Liana at The Castle Pt.2

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

“Very well. It’s like this, pretty…”

Anne-Marie’s voice is calm, unhurried, as if she is telling some inconsequential story;

“I’m the manager of a very exclusive club. The members — all men — are rich sexual sadists who pay large subscriptions so that the club can provide them with luxurious and discreet surroundings in which to abuse pretty, helpless young women without restraint. The girls are not technically slaves, but in practice that’s more or less the only word that makes sense of their existence. We keep them chained at night, mostly naked or semi-naked, they are fucked, whipped and otherwise used and abused by members more or less at will.”

“My special expertise is in keeping the pretties up to the mark — at the right balance between terrified obedience and eager complicity. Although of course I control everything else, too.”

(Anne-Marie is not exaggerating. In the years she has worked for the Castle, her duties and range of powers have been continuously enlarged as the members have increasingly realised that it is her genius and all-encompassing breadth of vision which have rescued the club from its 1980’s tacky tawdriness, which has successfully wooed the new billionaires from the former eastern bloc and the developing South — and which has improved what can be expected from the fillies beyond all recognition. This understanding, coupled with the complete confidence in her loyalty demonstrated by some key members, has raised her to her current, well-nigh unquestioned position as the acknowledged ‘Queen of the Castle’.)

Innocent that she is, Liana is utterly, hopelessly unprepared for this answer. The first few words had made sense — she could absolutely see how it could be that Anne-Marie would be in her element as a club manager. But from there on in it increasingly seemed as if Anne-Marie must be speaking another language, so impossible is it to make sense — real-world sense — of what she is hearing.

And replaying the words in her head, slowly, trying to make it add up, just made things weirder and weirder.

She had tried to start smiling after the word ‘sadists’, to make it clear that she understood that she was being teased, that she was ready to pout and laugh.

The smile froze before it was born, though, as it became obvious that this was no tease, but rather a deliberately unambiguous disclosure of a dark reality — one which it was equally clear that Anne-Marie had no equivocation whatsoever about.

And so the pretty girl, experiencing her nakedness now with increasing self-consciousness, loses all poise, her dismay and confusion writ clear across her body — her jaw slackens, mouth opens loosely, eyes widen as her body shrinks back, instinctively recoiling from the unacceptability of what the words mean, from this shock, this calm claiming of something horrifying — something that should be attended by shame, by guilt, by excuses at the least, but which is instead followed by a relaxed smile of amusement at Liana’s helpless flinching.

Anne-Marie is indeed watching her young lover attentively — savouring the play of emotions, the body language that tells such a tale across her tender, opened flesh. Body language that Anne-Marie, with her all-but-unrivalled experience in this area, is able to read better than most living persons (the subtle Madam of the Macau branch of The Castle has been in post a decade longer than Anne-Marie, and has some claim, perhaps).

Wild images, unbelievable words are jumbling and clashing in Liana’s mind. Impossibilities — rejected implications, refusal … no!

“No! No! You … You can’t … it, it … that can’t …”

Her voice starts off sharp, but rapidly weakens, softens, tails off. Inside, she knows, for a certainty that if Anne-Marie has said it, if there has not yet appeared the slightest crack in her calmly watchful expression, that despite it being impossible that any of this is true, it must yet be so — for Anne-Marie is always reliable — the person in the world she would trust above all others. It’s one of many reasons that Liana has been so completely, so gratefully conquered — the knowledge that what Anne-Marie says is so, will prove to be so; or will be made so.

Anne-Marie doesn’t speak, doesn’t react; just watches.

Still, smiling softly, relaxed; absorbed in her life’s work — the mapping of the submissive mind in all its intriguing (and, for Anne-Marie, seductive) variety. Unlike her employers — the members of The Castle; or indeed her charges — the lovely victims of their greed and her manipulative expertise, she pays attention because she is genuinely interested, indeed fascinated, by the endless variety of ways in which a young woman — possessed, as all Castle girls are, of at least reasonable intelligence, in combination with luscious looks — can be so weak, so vulnerable, so attracted, like moths to candle flames, by a certain sort of greed, a specific hunger, by the openly reckless and vicious appetite for exploitation of that vulnerability.

For what would possess such girls, blessed by the lottery of birth as they are, to submit themselves, willingly, with no excuses, really, of ignorance or poverty, to such a catalogue of harsh and degrading abuses — to the end, usually, of all normal hopes for love, family, happiness?

Anne-Marie has, in fact, made it her business to follow up on the life trajectories of girls who have been through The Castle. This has required a cold heart and a capacity for appreciation of tragicomedy, for, as might be expected, girls who were weak enough, disaffected enough, askew in whatever way it was that led them to accept a life of sexual servitude and degradation, girls who have then been deliberately broken of all self-respect or agency, subjected to an intentional regime that brings them to some sort of Stockholm Syndrome fixation on those who are cruel and self-serving enough to enjoy doing this — these girls, once considered expendable by The Castle — often enough through simple desire for new flesh, for the fun of breaking in new fillies — these girls are not ‘good bets’ for happy endings.

