Castle Story—She asked for it Pt3

This will make more sense if you have read the earlier parts of the story part.

At last, after a period outside time, of impossible, unmeasurable duration, she experiences for the first time the paradoxical experience of an unbearable wait being replaced by gut-twisting apprehension at the certainty of impending shame as a strange man approaches, grinning cheerfully, leering almost; brazen as he looks her body over, certain of nothing other than that she is now going to be used and abused by this stranger for his own pleasure, without any consideration at as to her feelings or wellbeing, and that her choices consist of softly and sweetly subjecting herself to the service of that pleasure, or alternatively of resisting such service, then being cruelly treated until she begs for the chance to softly and sweetly service that pleasure after all, only with added tear-stains, humiliation and welts.

It is all she can do to maintain her position, her pose as he approaches, as she realises with dawning turmoil that he is not alone, this stranger, but that he has a young woman with him — a girl — not even twenty by the unbearable freshness of her skin; a remarkably lovely girl in a dress that is at the same time intimidatingly elegant and devastatingly sexy.

The fact that this girl’s expression is off somehow — closed, mulish, doesn’t reduce the agonies of humiliation that suddenly boil inside her; the desperation to break her un-natural pose, to jump up, run to the loos, something — anything — to escape from the close inspection of another woman.

She has never even considered this possibility before, but of course she has been on the other end of the telescope — when she, well dressed, on her boyfriend’s arm, sat in a comfortable chair in an elegant room full of well-dressed and clearly wealthy patrons, served by attentive waitresses, to watch the destruction of the lovely blonde girl she had just been sitting at a dining table with.

She knows just how she judged the humbled and defeated beauty, how the words slut, whore, wanton, skank were in her mind — so much more cutting from one woman to another than from a man’s mouth; just how she sneeringly she had condemned the blonde, even before the worst of it. And so she knows — is certain of — the judgements that are being made by this young, elegant girl of her, her with her dress so obviously unbuttoned, her posture so clearly constrained, her tongue so suggestively extended, clearly inviting any man to imagine how it might be to put a cock into her.

She thinks she would like to die of this agony — be saved anything further — but of course there is no such easy escape.

Worse, she finds herself desperately widening the weak whore’s smile to include the newcomers, turning to face them, welcoming, pathetic — all the while without raising her eyes to their faces, another crushing humiliation that burns like fire.

But again, there is nothing that can be done but endure, now that all other options seem beyond consideration; this, too, must be borne.

The next minutes are terrible, as, offhandedly grabbing a chair from a nearby table, the stranger seats his girl, then ignores her to stand at her lover’s side (must she start thinking of him as her Master?) to exchange pleasantries as if nothing unusual is happening — ignoring both women completely for some minutes, until turning to face her, spending some seconds appraising her more closely now, which sets off the trembling again, uncontrollable, her cheeks burning, shaming her for her shame, the taste of ashes in her mouth again.

“So, this is the filly? eh? Good set of tits on it. Yes, quite a tasty morsel. I’ve seen her before, haven’t I? No? I could have sworn — ah I have it — is she the one you showed us the video of — the gang-fucking? That’s it, yes, I remember. You had high hopes of her then. Seems you were well justified — good work, man! “

“So she’s all ready for me, you say — submitted — recorded, all that stuff? Excellent. All mine then. You sit back and enjoy the ride now — you deserve it — you’ve been working hard, it seems.”

Then, as if suddenly remembering — indicating the girl;

“Oh, yeah — this is Alison. We were out — I told her she needed to see this, but she’s sulking — aren’t you girly? Pissed off she can’t show me off to her little pals this evening.”

Leaning over to the girl;

“You don’t fool me, lovely — you’re fascinated, I know. Not many girls get to witness this sort of thing as it happens; you’re lucky, you know?”

He laughs, warm, easy — genuinely cheerful it seems.

She can’t imagine herself ever feeling happy again, and, unlooked for, the cruel irony makes her laugh again, a little, although this speedily threatens to become a sob, and she has to stifle it, chest heaving with the effort, appalled at the way this sets her breasts moving, impossible to hide, impossible to accept, obvious, eye-catching.

Why is this agony so sweet, this shaming so liberating, this heartlessness so foolishly welcomed? How can this awful shame at the same time be a glory, the pain as sweet, as delicious, as delirious as it is searing? How can this be her?

And then the stranger is pulling a chair round closer to her, on the opposite side to her lover, leaning in. His breath reeks of drink, but he seems fully in control, his sneering patrician accent still sharp as he talks in a slightly lowered tone;

“You’ll obey me perfectly now, slut, or regret it most bitterly. First thing, I need you to keep very still; this — see it? — is razor sharp. I’d love to cut you — watch the despair in your eyes; but just this once I’m showing it to you without intending to draw blood.”

