This chapter is deprecated. It is here only as a record of failure. I planned to remove it, but it keeps getting votes, so it will remain a dead-end to the story.
After a short while, trembling, desperately trying to control my tears, suppress my knowledge of what has just been done to me, the knowledge that the men - strangers, directed by the man I have just had lunch with in a five star hotel - these men who have beaten, raped and degraded me are standing, smoking, talking idly, just a few metres away, unconcerned, laughing - laughing at me, at the dirty whore .. all this becomes too much.
Way, way too much, and I feel myself slipping into hysteria, hear my sobbing turn to yammering, get louder, more insistent, sounding crazy - even to me who is making the noise ..
.. until one of them steps over, grabs the hair at the back of my head in a painful grip, shakes me then slaps me, hard, backhanded, across the face;
“Control yourself, cunt. D’s waiting. You wouldn’t want to disappoint him, now, would you .. ?”
He sounds almost bored, but he does take the time to grin at the expression that suddenly boils out of me - the expression of outrage, of righteous anger, full of the promise of retribution, of harsh justice, that any strong minded woman would make in such circumstances. I stare at him, genuinely furious, now - rejecting this language, being spoken to like this - full of conviction. I am, after all, a well-paid and powerful city lawyer - people don’t talk to me like that ..
He’s unaffected - in fact, he’s amused; his grin widens; he’s enjoying this, waiting for the reality to hit me - that this happened because I consented to it, accepted the promise of this - this and far worse, probably - and my bubble is pricked; anger dies inside me, replaced, suddenly, by a raw, terrified need not to upset this man - this man who has just been inside my cunt, fucking me hard, who has used my mouth like a cunt, this man who can thrash me, thrash my poor soft breasts if he wants to, who despises me for good reason - because I am, indeed, cunt. Because he knows that I have explicitly accepted that this is what I am.
Helpless, all that energy evaporated, replaced by weak-kneed submission, I drop my gaze, strive to do as he says, control myself, stop the heaving of my chest, feeling his eyes on my nipples as they rise and fall, swallowing my sobs, swallowing my remaining, habitual pride, accepting.
Accepting.
Making myself accept.
“That’s a good little girly - run along now - show him what you look like now you’ve let yourself get raped for him. Maybe he’ll still be interested in you - or maybe he won’t…”
And he turns back to his mates - more laughter, eyes on me, hard, speculating openly on my attractiveness now that I’ve been degraded, beaten, abused, raped, dirtied..
As clearly calculated a taunt as it is, it cuts home, powerfully. I look a fright - I know I do - face blotchy, one cheek red where it has been scraped on the concrete, my clothes filthy, tattered, make-up crude, streaky. More, my mouth and sex are still sticky with strangers’ come, my pussy sloppy.
Who would want me like this? A dirty, used slut. A skank. A whore.
I’m dying inside. Tears threaten again, but I dare not - dare not risk making myself even uglier, more pathetic - I have so little, so little to hold on to, I must.. I must ..
It comes to me that I have felt like this before - not so sharply, not so terribly, perhaps, but that this terrible despair is a darker, more immediate version of the way I had felt during the days when R had imposed that cruel little experiment of withdrawing his intensity from me - the terrible sense of impending loss - that I might suffer having something taken from me that I needed, that even though the price was to give up something precious and irretreivable, that the giving up must happen, must be accepted.
All these thoughts, sensations, emotions are crashing through me as I stand there, trembling, hugging my body defensively, but not daring, despite an urgent desire, to cover my breasts, to put a hand over my crotch.
The answer, of course, is clear. Just as with R, I can either choose that loss - withdraw, cease to play this game, or else make my willing submission clear to D - have it be known between us that he can not only talk to me openly of rape, and cruelty, but in stark reality subject me to such treatment at the hands, the whips, the cocks of cruel strangers - and that I will yet go to him, accept him, offer myself to him…
That’s it, once again: the choice, crystal clear. My choice. It’s up to me.
And I know that I’m grateful to be forced to confront it. Grateful to have the choice.
To be something that most women - that I, only weeks before - could never have imagined. This choice to reach for something - beyond. To be taken to an intensity of experience beyond anything I’ve known - despite the unbearable cost.
I catch my breath, suddenly exalted again by the vision of myself as his creature, subject to his will, whatever that may be - even if it be this - this sordid, dirty, abject little scene - in which I am the filthiest, most debauched, degraded of his puppets, taken beyond limits that are themselves beyond my imagining. Destroyed, on the basis of prior permission from me, with casual, offhand crudeness and shaming laughter - and my heart bursts; I cry out, soft, despairing until, strangely, the cry fades into a soft, incredulous choke of what I can only call laughter.