All this being true, Anne-Marie has been somewhat surprised at the proportion of girls who do, in fact, survive in one way or another, and return to relative normality. A proportion, of course, are lucky enough to become a favourite of a member, whose protective instincts are aroused, and some of these even become wives or mistresses. Most end up as prostitutes of some description — the successful ones often as professional BDSM practitioners — interestingly with dominatrices outnumbering subs, but the majority unremarkable. Inevitably, many girls succumb to drugs of one kind or another.

The early death rate is an inescapable observation: Anne-Marie has brought short some potential Members whom she considers perhaps to be dangerously naive by asking them to stipulate that they are happy with the knowledge that the pretty naked girls whom they want to abuse will, on average, die around twenty years before the normal expectation (it’s impossible to say, of course, whether it is the weaknesses that led them to The Castle in the first place, or the cruelties imposed upon them while there, which are the cause of this — but the facts are harsh).

Most surprising, was the discovery of several all-women households made up exclusively of ex-Castle girls of all ages. After some deliberation, Anne-Marie made contact with these, explaining who she was (some of these houses had no girls who had passed through the Paris Castle), and asking if she might visit. She was, of course, prepared for angry rebuffs, but in fact, in each case, received a gracious invitation to visit at her convenience.

In each home she was welcomed and met with calm grace. All were different, but there were some clear similarities; older women acted as housemothers, offering understanding and kindness to younger ones, for whom the experience of sexual slavery was still raw. In each household there was a total lack of stigma around the fixations that most women had — some expressed a need to be whipped, some wanted to whip others, some wanted sexual abuse, others to live as chastely as nuns. The baseline was complete acceptance and tolerance. In each household, Anne-Marie was invited to stay for as long as she wished, and, to her surprise, in most, a shy but determined younger resident would present herself, asking (pleading, in some cases) to be allowed to serve her as if she were still a Castle slave, should Anne-Marie wish.

So it was that Anne-Marie had the experience of sitting at table with a room full of normal enough women, some of whom Anne-Marie had herself subjected to cruel abuse on many occasions, talking about all sorts of subjects, with, by her side, a naked young woman, kneeling, thighs spread, hands cuffed behind her back, fresh crop weals on her breasts, smiling sweetly, her head on Anne-Marie’s lap, tears still wet in her eyes, knowing that all present had heard her heartrending squeals minutes earlier, as well as the unmistakeable shrieks of an unhinged orgasm the previous evening as Anne-Marie’s double pronged dildo had simultaneously hammered into her unaccustomed sex and asshole (this old favourite — custom made for Anne-Marie — was designed to accept a range of fittings, so that she can be sure she is going to painfully stretch the recipient holes, and a powerful vibrating base which gives Anne-Marie much physical pleasure, complementing the sadistic pleasure afforded her through watching, and listening to, her victim’s suffering, through humiliation and pain both).

These study visits led to the foundation of a charity, subscribed to by more than a few Castle members, which makes occasional grants to such ‘sister-houses’ (as they came to be called) on the basis of need. Although most sister-houses have a more or less fixed ‘no men’ policy, off-premises meetings have been arranged between members and girls they recall, and some proportion of these meetings have even resulted in marriages and also re-submissions, where a woman, perhaps in her early thirties, freed from her subjugation for perhaps a decade, voluntarily gives herself again into slavery and cruelty.

It is not too unusual for it to be a woman who has chosen to remain ‘chaste’ since her time at The Castle to make such a choice. Anne-Marie is particularly interested in [and, yes, excited by] such cases, and when she can, she offers her services in re-acquainting the woman with servitude, should the Member wish it. In such cases, she spends as much time as is practical with the woman before her formal submission, getting to know her, discussing frankly with her her safe, sweet, sisterly life in the household; the contrast she will experience when once again enslaved.

It is particularly enjoyable, in these cases, when the Member concerned consents to Anne-Marie requiring the woman to talk about the torments she will once again be subject to, while sitting in normal surroundings. The tears, the trembling, the shuddering sighs, the emotional confusion these women suffer is — for Anne-Marie — richer than the equivalent conversations she has with younger women, and has a more poignant flavour — deeper, more plangent, as all involved know that this second enslavement is likely to signal a final end to all freedom, all agency, all safety.

Again, if the Member permits, Anne-Marie will, as a matter of course, immediately follow such intimate conversations with deliberately crude and cruel sexual and emotional violence; this transition, for Anne-Marie, feeling entirely natural, but heartbreakingly abrupt for the woman concerned. It typically goes something like this; with the woman, naturally, either naked or near naked, Anne-Marie steers the conversation into areas which expose the woman’s deepest sexual fears and vulnerabilities — these will offer opportunities for sexual excitement to Anne-Marie: when she is sufficiently desirous, she simply ends the conversation with an act of physical violence — slapping the woman’s face, or dragging her off her chair by her hair, throwing her to the floor, or with an abrupt order to the woman to hurt herself, such as stubbing Anne-Marie’s cigarette out on her tongue. The session continues from there, ending either with Anne-Marie sitting on the woman’s face, teasing her sex (sometimes kind, sometimes cruel, according to her mood), or rutting her from behind with her double-pronged strapon.

