Be warned — this chapter gets very dark. Things move fast and she discovers that all the formalistic talk in the world about what will be done to her cannot prepare her for the harsh reality of experience. The previous part is here
Emerging from the hotel after an uneventful trip in the lift that was nevertheless almost surreal, such was the state of fugue I was in, I blink in the afternoon sunlight, trembling despite the warmth. It is suddenly terrifying to face such an unknown future — impossible to be alone. Why isn’t he here, telling me what he wants? I don’t even know which way to turn.
At last a doorman takes pity on me;
“May I … may I help, Madam?”
I jump, blush, giggle nervously. A weak, vulnerable sound; girlish — I haven’t allowed myself to appear so silly in public for a decade, but now I find myself considering that this tall, smiling man might well ask me to open my blouse, right now, and that, according to what I have just accepted, I would have to obey.
“Oh! oh, yes! Oh, thank you! Could … could you tell me the … um … to … to the nearest tube station please?”
“Yes of course, Madam. Left here, and about 500 metres. It’s on your left. Sorry to startle you, Madam.”
He steps back, and after some silly dithering, I begin to walk in the direction he has shown me.
D is right, of course — the experience of walking in public, feeling semi-naked, with the unaccustomed weight of the bracelet/cuffs at my wrists, the cool air between my thighs and on my naked sex, my unfettered, uplifted breasts moving heavily in the thin blouse, the echoes of everything that has been said that afternoon ringing in my brain — this is all but overwhelming. I am soon trembling, walking along, conscious of the command to be always sexually inviting; terribly, terribly nervous, embarrassed, but at the same time pathetically desperate not to let him down, not to fail. The higher-than normal heels add to the feeling of vulnerability — I am convinced that everyone who sees me for what I really am — a slut, a degenerate, a whore.
Quickly, it threatens to be too much for me. All my experience with R suddenly seems foolishly tame, safe, domestic. I had thought it was extreme at times, but this, simply walking down a public pavement, dressed provocatively, but not shockingly — just this feels like a different planet. The sensation of vulnerability, of lewd display, of being publicly identifiable as a whore.
My heart thumps, and I jump at every little thing. I realise that I may not be able to keep walking, that I might be about to lose it completely — sink to my knees, sobbing, when an urbane voice just behind me says;
“Would you … stop a moment please, Miss? For me?”
The phrase is so polite, the voice calm and even, and the handsome young man — only a little older than me — is smiling. But my heart is instantly thumping, and I feel myself getting hot, trembling; a knot tightening in my belly. This can’t be it! I can’t be required to let a stranger have me like this — so soon, so … impersonally …
He’s soberly dressed in a well-tailored grey suit, carrying a rolled umbrella. I’ve stopped, of course, remembering after a second that I’m not permitted to look him in the face and lowering my eyes. But what if he’s an ordinary man, just needing a word? What will he think of me — my blouse so thin, unbuttoned, nipples pushing at the fabric, short skirts, high heels?I know my cheeks are pink, and I could easily cry. But my groin is hot and tingling. Why won’t he speak?
He laughs, then — an easy, happy laugh, puts out a hand and casually lifts my chin, so that I am forced to look at him; he’s grinning;
“Well aren’t you the lovely little piece? And so fresh looking, no matter what R tells me about how dirty you are. Not going to be any hardship at all ruining your world, is it?”
My legs almost give way.
This is simultaneously terrifying and suffocating, deeply fascinating and arousing. My breathing is erratic, my eyes flicking all over, my heart banging in my eardrums. I want to run, know that I should, but equally that I can’t, that I won’t. I’m in love with my own helplessness, my vulnerability, hearing myself whining softly — in a busy street, with a stranger who’s hardly touched me…
He lets me go again, and I look down.
“Just so, pretty; always pretty deference — that’s the way. I’m your god, that’s the way to think — and a greedy, horny, cruel and callous god I am, too. Now, you’re going to keep walking for another ten metres or so, then duck down that alley on the right, then first right again. You’ll be beaten and gang-raped there — for starters at least. Don’t worry — scream all you like — if you dare. Off we go now — a touch of pretty hesitation is cute — adds to the excitement — but anything beyond that is very risky.”