In his palm, below the level of the table, there is in his hand a small, cruel looking knife; slim, elegant, beautifully worked — and it’s already moving under the hem of her dress.

Trembling, she holds herself as best she can as the cold steel touches her inner thigh; she’s whimpering, almost inaudibly, caught between fear of what he might do to her with a sharp knife at her sex and the burning shame at the knowledge that the girl is seeing her submit to this so meekly, in public, letting herself be spoken to in such terms.

She so desperately wants to look up at her lover/master for some human reassurance, but dares not.

She hasn’t really looked at the stranger’s face (by contrast he has apparently seen video of her being roughly gang-banged: video she had no idea existed until a few minutes ago), but she is letting him put a knife to her sex, holding herself so that he can …

oh!

The flat of the blade is cold, right on her pussy, now; she feels the sharpness of its edge graze the tender folds at her clit hood. She freezes — then relaxes a little as she understands at last, as her panties are pulled outward, then fall loose as the wicked blade parts the fabric with ease. Now the knife moves to the opposite hip, and the waistband there is cut. He pulls the panties with him as his hand retreats; she lifts her bottom for him, mute, shamefully compliant, feeling her weakness, her pathetic submission; completely captured by the intensity of the moment, with no thought as to anything but working with him, focused on divining as best she can what he expects from her and giving him exactly that.

He does it slowly, discreetly at least — other diners likely have no idea what is happening — but he lifts as he pulls, ensuring that the lace’s texture drags at her tender pussy lips; she almost cannot repress a squeal of shocked despair at the feeling — so horribly intimate, and in a crowded restaurant! It’s as if the bottom has fallen from her self-image. She is not — not any longer — a girl who can expect any respect, it’s clear; she is a girl who will co-operate in having her underwear taken from her in a restaurant, by a stranger, and whose belly will quiver with anticipation of a future fucking from the stranger as he does it.

She closes her eyes in anguish which is irretrievably intermixed with intense sexual arousal.

When the knife hand moves behind her back, she is compliant again — not knowing what else to be, still helplessly concerned not to be disapproved of — leans forward to make space for him, arches her back so that it’s easy for him to slice the shoulder straps of her brassiere, then the main elastic. That wreckage too, is unobtrusively pulled from her; she feels her breasts jiggle free, the nipples stiff against the bodice of her dress, her breath catching. She wants to be fucked, would beg to have all this shame blanked out by some rough sex; hard, violent, non-negotiable, overpowering … and she bites her lip, blushing — how can these thoughts be hers? Is it possible that the watching girl, her lover/master have not seen the lust, the need, in her face, are not judging her?

Judging her correctly…

“That’s it, lovely, let those tits sway free; you don’t get to protect your treasures any more, princess: those juicy holes, those squishy mounds — they’re what make you useful, they are why you exist, what define you. Your job now is to offer them for use to anyone who might be interested, not guard them. So, no more panties for you pretty — not ever; any bras you wear won’t cover your nipples — their job will be to push the tits out, make them obvious. Lift your bum again, now — you are not permitted to sit on your skirts any more, either — you’re to feel your nakedness, experience your vulnerability at all times. Open your legs; wider!”

She’s breathing heavily now; her nipples are stiff, and she knows they will be showing through the thin material of the dress — perhaps even visible, since there are so few buttons still fastened; her sex is hot, now, too. This stranger is going to be fucking her, soon, she knows, and the darkness of that knowledge is sexually exciting, whatever else it is. She realises that her tongue is working overtime at her lips, as her rapid breathing dries them out. She knows what this must look like, how slutty she must seem, that she is damned forever in the eyes of the young girl who is watching all of this, lips jammed together in a disapproving straight line.

Her lover is vastly entertained by this interplay — unplanned, it is nevertheless a genius move to have the girl’s capitulation witnessed by a younger woman who is so desperate to radiate her disgust — albeit without raising the slightest objection, or leaving — not even looking away.

Of course, he knows that his friend intends for this young lovely to be where his girl is sometime in the next year — and indeed he’s been promised an invite to her first bachelor party, when she’ll be whored for the first time. He watches her face, idly wondering how her arrogant, selfish mouth will move when he takes her arse at full force, his belt around her throat, how it will be to thrash those taut, bouncy tits, push his cock down her throat, pull out, thrash her tits, push his cock down her throat… Once again, his dick is painfully hard.

Feeling all but naked now — her breasts moving freely in the opened bodice, the velvet nap of the cowhide chair seat scratchy on the sensitive skin of her shockingly unclad buttocks, she abandons herself to the overwhelming sensations of it all. The rollercoaster is gathering speed, just as it did on the night of the gang-bang, the night with the old man; her body is responding in its own way to promise of sex — of sexual abandon. Of sexual helplessness. She has to stop herself from panting out loud, remind herself that they are still in a restaurant.