A woman’s response to the abruptness of these ‘handbrake turn’ transitions and the ensuing session is ‘information rich’ to Anne-Marie. The sessions are thus not simply Anne-Marie’s ‘payback’ for the efforts she goes to in these cases (the work is not part of her official Castle duties, and she makes no financial or other charges), but provide material for her report to the new owner, containing practical advice as to how to maintain what is usually intended, by both parties, to be a long-term relationship — often openly negotiated on the basis that it will persist until the owner’s death — the enslaved woman committing, if necessary, to provide care to the owner if he (sometimes she) should need it.

Anne-Marie prolongs and intensifies the emotional and psychological intensity of these sessions as much as the subject will allow, making it clear to them with complete candour that, past a certain point, this is simply for Anne-Marie’s enjoyment. Interestingly, this is often met with a sad smile and an open invitation to more; ‘I wish — how I wish — that it was you I was giving myself to’ said one woman, sadly knowing — it was common knowledge — that unlike other Castle madams, Anne-Marie never took personal girls — instead operating a system of temporary favourites selected from the stock.

It is Anne-Marie’s carefully controlled obsession with the endless facets of the question of the submissive mind that has enabled her to develop all-but mystical mastery of her craft; watching, at moments like this, utterly without prejudice, without assumption — interested in everything and anything she can glean, through all her senses, that might help her understand better just what it is that passes through the pretty’s body and mind at moments like these (the reader will note that, already, Liana has ceased to be herself in Anne-Marie’s mind — has been reduced to the status of ‘a pretty’ — a young woman doomed to helplessness in the face of the ruthless desire that is about to overwhelm her).

Anne-Marie’s own self-imposed rules are unchanged, unchallenged — she knows that she will herself do nothing to push lovely Liana into a life of slavery, rapine and arbitrary cruelty at The Castle — but she is nevertheless aware that she could easily do so if she wished; that this moment, as the certainty of Anne-Marie’s honesty about her real life burns into the girl’s mind, is one tipping point that could be exploited to pursue such a path if she wished to.

And thus is Anne-Marie intensely interested — and at her most dangerously calm.

The silence expands; Anne-Marie watches.

Liana is reeling, her mind darting here, there, scrabbling for sense, for something to believe which does not shake her grip on reality. Deep down, she knows she won’t succeed.

And she’s right; quite soon, it becomes clear; nothing serves; Liana is forced, in the end, to take seriously what Anne-Marie has said. Anne-Marie is always reliable, always truthful. The astonishing claim Anne-Marie has made is true.

As this sinks in, Liana’s world cracks. The realisation is written on her face, and is duly noted.

You could say that this was the point at which Liana became an adult. That this was the making of her. And of course you’d be right. But you’d only be right with hindsight. For at that moment, of course, the future was not written. The accumulation of chance, of responses to chance, of further chance, had not even begun. All you have for evidence is the bravery of her expression as the crack in her world propagates through her whole being, through her body, through her psyche, as she allows it to be, this new and impossible truth — that her goddess, the perfect Anne-Marie, is, in hard fact, an unpardonable sexual monster. And more, that Anne-Marie is not in the slightest ashamed or even diffident about being a monster — but rather as casually relaxed about having admitted her evil as she might be over preferring white to red wine.

The moment could make the girl, but equally, it could lead to her destruction. Yet another future might reveal this as a point when she shut down — became ordinary — as, too frightened by the implications of this revelation, she simplified herself to live a safe but drab life, with neither intensity nor degradation — doing nothing but getting by.

You don’t know; you can’t know.

The moment stretches; Anne-Marie, interested, enjoying herself, is clearly waiting, waiting to see just how far her lovely amour will go to get herself out of this impossible stasis — naked, displaying herself to the woman she has adored but whom she must now accept is a smiling monster. The girl’s inner toughness is noted — no tears, no anger, no shouting, just a steady gaze of deep sadness, hurt, regret, despite the trembling and obvious bewilderment — but this overt calm cannot last, she knows.

Eventually, Liana breaks; the tears well up and, with a start, she pulls her remaining clothes around her, shivering; clamps her thighs together, clutches her arms in front of her breasts, cringes a little as she blinks through the hot teardrops, looking around her for her panties, for some scrap of safety, of separation, of normality, sobs building.

Anne-Marie leans back a little, relaxing, but does not otherwise move. They are in the girl’s tiny bed-sit; Anne-Marie is the guest — and yet she is the one at ease, while Liana is increasingly jittery, flustered.

Anne-Marie waits, confident now — she knows what comes next, she is sure.

What she is waiting for is the point when Liana decides she must say something — must confront her lover, challenge her. It’s hard for the girl, though, and her internal struggle is clearly visible, making it simple for Anne-Marie to act decisively, as she has planned.