Because I’m going to do it. Despite the hot tears that spurt again in my eyes, despite the terrible quivering in the pit of my belly, despite the faltering control of my legs, I make myself smile, straighten, and , simply, begin to walk in the direction indicated, feeling the crazy joy in me that recognises that this is a peak experience - that not many people achieve such intensity in the course of a whole life. Such searing, electric awareness of every nerve ending: to be in such terrible, terrible peril, to be in the hands of a monster, and yet to be held, entirely, gloriously, by such a man, for such purposes.
My walk became more sure, more deliberate, more focused on conveying to he who was waiting, he who had inflicted this degradation, he to whom I had promised to offer myself into this with sweetness and perfect willingness to please, focused on showing him that I needed him to find me desirable in my ruin; pulling my shoulders back - deliberately offering my breasts - lifted my chin even as I lowered my eyes, walking along an imaginary line, the heels lifting my buttocks, feeling my hips switch, my breasts sway, licking my bruised lips, heart pounding; hoping, praying almost, that he would find me worthy of his interest.
I knew this was sick, knew I must be sick - but what difference did that make? Here I was, offering myself to him, degrading myself intentionally - a ruined whore, making it clear that I would suffer even this in return for his continued attention.
I accept the jeering, the wolf whistles from the men behind me with gratitude - they have noticed my display, recognise it as an attempt at sexual invitation. I grasp at this like a drowning man might catch at a twig as I see the opening to the right, the large town car, the uniformed chauffeur, the half-open rear compartment door, the shadowy figure.
He’s watching me! I have to assume he is, need to believe that he is .. and a new intensity comes over me. I want to scream at him, rage at him, for what he has had done to me - and I want to crawl onto his lap, and I want to lift what remains of my skirt to offer him my pussy - and I want to sink to my knees in recognition of the awful power he has over me.
But all I am permitted to do, the only thing possible for a creature like me, I understand, is to walk - to walk as elegantly sexily as I know how, until I am told to do something else.
My nipples tighten, and it occurs to me with something close to horror, that, only minutes after a violent and terrifying gang rape by strangers - something nothing in my young and privileged life had prepared me for, I am becoming sexually aroused at the thought of the man who ordered it. But there is nothing to be done with this feeling but to live with the horror, accept the warmth that is building from my belly, feel my nipples tightening, my breath quickening and deepening, little by little, the burn at my cheeks, my lips swelling, my heart pumping, and know that I want him, that I badly want him to want to fuck me. That if I am to be a whore, at least I am to be his whore. I’m blinking back tears again, but smiling now too - really smiling. I am so, so messed up…
So gloriously, gorgeously, tremblingly messed up.
As I approach, the chauffeur approaches (Jenkins, I learn later, is his name - learn to fear him, too, despite his mild and deferential manner and appearance), and stops me with a soft touch at my shoulder (my whole body ripples in apprehension at the confident touch of a strange man - it has learned just what can be inflicted, so casually, so brutally. It has learned fear). His voice is as soft as his touch, but without a trace of kindness;
“You should know to have locked your wrists behind you, girl. I’ll punish you for this lapse, later. Now, take another three steps, face the master, kneel. Get your tits out. Spread your legs; open your thighs. Offer yourself completely. Keep your eyes down. Wait.”
And there is no hint of anything in me other an urgent desire to comply, careful, as prettily as possibly. The mention of punishment brings no resentment, no anger, no rejection, but only an urgent demand of myself that I do better in future, to learn, to attempt to predict what might be wanted of me, to become satisfactory.
Meekly, wanting to please very badly, I do my best.
Kneeling, in the gutter, in the public street, clothes in shreds, messed up, breasts pushed brazenly out, straining to present myself as sexually inviting, I wait, eyes downcast, fighting back tears.
R hates tears, and I have somehow internalised this. I make myself smile - a faint, sad smile perhaps, but one that advertises my real pleasure at being near him.
Near this stranger who has had such terrible destruction wrought upon me. The man who somehow is now my only safety in the world - despite my knowing that he is the man who will destroy me.
My chest heaves - the smile gets a little less tremulous. I discover that I really AM happy to be here, to be this, for him. It’s undeniable. I open my thighs a little more - wanting to communicate to him how much I need to be his, need to be here, like this. My heart thumps, and I breathe, deeply, wanting his eyes on me, willing myself to be as sexually inviting as I can be - for him.