The part of me — the sane part of me — that wants to run and yell, throw myself at a policeman, shout ‘Help!’ at the top of my lungs — is screaming inside my head, but somehow can do nothing to stop me walking — weirdly calm now — just as he directs, wondering at myself; — you’re about to be beaten and raped by strangers, and you’re worrying that he won’t think your arse is sexy enough unless you concentrate on walking well in the crazy heels.
The calmness is contained in one corner — my body is quivering; hot, then cold, knees trembling, nipples and sex burning with anticipation; the sane part of me is screaming and demanding that I abandon this idiocy, that I save myself. But I’m not going to; somehow, however insane it seems, I know that I am not going to try to escape this. Here’s the alley — narrow and dark; a homeless man, filthy, on the floor; dustbins, boxes, grease on the walls from kitchen vents. And I’m still walking, blinking back tears, breathing harshly.
The noise of the street drops rapidly — there are other noises — of machinery, clattering dishes, hissing steam. I daren’t look behind me — is he still there?
Concentrate on walking.
Here’s another turn, equally narrow, darker. I turn. There are two other men here, casually dressed, waiting, leaning against the wall, smoking, grinning.
“Stop, cunt.”
And I do, immediately, at the voice, close behind me, as if he had a remote control; I cannot bring myself to face the men, to look at them properly, knowing what is promised me at their hands, feeling an appalling jumble of conflicting emotions in my belly, in my chest, in my mind. Something — something must be done to avert this horror; but I know that I will not be able to do it, whatever it is. At the same exact moment, I hate myself for having allowed myself to be brought to this, and am filled with a shocking sense of how tinglingly alive I feel at the prospect of a violent group rape, my whole body electrified, while at the same time all but paralysed. The two feelings serve only to intensify each other, and further undermine my remaining tatters of self-belief.
His hands are on my arms, now, and, wich a loud click the bracelet cuffs are linked behind me; I am helpless.
“This is it, pretty. Now; I know this is going to be hard for you, but I need you to ask for it. Ask to be raped, ask to be beaten. As Lord D’s property, as Lord D’s owned cunt. I need you to say it, but we’ll make it easy for you — you only need say; Yes. Please. And then we’ll do you; break you in to your new reality. Show you what it means to have given yourself away.”
My breath is coming in short, violent, panicky gasps now, and my head is shaking, tensely, minutely, but it is clear — I’m shaking my head. My body is saying no. No, don’t do this to me - don’t degrade me, don’t hurt me, don’t shame me, don’t violate me.
They seem to be in no hurry, waiting, looking me over, finishing their cigarettes — there a few casual comments (it seems they like my tits, consider it a shame to destroy such a sexy dress). There are tears in my eyes. No-one is pressuring me. This doesn’t seem to be anything special for these men, nothing out of the ordinary, and that’s horrifying.
Then the young-looking one points his phone at me, and nods at me, casually, and I know they’re going to record it; record my consent to being beaten and raped, me asking for it.
I need to say no. I need to run — the tension, the pressure, the strain on my heart, on my emotions, is becoming unbearable; I need to do something. Anything, in fact, but what hasppens next, which is that my voice says;
“Yes, please.”
My knees are giving way anyway, but the man behind me sweeps my ankles from under me, with a sideways swing of his heavy shoe, and I’m toppling, helplessly, to land on my side, awkwardly, painfully, in a deep puddle of greasy, cold water, crying out loudly now, my shock, distress and fear, my weakness in the face of this outrage all too obvious.
But it’s also true that I experience a perverse relief from pressure. I asked for it (impossible that this is true, and at the same time impossible to imagine that I could have said anything else), and now it’s going to happen, whether I like it or not. I have no choices to make, just a horror to endure. It is simpler, even if awful beyond imagining. This is their responsibility, now, not mine; I’m in their hands, it’s their fault. Although I will never be able to forget the sound of my own voice asking them, saying please.
No matter, the intensity of it stops me thinking, as they’re on me immediately, yanking my arms back, ripping at my clothes, one at my head, intentionally pushing my face into the water, so that I inhale some of the foul stuff and am immediately conquered by a choking fit.