As Liana’s face turns to find hers, having finally found the demand to speak irresistible, Anne-Marie intervenes, denying the girl her moment, her release, taking the initiative from her (this ability to let a girl stew, and then to judge, with split-second perfection, the exact moment at which to intervene, to off-balance the pretty once more with some new revelation, demand, observation is a key technique which Anne-Marie has carefully honed); she stands, businesslike, looking directly at Liana, capturing her attention, drying up the urgent words in the girl’s throat; steps forward, softly cups a wet, mascara stained cheek in her hand and smiles, easy, soft. Her voice is soft, too;

“My dear, I do understand that this has shocked you. I didn’t mean it to, of course — you would insist, though. And of course I could never lie to you. It’s ruined your mood, I can see — I tried to warn you, silly — but, well, soft as a peach you might be, but there’s something tough inside you, isn’t there?”

Anne-Marie’s hand slips down Liana’s side, slides around the smooth skin of her waist, soft, casually confident of the response it will bring.

“And that’s a pity, because — well, from that scrumptious way you welcomed me, all those goodies opened up, I had been rather hoping …”

Anne-Marie leaves the promise of sex in the air as her hand travels up, to cup a soft breast, flick at the stiff nipple lightly with a thumb, bringing a little sound of pleasure from the girl’s throat.

“But, hey, I can see you’re not in the mood for it now; maybe I’ll have to do without. I’ll call you next week, perhaps, when I’m back, hear what you have to say then. I’ll understand if you don’t want to see me. Don’t fret. I’ll be out of town for a while now anyway — probably best not to call — it’ll be hectic.”

This is true, of course — Liana remembers something being said about a trip before — but at the same time it seems as if Anne-Marie is announcing the end of their affair — or at least a dramatic cooling-off, and, whatever has been said she can’t bear the thought of this.

The words she had been about to say are wiped from her mind, replaced by need, by fear, by near panic. She trembles, quivers, tears spill again, and, the thought she had felt so important to voice is simply gone from her mind, replaced with the urgency of not being left, of not having driven the brightest light in her young life away.

And then she looks up, directly into Anne-Marie’s eyes, lips trembling, for a long moment; a shiver runs through her, and her jaw sets, just a little;

“I … I don’t care. It … it was … stupid of me to ask. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. You’re what matters. You. What … whatever you are to … to them, it … it’s what you are to me that I care about … and … and you … you are … everything. Everything. To me. Please. Please, don’t go. Not like this. Stay. Stay! I … I … I want you to fuck me. Now. Hard. Shut my silly brain up. I … I want to please you — any … anyway you like — whatever. Please?”

And she opens herself again, pulling Anne-Marie’s hands onto her body, to her breast, between her legs, rubbing herself against those hands, acting wantonly as she has never done before. Indeed, she has never spoken like this before, never been one to voice her needs, never one to talk dirty, always blushing at Anne-Marie’s straight talk.

She’s not a believable wanton, though, clearly unsure of herself, embarrassed at her unwonted forwardness. Nevertheless, she persists. She has decided to do this, to let Anne-Marie see how much she needs her — sexually as well as emotionally, to offer herself, give herself explicitly, rather than passively, for once.

Anne-Marie laughs at her, soft, amused, her hands taking full advantage suddenly — two, then three fingers curling deep into Liana’s wet sex, the other hand taking grasping a breast;

“My, my, pretty — I should tell you terrible things about myself more often…”

The gentle but shaming joke cuts Liana, but she rides it, opening herself, lifting herself to meet Anne-Marie’s controlling grip, then falling back, Anne-Marie following, to kneel, fully dressed, over the near naked girl, now lifting Liana’s thighs up, apart, and then back, folding Liana in two, legs spread, knees by her ears, her sex opened and defenceless. Anne-Marie leans forward and kisses her, invasively, owning her, and Liana melts; her wanton offering of herself gone in an instant, she is once more the helpless, quivering object of her mistress’ whim, a little frightened by the intensity of her happiness that this is so.

And it’s true, Liana realises, blushing; it is a turn-on, this new image of Anne-Marie as a dominatrix, lording it over helpless, half-naked young women, offering them to fat businessmen.

Of course, Liana, innocent as she is, is unable to imagine anything beyond silly caricatures from half-remembered Hollywood movies — she has no real idea at all what Anne-Marie actually gets up to. But somehow it all fits — fits with her own increasing eagerness simply to give herself to Anne-Marie in bed — to be carried away by the relentless fierceness of Anne-Marie’s desire, of her certainty, her desires utterly unconstrained by conventional ideas of morality or boundaries — and it fits, too, with the increased reliance on Anne-Marie’s wisdom that Liana has found herself relaxing into, asking her older lover for advice on clothes, jobs to take, how to handle friends being annoying, financial worries — everything, really…

But there’s more, too. The Anne-Marie she saw just now, as she sat, naked, exposed not just physically, but mentally too, so shocked had she been by the revelation — that Anne-Marie is new to her; colder, steelier, not at all caring, but greedy, instrumental. This new Anne-Marie is frightening, and she remembers now how she had experienced flickers of fear on that first day — the day when Anne-Marie had seduced her. Fear that had excited her as much as it had caused her to tremble, fear which had, though, quickly subsided as it became obvious that she could trust her new lover completely.

