments of luxurious, obscene decadence; the half-eager, half terrified flaunting that they were obliged to perform, and at the same time overcommitted to ..
Moments that brought such delicious, heartstopping langour, such an agony of suppressed yet delicious fear ..
There were 12 visitors today .. 12 ..
All strangers.
She had been out of action for a week after the last session like this.
Without even planning it, she licked her lips, slowly, tongue flickering hesitantly.
A small, ugly grin showed for a second on the face of the small man with thinning hair whom she was most repelled by, and she drew her shoulders back - just a little, so that the dress fell free of her breast, forced herself to catch his eye, then look away, having let him see her fear, having offered herself up to him. Why? Now he will be inflamed, will hurt her later, for sure.
She knows why - it is her only power, now - the power to excite men to abuse her, to drive them to extremes of intensity, all to be expunged through abuse of her small, weak frame.
Thinking like this, she experiences a thrill of erotic horror and fear that flutters her belly and floods her sex, making her eyelids flutter. ‘Oh Jesus why do I need this so much?‘
“They’ll whip each other properly with that thing?”
“The riding crop? Yes. You’ll see. Across the tits and between the legs, too. They’ll kiss each other deeply first, and then make each other scream and cry. There’s no fakery - you’ll hear the impact, see blood, see the welts rise up, all puffy, see the horror and despair in their pretty eyes. Last time I fucked one of them in the arse while her tits were getting thrashed - I could feel her clench in fear, then loosen again, with each blow - amazing experience…”
It was incomprehensible to her, now, that only a few hours earlier, Anne-Marie’s hand at her pussy, with a couple of these strangers looking on, she had begged so prettily for the privilege of being chosen for this.
Her chest heaved - a sigh to cover her fear, or an excuse to have her breasts move to attract greedy eyes? She no longer knew, although the desire at her sex was undeniable. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, slowly, offering herself, tears pricking at her eyes.
Another fifteen minutes of this. Was the agony because she was desperate for the insanity to begin, or is she just unable to bear the knowledge of her own complicity?
Beyond hope
Hope is doing this so carefully, she realises, not for the man she is serving, but for the other one - the older man.
He’s not handsome, his tanned, leather-like skin tight on his skull, eyes a little big, jaw large, his nose a sharp prow, his eyebrows shaggy.
He’s not sharply dressed either - heavy twill trousers, stout shoes, a drab jacket, none of them anywhere near new.
He had looked at her, passed his eyes over her naked, opened form, offered so shamefully, so deliberately on the couch with the others, but had paid her no special attention - it was the younger one who had chosen her.
But somehow, she felt his attention meant something.
He had ignored her as she leant over to serve his drink, carefully setting her breasts to sway just so. Perhaps he had watched her as she had served the other man - she hoped so, had opened her thighs and gone extra low, feet wide apart, so as to open her sex to his view.
She was a good girl, well trained, and had learned, months ago, to fulfill her quota of cocks and sufferings each day by tailoring her offer to her best guess as to what each man wanted (or woman - she was less good at women).
And of course she hadn’t ended up as a slave-cum-whore here by mistake - her old boss had correctly judged her capacity for nymphomania, seduced her, then had brought her by degrees to accept rape and cruelty, and with her smiling, sad, blushing acceptance of the terms of residence at the Castle had brought his score to four.
She maintained, as was traditional with the girls, a pretense of being resentful toward the man who had so cleverly tricked her and seduced her into this condition, this place of subjugation, of servitude, of humiliation - but in fact she had become just a little bored with him.
Until this moment, she had not realised that in fact she was a little bored with everything (how bizarre to be bored in this establishment of outrage and excess). Bored, until the old man had looked her over so casually; until he had smiled winningly at the ditzy redhead, who had giggled at him, jiggling her tits.
Until she had known, deep in her belly, that she wanted him (wanted him as what? She never could answer this question, but it made no difference).
She was trembling now, as she hadn’t for months, her fingers twitching tinily, her nipples prickling with their stiffness, heart pattering.
Tears threatened; for how, in this place of pretty, near-naked, eager, skilful young women; not permitted either to speak or make eye contact, not permitted to volunteer any behaviour beyond a standard set of submissive ‘rest’ positions, how was a girl to express need?
And so she concentrated on what she was permitted - commanded - to do at this moment, which was to suck the younger man’s cock. To do it as well as she could - as submissively as she could.
And hope that he would notice.
Halfway through though, he stood up and walked away. She heard later that he had paid for two days of the redhead’s time and left with her, having paid a substantial deposit.
The redhead had terrible bruises and her eyes were scared when she returned.
Nevertheless, Hope spent more time than usual on parade, but took less clients - even to the extent that she was several times beaten for missing her quota.
She was waiting for him.
But he never came - nor even did the young man. None of the girls knew who he was, and the redhead wouldn’t say - in truth, she hardly spoke at all any more, not since her time with him.
When, a few months later, Anne Marie said that Sultan K wished to buy her - take her to __stan, where he was some sort of oil oligarch, she looked up, to see a soft expression in the older woman’s eyes, almost tenderness. A tiny shake of the head - a warning?
It didn’t matter.
“Of course, Mistress, as you say Mistress.“ she said, and bowed her head, exposing the back of her neck, where the barcode was tattooed.
Hope was branded that afternoon, on her inner thigh and on her right cheekbone, and her breasts and sex were pierced and ringed, before she was crated up for transit.
Anne-Marie had told her that before she was admitted into his harem, she would have her breasts altered, tendons surgically shortened so she could only walk if wearing high heels, that her jaw would be altered so that her teeth would no longer close, and that her thumbs would be removed, to make her all but helpless, make her hands more elegant.
She had smiled, and said she understood, even as she trembled, and leaned forwards a little into the lazy caress at her breasts, closing her eyes; seeing in her mind the older man, who had not desired her, a tear dripping slowly even as Anne-Marie’s hard lacquered nails penetrated her sex, and she, reflexively, sweetly, opened both her thighs and her painted lips, eager to lose herself in the demands of another’s sexual dominion, even knowing that it would give her at most a few minutes of release.
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