“So, you’ve been brutalised. Good. You’ll never be safe again, now. You must carry this vulnerability with you as a knowledge. Strangers may rape you, hurt you, fuck you, at will. You will open yourselves to them voluntarily, or be terrorised into doing so anyway.
“Meditate on that knowledge. Let it eat into you. Ask yourself, would you prefer to be fucked, or beaten? Assuming that you prefer to be fucked, it will makes sense for you to emphasise, to everyone, just how easy it will be, just how eager you are to be fucked, just how much fun it will be to fuck you, how desperate to please you are, at all times - in order to avoid at least some of the thrashings you must now learn to accept are an inevitable daily reality.”
He pauses, watching me, seeing his words sear themselves into me, seeing me working hard to maintain my smile, seeing my chest heave as I catch my breath, involuntarily, seeing me keep myself pretty for him, display myself to him in this shameful way, even as he tells me how my life has been ruined.
“They hurt your breasts, I see. That’s good. I like to see marks on your flesh - to know that you have been hurt on my account.”
I am trembling. Why? Why is it so comforting to have these words, these terrible words, addressed to me? Why do I feel so safe when I hear them? So free? So grateful to know that he likes to see the marks on my breasts that result from horrifying pain and distress? Why am I so eager to please - even though I am all too aware of the terrible price such pleasing will demand of me?
“Tell me, did you thank the men? Did you offer your mouth to them - to clean their cocks - make it clear how grateful you are for their attentions?”
An icy hand grasps my heart. He is going to ask more of me - more even that I have just had ripped from me. Impossible!
And yet ..
.. and yet there is no escape, no mercy, no way out. No desire, even, to look for a way out.
And again, this knowledge, terrible as it is, reassures me strangely. He will not fail me. There will not - there must never be - the slightest kindness, not ever - only ruthless enforcement of the position I have asked for, offered myself into.
I hear a version of my voice - low, throaty, abject;
“No. no, Sir, I .. I did not.. .. I .. I ..”; I stop, hopeless.
Excuses are irrelevant for me - that’s suddenly obvious. He will ordain.
He lets the dread silence persist, until I am near frantic with the need to know my punishment - for clearly there will be punishment.
At last;
“That won’t do, pretty. I know that R will have taught you that this is an absolute requirement. That you thank the man who has used you for his attention. That you clean his cock for him after you’ve been fucked. You have been carefully conditioned to accept this, have you not?”
Until that second I would never have thought that ‘conditioned’ was the word for it, but it is immediately clear that that is exactly what R has been doing with me: conditioning me. Preparing me, for this.
A wave of bleakness passes over me. Clearly, whatever makes it possible for me to be considered a high-powered lawyer at work is something superficial. Because a woman that cannot see, as I now can, that she is being conditioned into a state where it is apparently possible to have her accept that she should have thanked her rapists, and servile, cleaned their sticky cocks with a submissive mouth after they’ve finished with her - such a woman is obviously a fool, a hopeless ninny, not safe to be out in the world on her own.
And now a tear does fall, as I contemplate the ease with which I have been suborned, the horrible completeness of my subjection, my own increasingly abject embrace of it. Again, the tear is resolved by a soft, sad, ironic laugh at myself. I blink it away. There is no point at all in fighting now. I am so, so lost, so beyond redemption, that acceptance; soft, eager acceptance is the only path…
“Yes, Yes, sir, I .. I have been .. been conditioned. Yes.”
“Very well. Go back, now - thank your abusers, beg forgiveness for your omission, go to your knees - offer them your mouth. Encourage them, if they seem ready, to take advantage of you again.”
“You will assure them that I will have you whipped for your lapse, but make it clear to them that you would welcome any hurt they might wish to impose on you as their own punishment. Repeated thanks may be in order, of course, if you are used again. Don’t come back until you have fulfilled your obligations. Then you’ll present yourself to Jenkins for your punishment.”
This little speech has an extraordinary effect on me.
My first reaction is obvious - and powerful; No .. no! I won’t! I can’t! It doesn’t matter .. I .. i just can’t!
But as the sentences add up, each adding another casual requirement, each at once utterly outrageous and simultaneously clearly logical - inevitable implications of everything that I have consented to this afternoon - that I have been conditioned to, these past months - something happens inside me.