Now that she feels it again, feels uncertain what Anne-Marie wants from her, will put her to, will expect from her, she realises that it is delicious — an extra spice. Her lover, her wonderful older lover, so wise, so calm, so reassuring, is also a monster, capable of something beyond the bounds of normal — and Liana is putty in her hands …

Yes, she is on fire, opening herself, splitting her thighs to encourage Anne-Marie to invade her sex, to take it as she wishes, her mouth soft, open to Anne-Marie’s demanding kisses, wanting to give herself, give herself over, lose herself in sensation — the more intense the better, glad to be annexed, manipulated, played like a violin. At the same time, the tears are still in her eyes, knowing, powerfully, that nothing will ever be the same again, that Anne-Marie is right — that she has changed everything with her insistence on knowing, on opening Pandora’s box.

And here is Anne-Marie, whispering now in her ear;

“I’m going to have my revenge, pretty, I’m going to take you somewhere new tonight, show you something that will change you, something I’ve wanted to do with you for a while, but wasn’t sure you were ready for. Tonight, though, I’m feeling like simply taking you there, and devastating you. Are you ready for it, pretty, ready to be taken somewhere beyond?”

Liana, panting now with sexual fever at Anne-Marie’s clever and relentless manipulations of her sex, clitoris, nipples, would have said yes at any time, even if asked in this portentous fashion, but tonight, now, she would deny her lover nothing. More, in her emotional shock, the idea of being sexually ‘devastated’ is welcome — an oblivion where she can simply experience, shut down the racing thoughts which Anne-Marie’s revelation has triggered. And so she eagerly, sweetly, happily assents, seeking out Anne-Marie’s lips, kissing her fervently;

“Oh yes, darling, please … Please , do … do it … do me …”

And her hips surge as she spreads her thighs as widely as she can, emphasising her openness, her welcome of whatever it is that her lover might have in store for her — her sexual anticipation surging at the same time, her breathing going haywire, a sort of agreeable hysteria possessing her as Anne-Marie sits up, strokes her cheek;

“I can’t actually imagine, why I haven’t put you to this before, but no matter, nothing is going to stop me now.”

“Up! Up with you now pretty — that’s it — I know, your knees are all weak; it’s so cute seeing you like this, so needy and vulnerable. Have I told you you’re gorgeous? Well you are — just made to be ravished. Come on now, perch your lovely little ass on the corner of the vanity now, darling — that’s it. Now, lift this leg up — up, up, yes, put your foot all the way up on the counter — split your pussy wide open for me, oh, you like that do you — feeling all exposed and vulnerable?”

For a deep and and animal series of shivers has passed through the girl’s body, as Anne-Marie’s fingers caressed her now lewdly exposed slit, then lightly nipped her swollen clitoris, her head thrown back, arms behind her on the counter, throaty, inchoate sounds coming from her lips, mouth half open, tongue tip twitching, breath coming in sharp sips.

Anne-Marie grins, pleased with herself — if nothing else, she has probably ruined this girl for satisfying sex with most ordinary partners.

“Well I like it too, and I’m going to take full advantage of it — I’m going to do just what I want to do with you, little slut — just exactly what I want because you’re so wet and open and helpless …”

“But before that, we need to just make sure of that …”

And Anne-Marie deftly slips the cloth tie from Liana’s dressing gown, handily hanging on the bedpost, around the girl’s ankle, then her wrists, smoothly tightening and knotting before Liana has time to react. She’s been tied before — but never without warning, never so tightly, and never in such an awkward position. Her heart jolts, momentarily, and then the heat of her excitement sweeps her along, and the shock simply adds to the trembling anticipation, the urgent desire for Anne-Marie to take her to somewhere where all that matters is the sensations in her body (in her pussy), somewhere her mind will be blotted out — something Anne-Marie has done for her many times, but which tonight seems set to exceed anything so far. The emotional shockwave of Anne-Marie’s revelation has swept away all shreds of the girl’s customary reserve, leaving her raw, defenceless, open as never before, and she lets the pulse of fear at the imposed helplessness build the fire in her belly, not sure if the constant series of small cries she emits are excitement or terror, past caring in any case, as Anne-Marie’s fingers are again at her hot, wet, obscenely split sex, so tinglingly vulnerable, and softly, slowly, so gently parting her labia with long, lacquered nails.

Liana cannot help but look down, fascinated at the sight of the deep, glossy redness pushing inside her, cannot restrain a long, low moan of delirious anticipation, looks up to find Anne-Marie’s gaze boring into her, her lover’s lips smiling, knowing, mocking, as her fingers push on, relentless in their slow invasion of Liana’s slick sex, first two, then three fingers — the girl’s throat closes up, her heart seems to skip — she can’t bear to watch, can’t tear her eyes away … now four — four sharp, nail tipped fingers, moving inexorably inside her; she begins to have some idea what it is that is about to be done to her and wails, soft, helpless — despair, desire, shame, need, helpless acceptance all there, making Anne-Marie’s smile broaden as she bunches the fingers together, so that the finger joints stretch the pussy walls tight, forcing a wavering, sobbing moan from the girl, Anne-Marie not stopping for an instant, but moving so, so slowly…

“That’s it, that’s it little girl, you’re being invaded. After tonight, you will know, really know, with your body, that it is me who owns this lovely little cunt, me who understands it best in all the world, me who can use it as I like, whenever I like. You will not forget this night, I promise you — Just … so!”