It is both terrible and wonderful to be so lost, so far from safety, so helpless, so controlled, so certain of impending violation that she is powerless to prevent…

He’s speaking again, the stranger; voice low but very firm; she feels herself attentive — she wants to obey him. Wants to please him. Even as his girlfriend watches. Let her see what a slut I really am! — wants to show him her willingness, feels stupidly sweet about it, the theatre of this — the rising heat not obscuring the knowledge of her own vulnerability, the shamefulness of all this — but instead all of these contradictions working together to render her unstable — in need of direction, in need of motion, wanting to be tightly controlled — lest the impossibility of what she is giving herself over to drive her mad.

“Listen; you are to lean over to your Master now; I want you to kiss him. Slow, soft, sexy — offer yourself to him — think about how much you’d prefer him to fuck you than to thrash you; try to seduce him. Your task is to get him so aroused that he’ll throw you down and rape you, right here — in front of all these people. That’s your job.”

She catches her breath; this is … this is so dangerous. But she wants it now, wants to do this, wants everyone in the restaurant to see how sexy she is, how desirable, how fuckable, how willing, and she turns to face him, licking her lips again, leaning forward, as he makes no move to meet her halfway. Without thinking, she unlocks her hands from her elbows — both for balance and wanting to hold him, but a large, dry hand grabs both her forearms tightly at her back — clearly with the intention of hurting her as well as controlling her — until she gets the message, and tightens her grip again, realising with a lurch that kissing in such a submissive posture, off-balance, is going to have a powerful effect on her, knowing at the same time that there’s no stopping this, and leans in, letting the hand clamped onto her arms take her weight, accepting the pain.

She pulls herself back at the last minute, realising she had been about to mash her face into his, that this is not what has been asked of her, and tries again, offering herself to him instead — just touching his lips with hers, hers pushed out to be full, soft, moist, slightly parted, moving against him without attempting to use her tongue — begging him, in effect, to consent to kissing her.

The feelings this sets off in her chest are remarkable; tears are in her eyes. It’s at the same time appalling to be so humbled, to advertise her weakness, her neediness, so openly — with the stranger and his girl looking on, with other diners probably watching, with her breasts moving so freely, braless, the bodice of the dress so open — and also utterly liberating. It isn’t her choosing this — she’s just doing what she has been commanded to do, as the creature of these strong men. And then she’s past caring, lost in the feeling of her lips, in crafting their offer, their pleading, their need, and when he rewards her, opening his own lips, lifting a hand to grasp her neck, powerful, dictating her position, invading her with his hot tongue, she knows that she is lost.

Why hasn’t he kissed her like this before — made her kiss him like this before? Vaguely, she understands that its all of a piece — the stranger, his girl, her surrender, the other diners, the impending terror of enslavement, until she forgets it again, opening herself to his hard, demanding mouth, his invading tongue, as fully as she can, forever, forever…

She’s more his than ever before, at that moment — gloriously his, lost in the sensation of offering herself to him so completely, of the knowledge that this kiss will be the last before she is degraded, enslaved, lost…

Her whole body seems composed of nothing more than light and heat; focused entirely on him — the surroundings drop away, leaving just him, her Master (yes, her Master), this kiss, and a limitless offer of sweet submission to his will; years later, she will still recall the enormity, the surrender, the glory of this moment.

And then, abruptly, ungently, he pulls her back, lifts his head, grins at her, his eyes glinting, hard. She’s gazing at him, still transfixed, heart thumping, chest heaving, feeling her breasts move, the heat at her sex, her cheeks so hot, her nipples painfully stiff, until she realises his grin is not friendly, not lover-like, but full of predatory amusement. At this moment, as open to him she is, this sears her, appals her, so that she shrinks from him.

His finger is under her chin, pushing — actually painful, his thumb is in her mouth, and she whimpers a little, finds herself unable to move as the hand at her back holds firm.

“You’re looking me in the face, pretty.”

His voice is light, but the cruel amusement is there, too, and suddenly she realises what he means; the reality of her new situation clarified sharply — her pleasure in kissing him so submissively, of feeling so aroused, so gloriously offering herself to him, of her own sexual response to the prospect of being ravished — all this coming into shocking conjunction with the knowledge that he is just as entertained by the threat of cruelly punishing her transgression (over such a natural, harmless — even delightful — thing as a loving look, an acknowledgement of shared sexual excitement).

For him to clearly relish the idea of using this small, generous action as an excuse to cause her to suffer nearly overwhelms her; she can’t help herself, blurts out a strangled whisper;

“No! No! No you can’t, can’t be going to … to hurt … hurt me for …”

Her voice tails off as his grin broadens, and he looks up, clearly to exchange his amusement with that of the stranger. They are sharing the thought of inflicting pain on her! Enjoying it! Laughing at her!