I begin to be overwhelmed. Not by panic, or hysteria - although to be sure these are both part of the mix. Not by logic - despite it being all too clear: not by my emotional need to get this strange, cold man’s approval - although that, too, is in the mix.
No; what is overwhelming me is an internal change.
Increasingly, over the months, I have found myself thinking about myself in relation to the words used of me by R (and today by D and the brutes in the alley) - ‘slut’, ‘whore, ‘wanton’, ‘cunt’.
Of course, at first I rejected these words, for obvious reasons - degrading, insulting, belittling, depersonalising, objectifying, these are terrible words to apply to a person, a woman - and for them to be used by one who is in some sense a lover sets off clear alarm bells.
Nevertheless, my weakness for R (and now, for D - a man I know almost nothing of, but who has somehow possessed my imagination so completely in just a few short hours) has forced me to hear them, to accept them, indirectly at first, and more recently even understand them as alternate names.
And this in turn has required me, in many moments of reflection, across all kinds of moods, to have considered myself in relation to these horrible words. Am I, truly a slut? a whore? a wanton? Am I, really, just ‘cunt’? In what sense might I be identified this way?
I’ve laughed, cried, been angry, ironical, agonised by these words, with ever greater intensity and inner confusion over time. At the same time, through repetition, I have become used to them, feel the sting of each usage less sharply.
But never, until this moment, this moment on my knees, body a jangling litany of physical hurts, discomforts, reports of violation, mind full of ill-suppressed outrage, fear, despair, gratitude, need - never have I considered these words as ‘my’ words. They’ve always been words applied to me - outside me, implying some judgement in the mind of another. Shaming, damning, demeaning judgement, but ultimately not my own judgement. However sharp, how savage my own mental torment over these words has been, I have never once felt them as my own.
But now, what is being required of me - that I go back, voluntarily, to my rapists, my abusers, in the tattered remains of what was a skimpy outfit to begin with - that I walk for them, in these heels, with the care I know I will, to kneel and beg forgiveness, offer them my mouth, invite further pain and violation; the knowledge that I’m going to do this, without demur, that I’m going to do it as best I can, that I ..
That I want to - that’s the thing. That it’s me - really, me, who is the reason for all this. That it’s what I want. That I want to be the girl who does that - who offers herself so completely, so abjectly - even in the knowledge of the kind of treatment it will earn. That it’s what I want to become, that it can be me. That I’m going to let myself - make myself - become nothing - nothing but cunt. Going to embrace my destruction, that I want it…
That it’s not really R, or even D, who is really doing these things to me - but me - it is me, using them; using them to get me to someplace which I could never get to by myself.
And for the first time I experience a positive identification of myself with these awful words. I see myself, doing what is demanded of me, and doing it wholeheartedly, sincerely - not out of obedience, or duty, or fear of displeasing D, or any other - but out of a need for simplicity - a simplicity which, once glimpsed, once imagined, is at once appalling and seductive in its offer.
Te be - simply to be a slut, a wanton whore, a piece of cunt; not only to allow that to be said of me, not simply to offer myself to be treated that way - but to become that - to accept that those words define me, define me completely - that they become the best, most accurate, most meaningful words to capture what I am. To yearn for that simplicity… That’s the vision that began to overwhelm me, there, on my knees, heart racing, trembling.
And I gave in to it, let it overwhelm me, welcomed it.
Without thinking, I leaned forward and kissed the the doorframe of the car - would have kissed his shoes if he had been standing in front of me; consciously lifted my bum as I leaned forward, offering my sex between my spread thighs to Jenkins even as I submitted to his boss.
With a murmured ‘Yes, Sir’, I settled back on my haunches, understanding without needing to think about it that it was for him to send me on my way, that a cunt is a creature without initiative.
And when I received the signal - a lazy flick of his finger, dismissive, almost bored, I bowed my head again and simply stood, as elegantly as I could, turned and began to walk back into the alley.
The next minutes I remember as if they were a film - the alluring girl, her swaying breasts still exposed - for she had received no instruction to cover herself - walking like a catwalk model in the high heels, hips switching, shoulders back, wrists locked behind her, her face soft despite her trembling lips and damp eyes - a telltale flush of sexual excitement across the tops of her breasts and chest (for along with the vision of myself as cunt had come a strong pulse of sexual heat, alongside a spear of dread buried deep in me as I knew that this moment signalled something irreversible, something impossibly dangerous, some tragic loss).