And now, with a sharp thrust, the knuckles disappear inside Liana’s pussy, and the girl gives out a full-throated wail, head thrown back, sobbing with the intensity of it, with the pain, with the lust, jolting as Anne-Marie begins to apply pressure on her throbbing, almost painfully sensitive clitoris with the thumb and fingers of her other hand, and simultaneously steps up the pace of her invasion, the thickest part of her hand now well inside her lovely, opened victim, and begins the final manoeuvre, slowly forming her hand into a fist inside the girl’s belly, the astonishingly intimate sensation of this drawing small, desperate shrieks from Liana’s lips as her shoulders hunch, than fling back again, her hips surging; her whole body seems almost to rattle, so rapid and intense is her shaking.

Somehow, Liana holds her pose, knowing she must, must not ruin this moment, must give herself, must give Anne-Marie this use of her, astonished beyond belief that these feelings, this experience is even possible, let alone happening to her, sweet demure little Liana, right now, in her own apartment — still less so that she suddenly knows herself to be hungry for it, to welcome the sense of utter powerlessness brought on by having another’s fist, pumping her now, slow but remorseless — a fist in her belly, in her cunt, fucking her. Being fist-fucked, And wanting it, hearing her voice, unbidden, as if a stranger’s;

“Aaahh, yes, yes, yes, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me hard,. ohhhhh, shiiiit, fuck me, harder; oh christ fuck me till I fucking die!”

Now Anne-Marie lifts Liana’s chin with her other hand — the one that is not buried, wrist-deep, in the girl’s belly;

“Look at me — look at me girl. That’s it, look at me. I’m the owner now — the owner of your cunt. Like Neil Armstrong landing on the moon, I have planted my flag in virgin territory, and claimed it.”

She’s grinning, joking, but savouring the aggressiveness of the joke, the utter dominance invading the girl’s pussy like this emphasises, and Liana’s expression of lost acceptance only underlines it.

“Now, pretty, look down — watch — see what I’ve done to you, see how I’ve conquered you — watch.”

And as Liana complies, as if mesmerised, Anne-Marie begins more vigorously to pump her fist into the girl’s belly, not at all harshly — there is no need for harshness; the simple sight of this being done to her brings on a mild hysterical paroxysm, to which is added an indescribably intense further layer of sensation as Anne-Marie once again begins to manipulate Liana’s swollen clitoris, her years of experience and practice quickly telling as Liana feels sexual excitement overtaking her. This is shocking, since the outrageousness of seeing Anne-Marie’s elegant wrist bones entering and withdrawing from her own sex so deliberately, and the relation of that sight to the all-but unprocessable sensations coming from inside her have sidelined the sexual experience, and now, to have those reintroduced so abruptly, almost mechanically, sets off a revolt inside her. Suddenly, she doesn’t want to come this way, doesn’t want to know that such invasive and disempowering treatment can result in sexual pleasure, and she wills herself to resist — mentally, if nothing else — she has no physical capacity at all, strength sapped by the emotional impact of what she cannot tear her eyes from, even if she were not trussed like a chicken.

But Anne-Marie is not to be resisted, and almost immediately, Liana finds her eyes going misty, her hips surging again, heat rising, hears herself starting to moan again. She’s as appalled as she can raise the mental energy to be, but it makes no difference, and she feels her treacherous body begin its own drive towards the little death of orgasm, moving for and with Anne-Marie as the fist moves in her belly, as her fingers alternately deliciously flick at and then sharply nip at Liana’s sensitive clit, in the pattern that Anne-Marie knows will drive the girl wild.

As her orgasm builds, relentlessly, massively, frying her brain, Liana finds herself crying tears of frustration and emotional overload; it just isn’t fair! This evening has brought one overpowering rush of sensation after another, none having a chance to settle in before the next is upon her; first, the excitement of planning to show herself, spread and naked, to Anne-Marie, then the tussle over her insistence that she know the truth — and then the appalling revelation, still not assimilable, then the fear of having lost her, and now … now this.

But even tears cannot stop her body, or stop Anne-Marie as the orgasm builds, relentless, until the helpless girl has no choice but to give herself over to it, uttering sharp, raw cries as the spasms build, until there is no going back, and she is wracked by full-body shudders as she calls out her trauma, as the despair and tumult of the evening’s emotion blends with the ecstatic electrification that orgasm sends shooting through her, and she loses the ability to think.

At the height of this, Anne-Marie puts her free arm under Liana’s single extended leg, and lifts the thigh so that her sex is full spread, still speared on Anne-Marie’s right arm, then slides a hand around the girl’s waist and smoothly lifts her into the air, Liana’s own weight immediately impaling her still more deeply onto the invading fist, driving the intensity of her orgasm an impossible notch further. It’s an out-of-body experience for the lovely girl, driven far beyond anything she could ever have prepared herself for, and a juddering series of animal cries, heart-rending in their intensity, is forced from her — leaving her with a sore throat that lasts for days afterward.