“Now talking out of turn, too. Silly girl; I explained the rules to you just a few minutes ago, as well… You’re going to scream for that.”

Her head drops, tears brim; all joy is gone from her heart as the fear rises, the image of the lovely blonde uselessly howling her pain and terror as the whip bit into her nipples, again and again…

She shakes her head. This is it. This is her life. This is what she has asked for. That little high just now was part of it; she must accept that this cruelty is also part of it.

Then, too, the thought of the stranger’s girl, the other diners, all hits her, and she blinks away the tears and tries to make a recovery — straightening herself in her seat, normalising her posture as much as she can, trying doggedly, pathetically to smile. She knows she is going to sob, but makes it come out like a weak little giggle, without lifting her eyes from the table top, tries to calm her breathing.

“Better, better, pretty — control yourself. You must present as a simple sex dolly, even if you are dying inside — or suffer terribly. Now, can you hold yourself together?”

Through heart-rending effort, she manages a trembling nod;

“See that you continue to do so. Now, I want you to remember this number — three. Can you remember it?”

Eyes down, too frightened to speak, not allowing herself to think about what this number might mean — having all too clear an idea nevertheless — she nods.

“Can you guess what that number represents, pretty?”

She can, of course she can, but cannot — simply cannot accept that the idea of a whipping can apply to her — to her soft body — to the body which he has so gently caressed, has so richly enjoyed, that feels, right now, almost impossibly sensitive, vulnerable, exposed.

Her head shakes; even she knows this is unconvincing, wrong, stupid.

The word drops her into a pit. Stupid — that’s what she is — to be allowing this, accepting this, to have invited this. Irredeemably stupid. Fatally stupid. Her mind goes blank in utter despair. Clearly, she is unworthy of freedom, of her own life, if she can be so easily tricked. Everything’s gone. Lost…

A tremor, then, from her belly, and she realises that it isn’t true — that not quite everything is lost. She is still fuckable, still able to choose to present herself as fuckable, to offer herself, to be pretty, to be sexy, still has her own sexual responsiveness to offer, her willingness to be used, to serve their pleasure, even if the cost of this is — as seems clear from the example of the blonde — a one-way ticket to debasement. Nevertheless, this is like a stick of wood to a drowning man — she fixates on it, desperately.

A voice in her mind is telling her the obvious (trying not to scream) — that all this is gaslighting, that she is being suborned, trapped in a myth, that nothing, nothing at all holds her here. It is a curious thought — and she recognises its truth, wondering at it — without for a second considering that there is anything at all to be done about it.

This is it. She is theirs — her breasts are theirs, her belly, her mouth, her sex, her hands (the stranger still grips her wrists — she’s losing feeling in her hands), her — her holes (she forces herself to make the word). All theirs. Nothing to do but offer it to them.

She’s shocked from this reverie, jolted back into awareness by their laughter, then struck by it; that there is no anger at her pretence at not understanding what the number means, her lie — only amusement. This is humiliating; she tries to feel outrage at being patronised like this, but it won’t come — nothing but trembling.

When it becomes obvious to a girl that her transgressions, her successes, are not considered at all as ‘bad’ or good’ — merely as more or less entertaining, it induces a strange feeling.

Eventually, if she is of a thoughtful turn, she will realise what this means; that she has ceased to be considered as having a moral existence. That she is being judged as one would a cat — that she can’t do anything ‘wrong’ or ‘right’ — that no-one cares whether her intentions are mean or saintly, that her intentions are beneath consideration. That she’s just an animal, which does what it does, to be punished as a deterrent, perhaps, but not as retribution. To be fed treats, perhaps, when she gives pleasure, but not approved of.

A few girls, on realising this, become unhinged, and start to behave as badly as they can — in some sense demanding to be recognised as having agency (as having a soul, perhaps? Who knows? — for no-one ever asks them). This rarely ends well; sometimes the madness can be beaten out of a girl, sometimes a long spell of solitary deprivation in some dank oubliette, with the iron pear enforcing silence, might do the trick, but the usual outcome is a sale to some brothel in Moscow or Nigeria or Taiwan, after which she is forgotten — for she will certainly never be seen again.

“Oh you silly girl; we all know that you know exactly what that number means — even Alison here. And now you’re in even more trouble; girls like you are not permitted to tell lies to their betters, you know. Not ever. Well, unless a lie is what’s wanted, of course. The problem is that you have no way of being sure at any moment, of course. It’s a cruel and impossible condition — but then, that’s what you’ve opted for, so you’ll just have to smile and look grateful, won’t you?”

More laughter; easy, self-congratulatory laughter, consciously cruel.

“Why be so mean?”, she thinks, but without the thought providing anything beyond despair and weakness.