I see myself approach the group, feel the pain - the pain that cannot be expressed, that must be swallowed whole, the hurt at the cruel fact that my exaltation at having accepted my identity is of precisely zero interest to these men, who simply see a fuckable body offering itself to them as expected, who jeer and comment to each other just as they had before - who are interested, perhaps, but not impressed, having used other submissively offered bodies like this in the past, secure in the knowledge that they will use yet others in the future.
I see myself go down to my knees, thighs spread, and .. wait, chest heaving, belly quivering, fascinated and appalled by the growing warmth at my sex, by my building desire - until at last there is a lull and the smart one says;
“Well pussy, what is it?” (although their grins suggest that they know exactly what is going on).
Hear myself;
“Sir .. Sir D has .. has made me realise my failure earlier to … to offer my mouth to .. to clean you .. your .. ” I falter.
“Glorious, manly cocks ..” suggests one of them, provoking hoots of laughter, but also leaving me no choice but to accept..
“to .. to clean your .. your cocks. I .. I apologise, and .. and offer myself for .. for punishment and .. and to serve you as .. as I should have.”
And at that moment I really experience it for the first time - as a whole body experience - the sensation of having given myself away - of having become a nothing - nothing more than my opened sex, my swaying breasts, my wet mouth, and the tears come - even as I am smiling helplessly at them.
The feeling overwhelms me, and for a moment I’m transported, enraptured - carried away with the awesome implications of it all - that I could cease to have rights over this body - that I could accept that my only right to occupy it was on the basis of presenting it as an eager to please sex toy - overwhelmed is the only word for it.
It lasts only a few seconds though, as I’m jerked back into messy reality by the smartly dressed one, who appears to have some authority;;
“Come here then, cunt, stop daydreaming - I need to be going, so get on with it!” - and he puts a hand in my hair and pushes my face into his groin.
End of exaltation, back to the reality of being a dirty whore - frightened, demeaned, ashamed, trembling, fumbling to get the cock of a man whose name she doesn’t know out of his trousers and into her mouth before he gets exasperated and starts hurting her.
It gets a little wild again once smart suit decides he’s had enough, zips up and walks off with a mock salute to his mates, ignoring my pathetic, desperate ‘Thank you, Sir!“.
The next guy, the tall black one, clearly wants more, and gets hard as I’m licking the drying stickiness from his cock, until he unceremoniously grasps my head in his big hands and pushes into me, deep, deep into my throat, until there is nothing in my universe except for that hot, stiff cock inside me, and the need to please it for fear of worse. He comes on my face, laughing as I retch and cough, and the next one is on me, pushing me onto all fours so he can fuck me from behind, like a bitch in heat, my face in the dirt again.
Somehow, the way he pushes into me awakens my desire, utterly absent during the ordeal before. It’s suddenly back, and demanding satisfaction. I’m rutting back at him now helplessly, panting my desire, moaning, hearing myself saying ‘fuck me, fuck me, oh god fuck me’ endlessly in a half whisper, hearing their laughter, past caring.
Of course I don’t come before he jerks into me, then pulls out with a laugh and a crude comment - he’s spent no time being concerned with my pleasure (apart from laughing at my desperation) - but again the experience is devastating for me - I nearly came for the worst of the guys who raped me (he may not be the worst - I don’t really remember - but he’s the one who repulses me the most) and I’ve been humbly, sweetly begging him to fuck me.
When they’re done, I go round again, begging to be allowed to clean them, licking them thoroughly, tits and pussy groped and slapped constantly, swallowing my despair, my disbelief that this can be happening - the momentary simplicity almost impossible to believe in now.
They’ve soon had enough - and simply leave - ignoring my abject ‘thank you’s - leave me to do what I can with the depleted contents of the plastic bag, before setting off back to the car, trembling, despairing, almost unable to think; destroyed.
The girl who arrives back at the car is not the one who had left a few short minutes before. If she was obedient before, she is defeated now - undone by that glimpse, that momentary experience of complete submission, by the certainty in her that she will seek it again, however appalling the cost.
Jenkins makes it clear that there was no special reason my asshole had been spared a fucking during the alley ordeal - that it was not at all off limits, and he made me wail and moan as he rammed himself into me there, ass-fucking me in a public street (even if it was deserted), in daylight, spread over the bonnet of a car, his fingers in my pussy, clever, making me move for him, seeking oblivion in orgasm which was not to be granted, devastated at being fucked so in front of Sir D, who has so far hardly touched me.