Only just able to hold the writhing body, Anne-Marie lowers the girl onto the bed, on her back, legs bent double, splayed wide, and cradles her as she comes down from the shattering experience of a forced crying orgasm from her first ever fist-fucking. Anne-Marie is breathing hard too, a little carried away, surprised herself at the intensity with which she has driven the girl but with no intention of letting up now. There is a further chapter to this evening, she sees, and she will not be brooked.

All the while she holds Liana, cuddles her, strokes her, whispers sweetly into her ear, soothing her, bringing her down, she does not pull back the impaling fist one centimetre — Liana will return to herself as gently as Anne-Marie knows she needs to, but will not escape the knowledge, or the sensation of being owned in this way a second before Anne-Marie chooses to make it so.

The dressing gown cord is untied; Liana’s legs gradually straighten, her arms come round to hug herself as she curls into a foetal ball for comfort, as her consciousness gradually, almost fearfully, comes back into itself.

Every now and then her body stirs, tenses, seeking to rid itself of the invader in some automatic, reflex way. But Anne-Marie is relentless, and as Liana comes fully to her senses, the occupying presence in her belly becomes is impossible to ignore — the central fact of her existence — little else matters, and now she consciously moves to expel the fist in her sex, moaning a little with each effort, weak, quickly despairing.

Anne-Marie chuckles, soft, warm, in her ear;

“Oh no, pretty, that’s not happening. I’ve taken ownership of this pussy and I want to play some more, and show you how deeply I control you right now. So I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you, until I say it’s over.”

Liana can only whimper, weakly, without energy to resist or even object.

“So listen carefully, pretty. When you’re ready, you’re going to carefully, slowly, roll yourself over onto your knees. My fist is going to stay right there, deep inside you while you turn, so you’re going to be very slow, and very careful, and you’re going to feel very fucking weird indeed as it moves inside you. You’re going to realise all over again just how completely I own this hot little pussy.”

“And then, when you’re on your belly, you’re going to come up, up onto your knees and stick that tight little bottom high up in the air, and your face right down into the mattress, like the little whore that you are.”

“And then I’m going to give you another orgasm.”

“Moan as much as you like, pretty. You know me. If I say it, that’s how it will be, and you’re like putty right now, aren’t you?”

And it’s true. At that moment, Liana cannot even imagine moving under her own control — it is as if all her joints are made of jell-o, all her muscles overcooked pasta, her willpower a burst balloon. The only thing in her life is the fist in her belly, and the impossible, almost terrifying prospect of another orgasm.

Nevertheless within a few minutes, feeling some strength return, and with a little cooing encouragement from Anne-Marie in her ear, gentle stroking of her flanks, she slowly begins to move.

It’s as strange as Anne-Marie had promised, the turning — almost a metaphysical experience, accompanied by soft sweet whimpers and deep, rippling shudders. She is overwhelmed by sensation, lost in a world of Anne-Marie’s making, appalled and enthralled in equal measure, knowing that she is at this moment nothing, just a delirious servant of Anne-Maries’s awesome, glorious and unfathomable power.

Suddenly desperate to know that she is pleasing her Anne-Marie, that she is doing what is desired of her, that she is giving satisfaction, she looks up, into her lover’s eyes, all the weakness, fear and quivering vulnerability she feels apparent in her soft gaze, alongside her urgent need for approval. And Anne-Marie smiles at her — a dark, twisted, smile, full of superior amusement, devoid of tenderness, the eyes shocking; hard, greedy, gleeful. Tears start in Liana’s eyes, but she is too far gone to do anything but cling to what she can get — Anne-Marie is smiling, and telling her she’s doing it right, in a voice that is as soft and gentle as the words are harsh;

“That’s it, that’s it little cunt, serve me, serve my fist, that’s so deep inside you; move for me, show me, show me how completely you serve me, make your body please me, without reserve, give me your sluttiness, beg my hard fist to fuck you deep, begging with your whole body, pretty.”

It’s not that anything is painful, but neverthless, she feels a deep tearing loss inside; a loss of something irretrievable, a disempowering. Something gone from Liana forever. Her heart is breaking even as her love for Anne-Marie becomes impossibly deeeper, becomes dependence, becomes a recognition of her own submission, an irrecoverable surrendering of something no-one could ever take from her, something that can only be given, but that she yet knows she has no control at all over the giving of — that it has simply gone from her, that Anne-Marie has her now, that she will never be fully free again.

Her eyes fill with tears as she begins, again, to move, move with infinite grace and dedication to offering her body to her mistress, as completely as she can manage to.

Years later, talking, Liana tells Anne-Marie that it was that moment from which there was never any route back to ordinary for her. That with each attempt to break away from the hard road it had set her on, it became impossible to imagine herself as ‘not’ the girl who, whimpering and quivering, had arranged herself so lewdly, ‘face down, ass up’ as Anne-Marie had taught her (as the correct position for getting fucked with the fat strap-on that Liana did not seem to be able to help herself from grabbing whenever it was her turn to choose).

‘Not’ the girl who had spread her thighs, trembling, splitting herself again, tucking her knees right up to her chest to lift her groin another few centimetres, to offer herself more shamefully still, to beg, with her whole body, most humbly, to be destroyed by the fist in her cunt, knowing just how terribly destructive to her sense of herself it will be to be used like that again.

As ‘not’ the girl who, after fifteen minutes of impossibly overwhelming sensation, made to experience many times now the removal and re-introduction of the fingers, the knuckles, the hand, the wrist, the forming of the fist, the relentless pistoning of that fist in her innards, all attended by careful and almost evilly skilful manipulation, stroking, and eventually, licking and nibbling, had not screamed out her second unwanted, but wholly overwhelming orgasm of the hour, who had not thanked Anne-Marie most sincerely, had not let herself be cuddled as she cried herself to sleep, Anne-Marie’s fist still buried deep in her sex, soft tears on her cheeks.

The girl who had ‘not’, the next morning, lying in a febrile doze while Anne-Marie did her usual efficient early morning routine at the little table in the kitchenette, taken herself through every moment of the previous evening in her mind, wondering and sometimes softly crying at the strangeness, the intensity of it, and who had not, at the end of this, discovered herself more deeply grateful to Anne-Marie than ever before, more deeply in her thrall; ‘not’ the girl who had, naked from her hurried shower, presented herself, on her knees, thighs spread, to Anne-Marie, a silly, stupid, desperately maintained, frightened grin on her face, and asked, meekly, if Anne-Marie would care to inspect her property; meaning, of course, Liana’s pussy.

Not the girl who had gratefully, shamelessly, worked the toe of Anne-Marie’s elegant court shoe into that pussy and knelt up to kiss her dominator as sweetly as she could, breaking off every now and then to offer her thanks, to say how stupid she was to have pressed Anne-Marie, how glad she was that she had, though, since it had led to her having had her pussy claimed like that, since it had led to her being conquered all over again, conquered so completely, so deliciously, how willing she was to be fucked like that again, little tears in her eyes, jitters in her tummy, meekly, gratefully accepting the sharp little pinches of Anne-Marie’s hard lacquered nails at her nipples with little breathy moans that only encouraged more, her hips bucking softly, working the shoe into her wet, sore pussy, doing it as obviously, as shamefully as she can, wanting Anne-Marie to see just how far she had been brought.

“So if I felt like fisting you again right now — on this table; just hard, hard and fast — you’d lie back, hold onto your ankles for me, split yourself, wide open, ask me to pound you, make you come like that, again, make it clear that you’re that much of a helpless slut for me?”

As much as this harshness brings tears to the girl’s eyes, her little smile and her nod are very sincere, as is her broken little voice — still hoarse from the night before, as she says;

“Yes. Yes, of course, please. Do it to me. Do anything you want to me. Just tell me. Please.”

And despite the twisting in her belly, she is up, lifting herself onto the table, legs akimbo, pretty sweetness itself all through, even as Anne-Marie uses her much, much more forcefully than she had the previous night, almost punching the girl’s sore pussy, bringing squeals and yelps, but at the same time kissing and licking and nibbling at her clit, at her nipples, whispering sexy nothings in her ear, laughing and smiling at her, until, as is inevitable if Anne-Marie intends it, Liana is once again brought to a sobbing, conflicted, destructive orgasm that ends in delirious oblivion.

Anne-Marie leaves shortly afterward, saying she’ll not see Liana again for a fortnight or so. Liana is still crying, softly, unable to stem the tears that gently but persistently well up in her puffy eyes, but smiling, too, assuring Anne-Marie of her gratitude with mute but intense sincerity.

She’s kneeling, naked, as Anne-Marie has asked her to, posing pertly with her hands crossed at the small of her back, thighs spread, shoulders back, tits forward, aftershocks still rocking her at random intervals, emitting cute little uncontrollable gasps at the intensity of the sensations still thrumming through her.

Anne-Maries leans down, kisses her on the lips, soft, sweet, intense, then straightens, caressing one wet cheek with a lazy finger, her eyes full of undisguised entertainment at the storm of emotion Liana is still processing;

“You’re so sweetly vulnerable right now, pretty, that it’s hard not to do you again — make you really squeal. Yes, your eyes can go big, little girl, but it wouldn’t stop me if I didn’t have to leave right this minute — and you’d come for me again if I wanted you to, however much it might hurt. That’s my pussy from now on, and I’ll do whatever I like with it, anytime I feel like it.”

“But I do have to go, so now darling, my little fist-fuck slut, while I’m gone, I want you to promise me something. I don’t want you to wear clothes while you’re at home — nothing at all — you’ll both dress and strip right by the front door, then naked all the time. And I want you to masturbate a great deal — but you’re not to come. Put yourself in front of the big mirror, think about my fist pushing right into your pussy, and get yourself hot, but don’t go over the top. Wait half an hour and do it again. And again.”

“That way, when I get back, you’ll be crazy for it, crazy for me, and I’ll do you like that again, hard, and you’ll have another gut wrenching come for me, and I’ll own you even more.”

“And after that, pretty, you’ll owe me big time and I’ll sit on your face for a whole weekend!”

And with that, she’s gone.

*Read the next part of Liana at the Castle.*