Utterly terrified, all sexual thoughts or feelings driven away, I’m quickly stripped — clothes ripped and pulled from me with brutal, casual force; ruined — until I’m naked apart from corset, stockings, heels and jewellery, on my knees, racked with coughs, feeling my breasts move, my hands still held at the small of my back by the bracelets. I’m crying brokenly and begging now, my voice hoarse, crazy sounding, desperate; “Please! Please, No!”
The beating starts immediately, without a word; belts and some sort of cane — I have no idea. I’m quickly crazy with fear, squealing, yelping, scrabbling on my knees in the dirt and cold water of the alley, jerking and twisting in a vain hope of avoiding the blows. My back, arms and legs take most of it — I’m curling in on myself, cringing and cowering, begging, pleading, hysteria building fast. This is as far removed as anything could be from the sexy atmosphere of the erotic punishments R has meted out — this is a direct assault — devastating, humiliating, crushing of self respect.
“If you want us to stop, whore, perhaps you’d like to offer us your tits — your pussy — open yourself to us — try to look sexy, maybe?”
More blows, more cries from me. But I heard him. Some mulish determination in me refuses, though, to satisfy him — for a few seconds, at least, until a particularly lucky blow gets my soft belly and I scream, full-throated at the pain. Hysteria beckons — I am so close to losing it completely. But some voice in my head tells me that this will be a bad idea — that they will just carry on beating me — really hurt me. I need to control myself somehow. I need to co-operate. Do what he says …
It’s the hardest thing I have ever done in my life, but somehow I turn, lean back, pull my shoulders back to offer them my breasts; terrified, desperate;
“Please … please, you … please … f-fuck me? Please?”
And the blows stop! I’m painfully aware that I’m filthy, bruised, hair a straggly mess, make-up ruined, but I force myself to spread my knees, open my thighs. I’m dying inside at the shame of offering my body so abjectly, so whorishly, to these cruel strangers — but anything is better than more beating.
“Please” and I push my crotch into the air, sobbing as softly as I can.
“Hold your tits for us then, cunt — you’ll need to take a few there before we fuck you. Keep still, now — offer yourself like the slut you are.”
I start whispering, as heart-rendingly as I can — please! please! — but now the tip of a cane, whatever it is — comes out and touches my breast;
“Quiet now, pretty. You need to obey. Kneel up and thrust out your lovely tits so we can hurt them, and then we might rape you instead of hurting you more. It’s all the same to us — hurting you makes our dicks hard, and we’ve got all night if need be. But you’ll want to look good for D later, so I’m thinking you want this part to end. Ten seconds, or we thrash you some more. Up to you.”
This speech — as it was probably meant to do — sends me into a tailspin panic and I yell and try to stand, wrestling uselessly at the bangles that bind my wrists, keening in frustration and fear and desperation — I’m going to run away!
Of course, they just laugh. I’m pushed over — so simply, so roughly — I fall hard; very hard, shockingly hard, and before i can even begin to recover, I’m kicked viciously in the side, and then a foot on my neck pushes my face into the water, as the random beating starts again, more intensely than before (I realise later that this first beating was really rather soft — intended more for psychological effect than anything — even now they aren’t really hitting me hard enough to leave marks). I’m more desperate than before, even; thrashing, kicking, crying out hoarsely, as loudly as I can manage between choking on the dirty, rank water, horrified. This isn’t what it was supposed to be like!
I’m consumed by nameless, deep terror, flailing like an animal, but the blows keep coming and another cruel one flicks right between my buttocks from behind and hits my sex and I flip like a landed fish.
This time, I try reason. Horribly aware of my nakedness, of their strength, their willingness to hurt me, on my knees in the gutter, I do what I can to control my breathing;
“Please … please … this … this isn’t … isn’t … Oh please, no. Stop. I can’t bear it. I can’t, I can’t bear it. Please … please just … you … you can do what you want, please. Oh please! Can’t … can’t you see I’m desperate?”
More laughter — almost kind laughter. They aren’t affected in the least by the terrible state they have reduced me to at all. Hysteria rise again, I try to stand again, determined, somehow to escape.
A hand in my hair brutally yanks me back down. This time I’m kicked between the legs — right in my sex. Not hard at all, I realise later, but the shock and the psychological impact are overwhelming, and now I just lie there while they thrash me a little more, until some impulse for self preservation has me up, on my knees, shoulders back, hands under my breasts, as I have posed for R many times.