“Whatever, your number is now five. Remember it, please. And now, pretty, you really must tell us all what you think this number represents.”

There’s a silence while her body refuses to accept what is happening, so that she is as if frozen, and then the necessity of something, of something happening forces itself upon her, and she hears a voice; soft, husky, hesitant but clear, saying;

“The number is … is to do with … with … with me being … punished… The … the whip.”

It is her voice; her chest heaves — the situation is unreal. This must be a dream — a nightmare — but … but it can’t be … too many contradictions.

And yet the silence that stretches out now is populated with such normal, everyday sounds, snatches of dinner table chit-chat, laughter, the kitchen in the background — all … all too detailed to be a dream. Somehow, she must recover, must deal with it, or get a larger number; and so with a despairing effort she straightens herself, lifts her shoulders, clamps down on the quivering at her jaw; pushes out her breasts, sticks out her tongue-tip, licks her lips, suppresses a sob, tries to recover that feeling of desirability…

Amazingly, as far as she can tell, the intensities of the last minutes have not drawn any particular attention — the evening sounds are much as they were. No doubt some people are talking about her, judging her, thinking dirty thoughts, perhaps — but the business of dining appears to still be uppermost in the minds of most customers.

Strange, how such dark depths and agonies, such heights and ecstasies, can be played out in public in this way. Don’t they realise that she is being made a slave, here? Does she matter so little?

Evidently. The taste of ashes again. The specialness of the blonde — specialness that might be hers, is exposed as the specialness of a low class slut, beneath the notice of decent people. She has lost her place in the world, and the world has lost interest in her.

The stranger leans in then, talks soft and low into her ear;

“Well done pretty. Punishment will come later, never fear, harsh punishment that will certainly devastate you. But then, there is always punishment in your future, now; always a certainty that some cruel bastard will require you to offer yourself up for torment, without any need for justification at all; always the knowledge that you will do so with the prettiest smile you can muster, always the knowledge that your suffering will provide pleasure for perverts, that there will be laughter and crude comments to meet your despair, rather than pity. That you have no other choice. This is what you have given yourself to. So, look pretty now, hold yourself well, advertise yourself as sexually available — maybe you’ll get raped instead of thrashed, eh?”

Of course, this little speech is not at all intended to help her calm herself, but to test her further, push her — and test her it does, as tears threaten to overwhelm her and she dearly wishes she could scream at him, wrench away from his now searing grip, slap his face, call him out for a sadistic bastard…

It doesn’t help that her lover/master (owner?) has heard all this, and, far from seeking to protect her is instead exchanging more grins with the stranger; the bitter taste is in her mouth and she feels despair rising now, hopelessness — how is it that she has enmeshed herself in this nightmare? How is it that she can see no way out? How is it that she is still aware of her own interest in the heat of his body, so close to hers, of the likelihood that he can see into her opened bodice, see how painfully stiff her nipples are.

She makes herself breathe, slow and deep; seeking control, at least, if not calm. She can’t fight — she’s proven this to herself again and again this evening — and clearly, a large part of her is fascinated, despite everything, by the idea of this new life. True, too, is that the prospect of returning to ‘normality’ — going, as it surely must, with never seeing her lover again, is almost impossible to even think about, let alone choose.

Once again she tries to settle herself, just as he leans in again.

“By the way, you failed me. You were supposed to incite rape, but it seems he’s just not that into you tonight.”

He pauses to let this sink in, then;

“So now your number is two more than it was. Tell me your number, now?”

Her mind rejects this; for a moment, all is inner turmoil; “No! I won’t, This can’t, I can’t … Stop! Stop it! Leave me …”. Tears threaten. For some reason her nipples become hyper sensitive, the feeling of nakedness, of exposure intensifies; “They can’t do this to me! they can’t, they just …”.

And then, somehow, her voice again.

“Seven. My … my number is … is seven.”

A pause, then;

“Oh, little one, I’m afraid you’re wrong again. Masters are addressed — at the minimum — as ‘Sir’; so that’s an extra one for you, I’m afraid. You’re going to have some tearful moments later, I think, some sad regrets. But it’s too late now. So, tell me what your number is now, will you?”

This time, she can only manage a throaty whisper. It’s clear enough though;

“Sir, my … my n…number is eight. Sir”

“Now, pretty, you’re going to kiss me, just like you did him — just as sweetly, just as submissive, just as sexy. You must understand, you’ve submitted to The Castle — to be held in common. If you can kiss one Master like that, you will be expected to do as much for any other Master — on pain of a whipping. So, promise me what you promised him with your pretty soft mouth, see if you can get me to rape you now…”

Everything seems to turn grey. Bizarre circumstances notwithstanding, her lover (Master) has been her lover — they have kissed many times, and she has gloried in kissing him, in giving herself to him — from long before he began to make demands. She has loved him (does she still? Can she still — after tonight? It doesn’t matter — she must learn this, she tells herself; that it no longer matters what she thinks).

But this crude, grinning stranger, with his nasty way of talking — even to his own girl — the thick, sandy hair on his hands something that for some reason makes her skin crawl — she can’t kiss him! And certainly not in the way she has just kissed her conqueror; she begins to quiver, horrified.

“Here, let me take that for you.”

Her lover’s voice behind her — he reaches behind her, grasps her wrists, the stranger releases his iron grip — momentary relief, then a surge of sharper pain that makes her writhe, desperately controlling herself, determined not to attract attention to her despair, to her humiliation. She is forcibly turned to face the stranger, feels the bodice of the dress sag — surely her breasts are on show?

He’s grinning again — such an ugly grin; heart-breaking that she must serve him — and yet, and yet, she knows a deep need to have him want her, sick as it seems, she breathes deeply, lips quivering, and then, slowly, oh so slowly, trembling, leans into him, trying to control herself.

But even as her lips brush his, as she tries, desperately to remember how it was, how she had been with her lover, her Master, just minutes ago (it seems as if a lifetime of intensity has been lived since then), she knows she is failing; it’s just too hard, to give herself to this crude, cruel man so completely, to do this on command, without warning. She knows that her mouth is tight, that her shaking is not sexy, that her movements are unsubtle, her body stiff, and she is not surprised when he pushes her away — although she is terrified of the implications.

Again, there is no displeasure in his voice, just amusement, as he says;

“Clearly, you have failed, pretty.”

He lets the silence grow, and then, gently, grinning again;

“So, what do you think happens next?”

She knows, of course, knows that she is being played with, was set up to fail, but equally, that no-one is going to save her from this, and finds herself begging, pathetic, babbling, voice soft but desperate;

“Please … please, Sir , let …let me try again; I … I’ll be good, better, … please …”

And then his hand is at her sex, inside her skirt; her thighs instinctively clench, but his knee and other hand are ready, preventing her, and he grins again;

“This just gets worse for you, pussy; you don’t close your thighs — ever; and certainly not if a Master wants to go there. An available, open cunt is what you are now. If you aren’t that, you’re nothing any more. Do you understand?”

The last words are still softly spoken, but also clearly serious, and she feels a chill, babbles, urgent;

“Yes, yes Sir, yes I … I understand.”

“So tell me, pretty, what are you?”

Deep, heaving breaths; blinking back tears, trying to hold her pose. She can’t say it. She can’t.

‘Stupid! It’s only words. Say it — If you don’t it’ll be more numbers — more whipping! What do words mean? Say it!

“I … I’m an … an available, open c-cunt. Sir”

It turns out that words do mean something. She wants to die, can’t believe that she hasn’t imploded, fighting back the sobs. The girl heard her say that about herself.

But there is no let up. Nothing but relentless invasion of her fragile sense of self as he continues as if this was just a simple point of fact.

“Good, good pussy. Now relax please, open yourself, I’m going to … yes, that’s it.”

He has her swollen clitoris gripped between thumb and forefinger — hard, but not quite painful — not quite. Not yet.

“Oh, that’s it now. I am in the driving seat, aren’t I? I mean; the pain I can cause you, right now … You get it, don’t you, pretty?”

And there is no other answer but a soft, sincere, pleading, so conscious of the way her hands are clamped behind her, of her own determination not to be noticed by those around, by her inability to believe she can fight them — by her accumulating powerlessness, that makes her desperately keen to please.

“Yes. Yes Sir. Please … please Sir…”

She trails off, her breath a soft, defeated, almost inaudible wail.

“Good, good little cunt. Now, I need you to tell me what happens next, like I asked you before. It’s not a complicated question — even a helpless little fuckbunny can make a guess — so just tell me what you think happens next.”

Pulse thumps in her ears, but there’s nothing for it but;

“I … I get more … numbers added. Sir.”

“That’s right, of course you do — good girl!”

And he’s teasing her clit, turning out to know exactly what to do to get her squirming. She finds it hard not to moan out loud.

“And more numbers mean what?”

“More … more whip. Sir.”

“Excellent. More … whip. I like the sound of that, don’t you?”

He’s talking to her lover, not her. Somehow, she feels like preening — this anticipation, shared among the men, of their pleasure in whipping her. It’s the specialness. The girl — Alison — they can’t whip her — she wouldn’t submit to this, arrogant entitled bitch.

‘It’s me, me they’re interested in — because I can do this, because I offered this, because I am … can be that … open … cunt.’ She makes herself use the words, apply them to herself. Feels her thighs move apart a little, It’s all she has. ‘Might as well embrace it…’

Her nipples stiffen — she makes a show of wetting her lips, slow, obvious, heart thumping, cheeks burning, trembling violently. The fingers at her sex take glorious advantage; she almost swoons.

“So, we’re going to play a game now. Not a fun game for you, I’m afraid, but it makes us smile, so that’s what we’re doing. It goes like this. I have a number in my head — a number more than one and less than five. That’s how many more I think you deserve for that lousy kissing. But I want you to guess — is it two, or three, or four? Here’s how it goes; if you guess right, no problem — but if you guess less than I think, you get double what I was thinking, plus the difference between your guess and my choice. If you guess more than I think, you get that, plus one more for being wrong. You get it?”

Honestly, she doesn’t, but she’s got the picture — unless she gets lucky, she’s going to be adding a lot to her number.

“Yes. Yes, Sir”, she answers, feeling like a butterfly as the collector’s pin goes in.

At the same time — and she knows it is pathetic — the idea that she is being asked to think for herself about something, even something so trivial, has engaged her. She shouldn’t want to participate in a game that is so clearly rigged against her; rigged to increase her suffering — but this is the first time the stranger has allowed her even the smallest freedom, the smallest opportunity to be herself, and helplessly, she finds herself trying to think what to answer.

‘It won’t be the lowest number, so it’s either three, or four. If … if it’s three, and I say four, I … I get five — Is that right? But if it’s four, and I say three, I’ll get — what? Eight? No nine… NINE!?‘

She can feel them watching her, enjoying themselves, seeing her trying to calculate the safest answer, and a part of her likes it. She knows it won’t last, though — they’ll get impatient.

For some reason, despite her calculus, she hears herself say;

“Three.”

Immediately, she can feel their amusement, and suddenly knows that he hadn’t set a number, that he will now tell her it was four, that she’s just doubled her number, doubled her whipping, and the trembling increases. Her hips are working, and she knows he can feel this, as his firm grip on her clitoris is still in place. She wants to curl up so badly, to cry all this madness away. But she dare not.

And, too, impossible to deny, she is more and more distracted by the sensations in her groin, as he continues to work his thumb, casually but skilfully, against her now hard little nubbin, losing interest in the details of what might happen in favour of the immediacy of his manipulations, occasionally having to bite her lip to stifle a little moan.

“Well pretty, that was a terrible choice. I was definitely thinking four for such a let-down as that kiss, but you called three — which means you’ll get nine more. Your number now is … what?”

She can’t think for a second — as he has deliberately applied an almost painful pinch down there, and a wave of intensity has her whole body flexing — surely plainly understandable by anyone watching. At this point, she is finding it hard to care — although she knows she should. Why can’t they take her somewhere and start fucking her?

And so the question is not easily answered; what did he say, nine? She had thought it would double? What was it before, then? Eight? So … double eight? And what about the nine? He’s waiting, impatient, she needs to say something;

“Eight … ” No! No; double eight can’t mean add nine — panic! Something — say something!

“Eight … teen?”

“Eighteen? Oh dear, pretty, that’s wrong. It seems you’ve lost count. And that’s a pity. You see, when we ask a girl to remember her punishment points, we need to rely on her — she has such an incentive to forget the odd point here and there, you see? So, to counteract this tendency, we make the punishment for getting the number wrong really, really harsh — to keep little sluts like you honest. For starters, we round the number up to the nearest ten — what would that make it, hm, pretty?”

She’s finding it so hard not to cry, now, this is so mean, so teasingly cruel; her jaw shudders with the effort to control herself, and her lips curl.

“That’s right, pretty, control yourself for us — that’s it! When we want to see you cry you’ll cry, never fear — but otherwise a pretty smile is what we want — a pretty smile that says ‘fuck me, I’m easy, and I’m weak’. Now, I want a number, and soon, or we go up to the next ten.”

“T … twenty. Sir”

She manages. He has a finger inside her now, and she realises she needs to make an effort to present herself as if this is just some fun, intimate conversation. She resettles herself, brightens her smile — and closes her eyes as he moves inside her, shocking, delicious, heart-stopping.

“And next, we double it. And that makes…?”

She can’t allow herself to think about this, can’t begin to imagine what forty strokes of the whip could mean — it can’t be, just … just say the word. Concentrate on not crying, on looking sexy, on holding on, somehow…

“Forty, Sir. Forty.”

“Very good, Be sure to remember that, now! It’s quite a number that. You’re going to learn a lesson or two tonight, little girl, that you won’t ever forget. But now, it’s time for you to redeem yourself. I still need a kiss — remember. And this time the price of failure is another ten points, pretty.”

And he leans in, puts a hand behind her neck, and invades her mouth with his thick, hot tongue. At the same time, he invades her pussy with another finger.

And she gives herself to him, helpless. Grateful to be allowed to do something as simple, as welcome as this — offer herself to be fucked, use her whole body to beg to be fucked, and mean it — wanting the intensity of that oblivion.

After a minute, she knows that she has opened herself, offered herself to this stranger more fully even than she had to her lover, working her sex against his invading hand, lifting her hips, working her mouth against him, mutely pleading for him to take her somewhere, somewhere, anywhere, to fuck her until she cannot think any more…

And all the while her lover and the man’s girl are watching.

When he releases her, he’s laughing — her lover is laughing too, and she knows she is lost. That somehow she is made for this, that’s she’s not only not going to be able to resist, but that she’s going to respond, helplessly, to this treatment, that they’re going to find her easy. That the ‘accelerated regime’ with the ‘emphasis on explicitly cruel treatment’ — those phrases that have been on a loop in her mind, so ominous are they — is going to work on her all too well.

She feels hysteria mounting and has to repress it ruthlessly.

Strange, a voice in her mind, a part of her, calmly observing — such a fit of hysterics might be the one thing that could rescue her now — attract attention, make it hard for them to spirit her away without questions being asked — but instead, she is forcing herself to appear calm — accepting a glass of water, sipping at it carefully, making the shape of a smile, at least, with her lips, straightening up as the men lean back from her, joking with each other. Feeling the stare of the girl Alison, burning into her.

Alison will, a few months later, attend a dinner party, rather like the dinner she attended with the blonde — only this time it will be she who is the star, she who has to behave through dinner as if she is an ordinary woman, with rights, dignity, responsibility, points of view — all these things she has not practised for what seems like an eternity — sit with the guests, including Alison and this sandy haired man, the man who had collected her for The Castle.

And it will be her who, on being asked — so politely — by Anne-Marie, as if she had a choice in the matter, whether she would like to strip, if she would like to ask the gentlemen present to destroy her, to take her beyond her limits, for the entertainment of the company? — it will be she who, voice shaking but still clear and controlled — she who will say; ‘Yes, please, Mistress; if it please you, I would like to.’

It will be she who, on receiving the nod of assent from Anne-Marie, will ask, in the same small, shaky but clear voice; ‘Please, sirs, I beg to be allowed to strip myself for you, and … and hope to inspire you to destroy me — use me beyond anything I have experienced before — to take your pleasure with me without any restraint at all, to show me no mercy or kindness whatsoever’.

And this girl Alison will do what she, in the same situation, could not. Alison will take a turn at whipping her — will use the riding crop on her breasts, between her legs, will draw blood, will require her to kneel, clean the soles of her Louboutins with her tongue, to take the heel of that shoe into her swollen, whip-striped pussy and fruitlessly hump herself, crying softly.

When, at last, the following year, it is Alison herself whose turn it is to be humbled — brought to The Castle one afternoon, crying, kicking, tantrumming like the spoiled child she is; delivered, indeed, by her own stepfather — she will be kind to the girl; soft, risking punishment to ease her path, for no other reason than sympathy, shared distress, knowing just what it is that is tearing the girl’s soul as she is brought to face her own inner weakness, her own Gethsemane, as she is made to grovel and beg to be raped, just another humbled cunt.

Despite all this, Alison (no longer known as Alison, of course, but as ‘Tammy’) takes every opportunity to cause trouble for her, and when Anne-Marie notices this, it tickles her, and she makes a point of having Tammy/Alison be the girl who administers punishment to her, knowing that every blow will be a zinger, that every chance to add to the count will be taken, every excuse to pour humiliation on top of pain.

Alison, though, never fully settles down, is always trouble, and within a year is sold to some government minister of an unnamed African state. It is rumoured he keeps trained dogs to mate with his girls. No-one speaks of her again.

And then, it seems, it is time to move. The bill is paid, a handsome tip left, jokes with the waiter — the waiter who takes no pains to disguise the way his eyes linger at her cleavage, her thighs, without for a moment doing exactly anything one could point out as disrespectful. And then they are leaving, People are staring, she notices, but astonishingly, it appears that the outrage that took place before their eyes escaped detection — although clearly some know that something was going on, there is not outcry.

And thus the last chance of rescue is gone. They walk out into the cool night — a gentle dusting of the lightest drizzle — almost a mist — cools her, she shivers in the thin dress, conscious of her nakedness underneath, and her lover, laughing, puts his jacket over her shoulders, just as if she was a person that he cared about still.

“We’ll fetch the car ourselves”, says the sandy-haired man to the the valets — and they shrug, indicating the lift down to the parking basement.

In the lift, the stranger stands behind her, matter of factly gathers her sore wrists in one hand, and locks some cuffs at her elbows. He leans forward and bites her neck, soft, greedy, hot;

He speaks softly into her ear;

“Bye bye freedom, pretty cunt.”

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