My breath comes in gulps but I try to speak clearly and calmly;
“Please. Please. Sir … Sirs. Please (a sob breaks through), please, h … hurt my … hurt my breasts!”
Controlling my sobs as best I can, I hold my pose as some last flicks of the belt get my buttocks, making me jerk so that my breasts bounce extravagantly. Laughter. Relaxed, easy laughter, casually cruel. They’ve done this many times, to many girls. It is crushing to realise this.
“OK, guys, on the tits — make it sting!”
And sting it does, as I moan and keen my pain, while holding my shoulders back for them, offering them my poor breasts.
And then, suddenly, there is a cock in my face, a hand in my hair, and I know I’m not going to do it. No. They can’t do this to me — They can’t. I’m not going to let them fuck me, not going to suck them off. No! And my jaw sets firm. I’ve found some strength, from somewhere.
A stabbing punch of real force in my solar plexus doubles me over. I’m lifted immediately, though, by the hand in my hair. I’m winded, gasping for breath, panicked. Something is pushed into my mouth, released, and my jaw flies open — some spring … something, I don’t know, my mouth obscenely, forcefully held open, lips parted. I still think I’m dying of asphyxiation when the cock rams directly into my throat, and a pair of hands grab my tits from behind, mauling roughly. At the same time there are other hands at my sex, penetrating, fingers working their way inside me.
Again, I’m as if electrocuted, bucking and twisting, unable to accept this assault that attacks me on so many levels, my body one deep, outraged rejection of this awfulness. I feel I have the strength of ten as I writhe. But if so, then they have the strength of hundreds — overpowering me, immobilising me, controlling me without seeming even to have to try, and I’m being face-fucked, having my pussy fingered and my tits groped, all at the same time as my vision is blurring from lack of oxygen.
The next ten minutes, or ten hours — who knows (through it seemed to have been a very short time when I reconstructed it later) — are a surreal, impossible dream as they take turns with me, using my mouth, then my pussy, then my throat. All of them come in my mouth, force me to swallow their strange tasting come, gagging, choking. I surprise myself by not dying; gradually I begin to find I can breathe, after a fashion, my vision clears, and I can hear their crude comments, their dirty jokes about my sex, my arse, my breasts, my lips.
I’m limp now, exhausted, bedraggled, crying softly. They say my tears are ‘cute’, that I’m pretty when I’m sad, point out weals on my poor flesh, claiming some particularly well-placed one as their own, bickering, bantering, all the while one of them is vigorously fucking into my sore pussy, and I’m a whore, really a whore now.
Is this what it means to be broken? Have I been broken already?
They seem to be finished, then; stepping back, breaking out new cigarettes, laughing with each other, standing around me where I lie, filthy, bruised, marked by their belts; wet through, sobbing weakly, sore everywhere, unable to process what has happened to me; the violence of it, the casual brutality, the total lack of interest in my distress, the corrosive knowledge that this has happened to me because I have consented, because I am weak, addicted, helpless. That this is what I deserve, what I am, what I will become.
Slowly, tentatively, afraid, sore, pitifully uncertain, I gather myself together, try to sit up.
They ignore me, talking to each other. This lack of interest is bitter, bleak. I’m trembling violently now, shivering and shaking, despite it being a warm day.
Slowly, I pull the tattered remains of my pretty clothes around me, and pull myself to my feet, holding on to a railing for support, my legs are so weak, hunched in on myself.
The smartly dressed one turns, interested, frank as he appraises me.
“Quite a mess, girly. You’ll want to tidy yourself up a bit before D sees you. Have a look in that carrier. Don’t take long.”
And with that he turns back to his friends.
It’s ridiculous! I’m not going to D! Not after he has done this to me!
I say these words in my head, loudly, just to hear myself say them. There’s nothing else to do, though. I can’t report this — it was consented. I can’t live with this on my own. I need D. This only makes sense as part of his plan, his world.
I am lost, I realise. So lost.
Numb, I open the bag. Wipes, basic makeup, a hairbrush. I begin to clean myself up …
Read the next part of Delicious Whore
TAGS:
