NB: Harshness:-5-🌶🌶🌶🌶🌶 — this is a disturbing story.

Capitulation

We’d been going out for three years, and moved in together after only a few months, so happy we were to have found each other.

I was really happy to come home every day, and it seemed he was too. My friends thought he was lovely — the perfect gentleman — my parents liked him too. We had a great sex life, and enjoyed each other’s company, although we also had our own friends — my girlfriends, his mates. We had discussed kids, and we agreed there, too — no way! — not for a few years anyway…

So all-in-all a pretty perfect setup. He earned way more than me, and seemed to thrive on the high pressure of his job — mine was less important to me, but it kept me able to be independent — buy my own clothes, pay towards holidays and so on.

Nevertheless, it was lovely that he made so much money — we had a big flat, and for my last birthday he had found out from my mum that I had always dreamed of being a princess; he had secretly booked an incredible long weekend holiday for me and two of my girlfriends (who were in on the surprise), before which I was treated to a glamorous make-over and fitted for a fancy gown before flying to an incredible fairytale castle in Bavaria, where I was treated literally as if I was the princess, with my two friends as ladies of the court.

Justin and his mates arrived the next day and held a jousting contest for our entertainment. I got to ride a white horse (side saddle), and eat golden apples (apples with real gold leaf on them). He arranged a damsel-in-distress rescue from a knight dressed in black who genuinely frightened me for a few minutes, before Justin rode up on a big white horse and knocked him down. It was incredible — a fairy tale. I was glowing for weeks afterward.

I was sure that I had the perfect man.

It was his birthday in a month or so, and I was trying to think of something wonderful I could do for him, somewhat in despair at managing to do anything that could even begin to match up to that amazing experience, when one evening, after a takeaway in front of our current favourite series, he brought the subject up himself;

“Babe, you know it’s my birthday next month?”

“Of course I do!”

“Well, I’ve been a little worried — I don’t want you to get yourself into any stress trying to do something expensive or anything.”

“Oh … well” I laughed, a little embarrassed.; “I … um, have you thought of anything you’d like?”

He leaned over and slid his hand up my thigh to my bum;

“You mean … apart from this?” He made a mock leer, and I giggled;

“No, silly! I meant for a present! Something special.”

“I can’t think of anything more special than your lovely ass, myself. “

Again I giggled;

“Well thank you kind sir! Present problem solved.”

There was a silence — which went on a little too long, and then he said;

“Well, actually, it might be.”

His voice was odd, somehow — strained, and when I looked I saw he had coloured slightly — unusual for him. I sat up — intrigued, wondering;

“What … what do you mean?”

Another pause, then;

“Well, babe, it … it’s quite simple, and … and, in a way very easy. But … but I don’t know how you’re going to take it. So, before I start, I want you to promise me something.”

This was definitely not in our usual line of conversation, and he still looked weird to me. I was more and more intrigued, and beginning to be just a little worried.

“Okay — I promise.”

“You don’t know what you’re promising yet!” he laughed, a little more like his normal laugh.

“OK, well, I promise anyway.”

It was a joy to me, in those days, to make it clear to him how much I trusted and loved him. He kissed me;

“That’s my babe. Okay, well, what you have to promise is that, whatever you think after I say what I have to say, that you’ll talk about it sensibly for a little while, and then, whatever else happens, you’ll think about it for a week before giving me your answer. Ok?”

Now I was really confused;

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ll tell you. After you promise.”

I was less sure now, but, what the hell — it was only talking, he said. So, taking a deep breath, I said;

“OK, I promise.”

“Promise what? I need you to be sure.”

I was getting nervous now, and quite quickly I said;

“OK, I promise to … to talk it over and then, to … whatever it is … I’ll think about it for a week. ok?”

He looked me in the eyes and kissed me, looking relieved;

“Thanks babe — you really are amazing. Thank you.”

And then he just sat there, grinning at me. I was a little calmer after the kiss and the lovely smile, but I couldn’t contain my impatience;

“Go on then, tell me — whatever it is!”

He looked at me deeply again, kissed me soft and long and then sat back. He looked down at the floor for a while, then up and into my eyes. He had a hard look on his face that I normally associated with competitive sports and work issues, and this was definitely unusual, bringing the worries back full strength, but I had decided not to let him off the hook by saying anything else until I knew what he was making such a song and dance about.

“I … I want you to let me and some … some guys … gang … gang-rape you. Violently — hurt … hurting you. Over a long weekend. At a cabin in the countryside.”

The silence after this was extraordinary. I don’t think either of us was breathing. He was as flushed as I have seen him, but he didn’t take his eyes off me, or the hard look off his face.

For myself I was having a hard time just understanding the meaning of the words. I kept having to replay them in my head, but they made no sense — it just didn’t make sense that Justin, my Justin, could have said anything like what I had heard. I began shaking my head, muttering;

“What? what?”,

but he kept on looking at me, and eventually he reached out and gently held my cheeks between his hands.

“You heard right.” He said, in a quiet but firm voice; “That’s what I want for my birthday. Please, please, remember your promise now and … and pull yourself together — think for a minute, then ask any questions you want to. OK?”

My heart was racing, pounding, and it was my turn to be red in the face, while he was looking calmer and cooler by the second. I felt myself trembling, and I was glad of his firm hands holding me (he had my shoulders now, gentle and strong). I tried to think. It took forever, it seemed, to get to the point where I could hear the words again, in my mind, and understand that Justin had really said them, and then I suddenly realised what — what must be;

“Very … very funny. Not. Really, Justin, just SO. NOT. FUCKING. FUNNY.”

I tried so hard to sound as if I believed that it was a joke, to be as serious about it as I would have been if he had attempted such an — awful — joke.

His reaction was the worst it could possibly be — a flash of shock, of surprise — utter innocence — he was surprised by me thinking it was a joke — genuinely surprised. His expression returned to its serious set, he leaned forward, earnest, explaining, breaking my heart…

“No … No babe, it’s not — it’s not a joke. I’m … I’m deadly serious. “

And he did, almost, look apologetic, even frightened for a second, before the hard, eager look returned.

I stared at him, knowing that something precious had been broken forever, knowing but refusing to believe it.

Eyes blurred with tears, my mind racing, I stopped thinking about the big picture. This … this was real — he wasn’t joking; he really meant it. And all the while parts of me were wanting to scream, other parts wanting to cry, others to run away. But I had promised. I had promised my Justin, my sweet, generous, loving Justin, that I would stay and talk — talk about this insanity, this unbelievable, impossible, insult!

At last, I gathered myself, using the part of me — the large part of me — that was angry, to master the others, and thereby take the edge off itself. There was still plenty of anger left though, so I shook his hands from my shoulders, and kept my voice harshly flat, holding back the tears that threatened;

“OK then, so, I promised. So… I talk, for a while, but before I start let me tell you something; you’re sleeping on the couch tonight and until further notice, and although I will wait a week to give you an answer, as promised, I can tell you now it’s going to be no. No Fucking Way.”

“What ?! … what on earth were you thinking? That … that I’d just … roll over and make Bambi eyes and say ; ‘Of course baby, whatever you want — you and your boys can just beat the crap out of me and gang-bang me whenever you like, I love you so’? Jesus! Fuck!”

I was shouting by the end of it, but my voice was still firm.

He waited until it was clear I had finished, left a space and then, in a calm and slightly anxious voice, he said;

“Of course not. I don’t think that. Not at all. Of course you’re going to be angry. Angry and all sorts of other things as well. Of course. And you have every right to be. And of course I think you’re going to say no. You should say no. It’s a crazy thing.”

He paused, waiting to see if I said anything. I did;

“Then why did you have to go and say it you stupid bastard?!”

I was half screaming now, but he kept calm and quiet, doing nothing to wind me up further;

Again, he wanted to be sure I was done before he spoke;

“I know. I know it’s … hard to hear — seems insane … but … well, it looks increasingly as though we’ll spend the rest of our lives together — unless I’ve just fucked it up beyond repair.”

He’d seen the immediate ‘yeah, right’ expression on my face. He gave me space to speak, but when I made no move to , he carried on;

“And … well … if … if that’s going to happen, I need to … to exorcise this … demon … that’s in me. One way or another. Otherwise it would just … eat away at me — at us — at what we have. And I can’t have that. I need to know what it will do to us, now — before I run the risk of wasting your life. If you need to ditch me and find someone who doesn’t want … want to abuse you … then, then it’s better you do it now, not in ten years time. I don’t want to waste your precious life. You are amazing. You deserve to make choices on the basis of the facts. All the facts. Of knowing everything important about me.”

This speech was almost more bizarre than the beginning one. Was he saying that he made that — that suggestion — because he loved me? Was he talking about getting married? He must be crazy! There were so many contradictions! But the strangest one was driving me nuts and it just boiled out of me;

“So — you’re trying to tell me that because you love me so much you want me to say yes to you and your mates … f-fucking me … and, and ‘abusing me’ — whatever the hell that means. You must be nuts!”

I was crying now, my strength gone, despair taking over from anger;

“Oh God Justin what on earth are you doing? Why? Why?”

He tried to calm me again, but I shook him off angrily. He sat back on his heels, and again spoke as calmly as I was wild;

“I know — it IS crazy. You don’t need to tell me. I can hardly manage it myself — but I must — I must, for … for both of us. The fact is — I do want to do these things to you — see you stripped, frightened, fucked, beaten, humiliated, raped, used by other men. And I know that’s crazy — nuts. But … IT IS REAL. So. So you need to know. And now you do — it’s been the hardest thing — telling you — that I’ve ever done in my life. But now you know. I’m not … not hiding any part of myself from you.”

“And now — well now, the ball is in your court. You have the facts. You know everything that matters about me now. And you have a week to decide what you want. But you need to know that I DO love you — even if I do, also, want to see you degraded… Babe, if you turn out to be crazy too — which as I say I don’t think you are, but if you do — you need to know that it won’t diminish my love for you, or make you any less special in my eyes. Quite the opposite — you will be even more of a princess to me — and I will make absolutely certain that you are kept safe — however crazy THAT sounds — but it will be true — no harm will come to you — I will make sure you are safe.”

That fucked-up little speech did it for me, and I lost it; raged and screamed, did my best to hurt him, hitting him (which he just took, only protecting himself in the most passive way), until I caught myself up, stalked into the bedroom and shut the door.

He was gone when I got up. I’d cried myself to sleep, had broken sleep with wild nightmares, and wilder imaginings, and woken with a terrible head — I called in sick and spent the day alternately crying and raging. The stupid, stupid fuck! How dare he ruin everything!

He didn’t get back until late. Normally he rang if he was working late. Maybe he did. I didn’t answer the phone when it rang. When he got back, he didn’t come in at first, just called the entrycom. When I answered at the fifth call, he asked if it was alright for him to come up.

“Why the hell not? It’s your flat. I’ll move out next week. Once I’ve kept my promise, you BASTARD!” I yelled at him.

I couldn’t help noticing that he looked white. His face was set, he smiled as best he could, his voice was calm and firm, but he was deathly pale under his tan. He offered to cook. I ignored him and retreated to the bedroom.

Same routine; cried myself to sleep, got up late, called in sick, spent the day crying and shouting. This time I picked up the phone when he called, for the pleasure of telling him to go fuck himself. Later, though, Maddy called, and I realised I had a big problem. What was I going to tell her? She knew I was off work — she worked across the road from where I did, and we had lunch or coffee most days. Could I face telling her my perfect Justin was a creep and a pervert? And didn’t my promise imply that I had to keep it to myself for a week? I told her I couldn’t explain now, but that I would soon — only please not to push me. She understood. She’s great.

So when he got back I launched into him. How he had ruined my life — not just my relationship with him. How was I going to explain our break-up? What did he recommend I say to Maddy, for instance?

“If you think she can help you think it through, figure out what you want to do about all this, then tell her.”

I was shocked. So shocked I spoke to him in something like a normal voice.

“You — you don’t mind if I tell her?”

He paused. He looked worse than ever, I thought — really quite haggard — probably got something going on at work, I told myself, ridiculously.

“Well; I suppose it might be embarrassing for you … and … of course, it’ll be … awkward — her knowing … what I want to do to you. But — well, if — if you do end up being crazy, you’ll have to tell her — I mean you’ll have to tell her something. The … the bruises… And … I don’t want her to think that I hit you… Well, not like that, anyway…”

And, bizarrely, we were both laughing — just snickers at first, then he caught my eye, and we were laughing. Insane, but we were laughing, together. Over how I would explain the bruises given to me by my boyfriend and his mates during a brutal weekend of rape and abuse. So that she wouldn’t think he was a wife beater.

As soon as I realised I was laughing I stopped it. Dead. But I was still left with the thought — he is really serious about this … rape. To the extent that he is concerned at how we’ll live once it has happened. And he’s happy for me to tell Maddy — who will want to gouge his eyes out. The paradoxes, contradictions, implications of all this are too much for me. Too much! I need to talk to Maddy! Except I can’t can I? But if I can’t talk to Maddy, I need to talk to Justin! I start to cry, and, gently, tentatively, he comforts me, then, finding no resistance, tenderly takes me in his arms, gently holding me while I sob on his shoulder, deep, racking sobs, letting it all out, my need for solace, for simple human comfort at that point greater than my need to punish him.

And slowly, slowly, I am warming to his embrace, automatically (or consciously?), doing the little things we do, have learned to do, together, to ease ourselves towards make-up sex (What? you thought from my introduction, that we never fight? Oh. Wrong impression; one of the best things about our relationship is that we get it all out there, and deal with it, fast and loud — with great make-up sex sealing the deal), and then — and this is so hard to explain, writing now, but it really happened; then I’m kissing him; softly at first, then harder, more urgently. He’s wise, letting me drive the pace — letting me be the one to decide how intense it is. Until I stop; pull back abruptly.

Thoughts whirling in my head, anger rising in me but mixed with the need for comfort, so that I stay in his arms even as I lean backward. Eventually;

“Will … will there be kissing when you’re … when you’re raping me?” I almost snarl.

He is steady, calm — luckily for him. My sadness is balanced on a knife edge against an equal force of rage; I’d quite enjoy ripping his lip open with my teeth the way I feel.

“I … I guess not. Not … not with me, anyway. But I guess … that … some of the other guys will want to … to make you kiss them — like a … like a lover. To … to humiliate you … dominate you … make it — clear — that you have been … been … subjugated. Turned into a … a slut.”

It is surreal to hold him in my arms and hear him say this. Doubly weird because it is clear that it is hard for him to say these things to me — that he’s not saying them for effect, or to frighten me (which it does) — but because he wants to be honest with me.

A long silence. I contemplate pulling away from him, but in the end, I hold him tighter; and then, my voice very soft;

“What … what else will they do to me. Your … your friends. And … and you.”

Silence; then;

“Well. Well … um. slap . slap you around. Rip … rip your clothes off. Or … or cut them off. Burn … ah … burn you with a cigarette — just a few times — to … to show you that … that there will be no mercy.”

He falls silent. I feel the tears run softly on my cheeks, but I don’t sob. They stop after a while. I hear my voice, quite matter-of-fact, calm, although very, very small;

“What … else?”

He clears his throat; “Use … use all — all your … holes — holes, we’ll call them. That’s what you’ll be — a … a pretty assembly of holes for fucking. Make you swallow cum. Two or … two or maybe three at a time. Bite your tits. Choke you. Put a ring gag in your mouth and fuck your throat. Whip you all over — on your breasts, between your legs — everywhere — make you scream and beg. Take pictures of you. Videos. Piss on you, make you drink it. Tie you up. Make you crawl. Use a vibrator on you so you come in front of us all, even if you don’t want to. Have you call yourself dirty names, beg them to fuck you. Lick their boots, lick their assholes. Dance for them — strip, lapdances… What?”

I was laughing, giggling almost. Insane.

“Just thinking, you’re all going to have to be very busy boys if you’re going to fit all that into a weekend!”

And I was off, hysterical. He held me, gently, until it had passed. This time, he didn’t laugh. Bloody good job. I could feel his hard-on and I think I would have torn his dick out by the roots if he had.

The laughter quickly turned to tears and great, racking sobs, and then as I calmed, I made myself stop, extracted myself from his arms — he didn’t try to restrain me — and walked to the bedroom door.

“Just in case you’re getting your hopes up, lover boy. The answer is still going to be no. Of course. Now and forever.”

And I went to bed and, exhausted, slept like a baby. He was gone again in the morning, but he had left me coffee and croissants, and I went to work, feeling empty, hollow, but calm enough to act as if I was ok, did a day’s work on autopilot, had lunch with Maddy, stonewalled her, promising her answers next week, trying not to let her see how badly upset I was. She was great about it, though I could see she was really concerned — and really curious, too.

A normal day — except for the seething jumble of questions and arguments following one another endlessly through my brain. Primary among which was, what exactly had been going on last night? What on earth had I been doing, cuddling him, laughing with him — over an atrocity list that he wanted me to offer myself up for? How fucked up was that?

It was abundantly clear that he was a fuck-up, however well it had been concealed to date, but that was no reason I should let myself get fucked up too!

But he was still my Justin, my beautiful Justin! His arms had felt so good last night, after two days of hostility, it was the only place I had wanted to be — even after what he had done.

I went home. To find a DVD and a bottle of wine, flowers, chocolates, a note telling me a chinese would be delivered at 8. He wouldn’t be home until the next evening. I threw the flowers in the bin, opened the wine and drank two glasses in rapid succession, staring at the DVD. A plain, shiny disk — no label or any other clue as to contents. If there had been it would have ended up in the bin as well.

My indignation suddenly dissolved, and I got the flowers out of the bin — it wasn’t them that wanted to rape me, after all.

I bathed, then put on a fluffy robe, opened the wine, put on the DVD, holding the remote as if it was a weapon.

A pretty face. A woman a little older than me, but still young; nervous. A head shot.

“Hi, I’m Julie. I … I’m making this video for my husband. I don’t really understand why I agreed to this, but … I have. And so … here I am. In the next few days I’m going to be … um … raped and … and … violated by some men. I don’t know who, or how many, or exactly when. I do know that they will … hurt me and … treat me … badly — humiliate me. I hope you enjoy this, Larry, because I certainly won’t. But then I guess that’s the intention. God this is so fucked-up. I am so fucked up. Thanks for that, Larry. Really.“

At this point of heavy irony I turned it off, jumped up and strode around the room, cursing Justin, cursing all men, cursing my life, until I collapsed in tears, shoulders shaking.

I couldn’t believe it. This was real? Another girl, perhaps more than one, had done this before — been through what I’m going through. And said yes? I felt like Alice down the rabbit hole. What had happened to my life in a few days, that I was sitting at home alone watching true-life rape videos?

When at last I felt a little more in control I stared at the wall for the longest time, then, unable to think of anything else to do, numbly pressed the remote, turned to face the screen, hunched into a ball on the floor.

Looking back, I think that was the turning point — the point where, deep in the recesses of my mind, I somehow accepted that I was going to go along with this madness — was going to allow all these awful things to happen to me. At that moment, though, I had no such thoughts, and would have argued like crazy with anyone who said as much. I was just going to watch the fucking film, see just how depraved the bastard really was. But really — why did I need to watch it?

She was still facing camera;

“This part is supposed to be some nice holiday, in this lovely place … but of course, I can’t stop thinking about … when it happens. What it will be like. What … what they’ll do to me. Of course that’s part of it for you isn’t it? Knowing that I have some idea what will be happening, but not really what it will be, or exactly when they’ll come. So I can fester and worry about it. Nice.“

“Oh, and another thing; if you’re watching this, and you’re not Larry, it means that he’s done what he said he never would, and let other people see this. No real surprise to me. I just hope he gives me some of the money.“

“My life is fucked, anyway — this is messing with my head already. Christ knows what it will do to me.“

“OK, so. Anyway. This … this is where I am. The next thing, apparently, is for me to show myself off — give a sort of ‘before’ picture so that the ‘after’ picture will be more interesting; contrast, I suppose. I don’t have to do this, of course — don’t have to do anything — I could still clear off if I want to — go straight to the cops, or to my mum’s…“

Long pause; the woman looks down for ages, then up at the camera again, intense, searching for answers, as if her man was really inside it. But of course she is the only one there, and in the end, the answer registers in her eyes, and a little wave of animation runs through her, and for the first time on the film she presents herself as a woman, with some consciousness of her own ability to project herself as attractive — as sexual.

She smiles, a brave and sad smile, that for an instant makes her radiantly beautiful;

“So … here goes.“

And she starts a music player and steps back from the camera. She is wearing a simple, pretty A-line summer dress, short, with quite high heels, noticeable make-up; she is presenting herself carefully — wanting to be, to feel attractive.

The dancing is shy at first, tiny, introverted movements. But she is really very pretty, with a good body too; skinnier than me, with small tits, but really quite lovely. After a while, she is dancing more smoothly, trying to lose herself in the rhythm, you can see, and she’s not a bad dancer either — knows her body and what to do with it.

I want to turn it off but I have to see.

She begins to strip. You can see she isn’t practiced — has maybe never done it before; but she is trying, and manages to be somehow elegant. You can see that she is sad, but also that she is determined to be sexy. It makes me cry, hugging myself.

She removes her brassiere at last, stops dancing, then, very self conscious, blushing, lifts her arms to behind her head, lifting her lovely firm breasts in a pose that is designed to be enjoyed by men. Her eyes are frightened now, but she is handling herself well, holding it together.

In stockings, panties and heels only, she perches herself on the low table in front of her; her chin droops, momentarily, but he has herself in hand again very quickly, and smiles that lovely sad smile again, poses carefully, opening her thighs slowly, but very wide. A long pause, then;

“This…“…she looks down …”This … body … is all I really have in this world, when it comes down to it, I suppose. And … and now I’m … giving it to you … knowing, knowing that you’re going to … to abuse it.“

The smile again, sadder now;

“I only hope this is enough, Larry. I … I suppose I must love you. I … don’t know whether I will in a few days.“

A different smile now, a little angry, challenging;

“Have fun, you bastard. Have fun, watching your own wife get raped.“

An abrupt cut to a black screen.

So, her husband isn’t even going to be there to make sure it doesn’t get out of hand. Maybe the guys will be strangers to her. She doesn’t seem to know.

I’m still hunched on the floor, the remote is still in my hands, but if you had tried to get me to give it to you, to turn it off, I would have wrestled with you. I need to see the rest with an intensity that is like hatred.

It comes back to life with a completely different picture, fuzzy, shaky, mostly leaves, out-of-focus. It takes a little while to realise that this is being shot by whoever is going to attack her, from some hidden position in the bushes. It’s a holiday cottage, in a wild, hilly country. A valley. Green, beautiful. The white blur must be her, at the window, looking out; wondering whether it will happen now, later, today, tomorrow. I realise I am biting my lip, hard. I’m not hunched any more, but kneeling upright, tense, quivering. That’s just how it is.

A jumble of short cuts now, obviously taken with hand-held machines, phones, a variety, day and night, as they watch her. It’s like one of those horror films which pretend to be home-made video, only it’s more gripping than any of them, because you know it is real, that the men taking the film are really intending to brutally assault the lovely young woman who they are stalking, that the young woman knows that they are stalking her, what they are planning, but knows not when, or exactly what they will do to her.

And yet, from the odd shot they get from close up, when she is outside — reading a book by the pool, tanning herself — it is clear that she is wanting to look her best. She dresses carefully, more carefully than you would expect for a solo holiday in the woods — no sweatpants, no flip-flops. Also, she dresses and undresses without closing the curtains, standing in front of the windows. A couple of times, they catch her almost naked. You can see that she is moving for an audience, even though she can’t know they are there at any time. It took me a while to figure out why, until I realised that she must have decided she wanted to do it well — that if she was going to do this thing, she was going to be absolutely the most sexy thing she was capable of being. She didn’t want to appear ugly on film — or to the men who were going to abuse her. The strain must be enormous. What must that feel like? My chest heaves with emotion, my heart pounds.

And then, inevitably, there comes a shot where they are running towards the house. It seems to be morning, and they’ve timed it well, catching her in an awkward position, vulnerable, as she manoeuvres some sort of sun awning, reaching up, not wanting to let go of it even as she shrieks in shock and fright as they come at her, in case it falls.

Of course, they don’t care, and at the last moment she turns to run, but is caught by a hand in her long hair, pulled brutally backwards and thrown to the ground, screaming in real terror.

A vicious kick, and a shouted ‘shut your mouth, cunt!” make me jump. Oh Jesus they are really doing it — it’s real. The poor woman is being kicked, shrieking, surrounded by figures in identical black jeans, an assortment of white tops and grey balaclavas. Two of them have her heels and are holding them up and apart. She’s face down. Another guy has her wrists pinioned behind her back at a painful looking angle. She is begging them now, in a low voice, telling them she’s changed her mind, that they have to stop, that this is rape. They laugh, and kick her again. She is silent now, sobbing, as they cut away her bra and panties with an evil looking knife. One of them stuffs the panties into her mouth, ties the brassiere around her head to hold it in.

There’s no finesse, one of the guys steps in between her thighs and forces himself into her, thrusting away like a jackhammer, to her muffled screams. As soon as he’s done, another one steps up. He grunts at the two holding her legs, and she is flipped over so he can see her face as he fucks her.

The loosely tied brassiere has come off, she spits the panties out, but she has obviously realised that shouting and screaming will be met with either kicks or gagging, She tries a name, voice weak and shaking, wondering if it’s someone she knows. Much laughter; she moans dreadfully as he plows into her, telling her how hot she is, how tight her pussy is, what a slut she is, what a whore. I still can’t tell if there are only six of them, or more.

The last doubts in my mind as to whether the DVD is a fake, acted, evaporates in the face of this appallingly harsh scene, the terrible broken moans coming from her. My breathing is coming short, hard and fast, and I’m actually up on my knees, transfixed by the rawness of it, heart jack-hammering.

The guy doing her finishes with a strangled yell and steps back, grunting. There is general laughter and hollering, high-fives, and then the guy who has her hands says;

“Drop her.”; the woman simply lies, semi-curled, on the floor, moaning to herself.

“Okay, anyone else who can’t wait? Yeah, I know, I’ve got a steel pole myself, but I wanna hurt her and have her beg me for it. Okay, so a quick reminder of the rules, here. I don’t want anyone to get out of line, guys; remember — keep everything peachy.”
“So OK; anything goes — anything at all, apart from these rules. OK, I know you’ve heard them all before but it’s easy to go too far. I wanna cut the bitch myself, but it’s out — this time, anyway.”
“So, number one — nothing that would require medical attention. She’s a wife, and we return her to her husband in working order, ok? Right; number two, her ass is off-limits. The way it is. Deal with it. Rules of the game. Number three; he likes her hair — no cutting or shaving it. Number four — no facial injuries — yeah, I’m looking at you Mr Red — no black eyes or broken noses, capish? Number five; every couple hours we have to calm her and get her to clean herself up a little, put her on camera and get her to repeat her consent. This and the face coverings are FOR YOUR PROTECTION — understand? This is a fully consensual simulated rape experience, but if she decides next week she can’t live with herself and goes to the cops, we first of all none of us want to be easily identifiable, and second we need evidence on film. Number 6 — he don’t want her cut or burnt; no knives, razors, fags, matches, nothing like that. That it? Oh yeah, another one; what’s that? seven? OK, number 7 — no animals — yeah I know you’re not a pervert, Mr Green, else why would you be here?“

Laughter;

“Ok. speech over. Time for a consent.“

All through the speech, which had me riveted in horror, evaporating any last doubts about how real this was, the camera has been on the girl, who has slowly worked herself up into a sitting position. Her mascara is smeared and running, but she has stopped crying. Her breasts are half exposed where the dress has been ripped , but she makes no move to cover herself, nor to re-arrange the skirts, which are rucked up high on one thigh, although her sex is not on show. She has herself under control, and is obviously doing her best to look calm, although she cannot hide the fear in her eyes. There is no trace of anger or defiance, only sadness. She looks so vulnerable and at the same time intensely beautiful — the sexiest image I have ever seen; I find myself thinking — what guy wouldn’t want to fuck her?

Now, the camera closes in a little, the guy is speaking to her;

“So, Julie, do you acknowledge that you are here of your own free will, and consent to being used and abused in line with the rules I just went through. That you’re here for a consensual rape-experience?“

She looks up at him; a long, wondering look; her chest heaves — she is clearly experiencing a strong emotion — but it is the way that her breasts move that attracts the attention… Her nipples are hard, I realise.

“Look at the camera, Julie.“

And, slowly, she complies. She works her mouth a few times, before she speaks. Her voice is small, soft, higher-pitched than before, throaty, but she sounds clear and purposeful as she says;

“I … I understand and … and I … consent.“

Tears spill from her eyes at this last, but there is no time to watch them, as a man’s legs invade the picture frame, his hand in her hair, pulling her to him;

“Suck this then, you little fucking whore.”; the viewfinder full of his thrusting, fat jean-clad buttocks ends the clip.

I watched the rest with the same avid attention, but looking back, most of it blurs into one long round of out-of-focus fucking and sucking — they don’t really seem to take much care about the filming; nevertheless, certain scenes burned themselves into my memory; the first proper beating, where they have her stripped and tied by the hands to a hook above a doorway, using a belt on her arse, back and thighs. It seems to go on forever, long after she starts begging them to fuck her, starts offering herself, trying to tell them how good she’ll be, so that when they finally let her down and have her on her knees, her pleas are delivered with an intensity that is astonishing and obviously deeply meant, even though her voice is weak.

Her astonishment at being left on the floor in the hallway at some small hour of the night, her feet spread, tied to the newels on either side of the stair, the light turned off, only the camera light illuminating her as the guy filming moves up the stairs, leaving her naked, beaten, sticky with cum, wrists bound, with the promise that if she makes any noise she will be whipped again, first thing in the morning. Her despairing, broken sobbing in the dark, trying to silence herself.

Her utter horror and despair at being pissed on, and her distraught, haunted eyes afterwards, as she huddles, naked but for stockings and ankle-strapped heels, on the lawn.

The look in her eyes each time she repeats her consent, her acceptance.

The first time (on film, anyway), that she voluntarily offers her body — it seems to be the second day, in the evening. They have let her put on a little party dress and high heels, do her make-up and hair, and they offer her a choice; she can be thrashed and tied up over a wooden saw-horse they have brought in from the shed, or she can go round the room according to a cut of the cards, offering herself prettily to whoever is next. Any guy that is not satisfied can decide to tie her up and its back to the first option. She cries a few tears, but nods her understanding and acceptance. They have her dance for them to prove that she can control herself. Then they cut the cards, and biting her lip and pulling up her skirt, she begs to ride the first guys cock, facing the room as he has her move for him, tears slowly rolling down her face, breasts moving with every thrust. Later, they beat her over the horse anyway, then use her two at a time, one at each end.

The first time she comes on camera, lying back on the coffee table, one of the guys licking her pussy, a vibe on her clit, her thighs held apart, hands tied. Her hips jerk so hard that she is up in the air, spasming, shrieking her helpless shame and pleasure.

The beauty — somehow it is intensely, poignantly beautiful — of the way she makes and serves them a late breakfast on the second morning — the last day, dressed in a fantasy doll french maid outfit, the skirts so short and stiff, jutting out, that her buttocks and sex are hardly hidden, the slightest stretch or bend revealing her nakedness. They have trimmed and shaved her pubes to a tight little vee above her sex; she remains calm and soft in the face of repeated insults, gropings, interruptions when she is forced to her knees, and used at mouth and sex, breasts spilling out of the bodice, tears spilling from her eyes, but without any more complaint than the odd moan or squeal. At the end the ringleader enumerates many failures and sentences her to twenty with the belt across her breasts. Despite the panic in her eyes, she forces herself to kneel prettily and beg him, in a strained voice to reconsider, offers use of her body for future sessions, offers use of her asshole, offers him whatever he wants, if she can be spared a further beating. They have her ‘phone her husband, have her ask him if she may be permitted to offer herself for another weekend, if she may offer her asshole. Her voice, straining to remain calm and sweet, is heart-rending — to me at least — the men just laugh. It appears that he grants his consent, because she is quickly thrown over the table, butter is smeared into her butt crack, and one of the guys is immediately at her.

The last clip is of her, naked but for suspender belt, stockings, corset, collar and heels, on her knees, giving each of them an apparently willing and thorough blow-job as a farewell. Her husband is watching, looking very wound up.

I watch it three times, back-to-back. The chinese arrives in the middle sometime, and I remember looking at the delivery guy really strangely — as if it was possible that he would simply put a hand in my hair, throw me to the floor and rape me.

It’s 2 in the morning when it’s over for the third time. I’m strangely calm. I have cried a little, on and off. And I have watched the scene where she does the breakfast before getting ass-fucked on repeat quite a few times, my hand between my legs. Yes. I have been turned on watching another woman submit to sexual degradation.

I am too up-tight to bring myself off, though, and in the end I fall asleep on the couch, only waking at 4am to drag myself off to the bedroom. I am so fucked up; my dreams are half nightmare, half wet dream. At some point in the early hours I do finally bring myself off, scenes from the video in my head. Afterwards I lie there, staring at the ceiling, hating myself, hating Justin, for what feels like hours, not really thinking, until at last sleep claims me.

I call in sick again the next morning, collapse back in bed and sleep like a dead woman. Wandering around the flat in a daze, early afternoon sometime, the ‘phone rings. it’s Justin. I pick it up. I realise I’ve been hoping he would call; grab the handset;

“Hi!” I say, my voice sounding strangely bright and cheery. There’s a false note there, too. It’s impossible! He’s the only person I can talk to about this and he’s the one who is pushing me into this craziness in the first place.

“Hi babe.”

Silence; I wish I could think of something to say, desperately. I’m not feeling like being mean — I have no plan at all — I just wish I could talk to my lovely boyfriend. Tears are in my eyes.

Eventually; “You … you watched the DVD?”

“Yeah”

“Did. Did you watch all of it?”

“Yes. Yes I did. Three times”

A pause, before he says; “Wow. Intense.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it was.”

More silence, then I hear myself, my voice clear and steady if rather small;

“So … so I noticed that … that her husband put some … restrictions on … on what could be done to her. But … but the other night you said … … … You said some … some things would be done to me that weren’t done to her. I mean … my … my ass. The . the cig … cigarettes…”

Pause;

“Yes. Yes. I … I need to see you taken … taken completely beyond any possible boundaries. Really … really … Sexually broken. Defiled.”

Pause.

“Jesus, Justin…” I’m crying softly now; “Please?”

“Please what?” There is a note of eagerness in his voice. He senses that I’m weakening, I know. it’s pathetically obvious. This is ridiculous. I can hear the words I should say in my mind — Fuck you, Justin. Fuck off. I’m not going through with this stupid week thing. Who the fuck do you think you are? You’ll never see me again. Goodbye. But I don’t say them. Instead I hear myself say;

“Please … can’t you … couldn’t you … make it … a bit easier?” I sound pathetic, vulnerable.

But he’s wise enough to know that I am not won yet, and makes himself speak normally, the eager tone gone;

“There’s … there’s no point. Either it … deals with the situation, or it doesn’t. There can’t be any compromise. If it happens, all those things will be done to you. Without mercy.”

Silence

“So … So what … what restrictions will — would — you put on … on what can be done to me?” I am making a ridiculous attempt to put a bantering tone in my voice, as though we were discussing some silly couple thing.

“Umm. OK. Nothing that would see you hospitalised or … or permanently marked. After the first few, no … no burning except as a last resort — if you’re refusing to co-operate. … er … Aaah. That’s it, I think.”

My belly does a terrible flip. I’m terrified, I realise. Such small restrictions. God, I will be so vulnerable! It hardly occurs to me that I am already thinking as if I have consented.

“What about. I mean. He said no … no … animals.” It was as if I was begging.

“Oh … oh right. Umm. Yeah. …… Yeah, right. I … I forgot that one. No … no animals.”

It was painfully clear that he hadn’t forgotten it at all. That in fact he just didn’t have the strength to insist on that being accepted too. That in fact, he would have liked to give them the option of putting me to a … to a dog, or whatever. My lovely Justin had considered letting strangers put me to be fucked by a dog — or perhaps something worse… I was shaking. On the one hand, I thought — he isn’t as tough as he makes out — on the other hand, I wasn’t going to argue.

“Oh. OK. That. that’s something … I … I guess.” I giggled, near hysteria, ridiculous, shaming myself, the tears still trickling silently down my cheeks. But at the same time I was uneasily aware that I was breathing a little hard, that my nipples were stiffening and my pussy tingling, that I was, slowly but undeniably, flexing my hips, biting my lip. I closed my eyes. This could not be turning me on! But, somehow, it was.

The silence was very long, but I had no doubts about him being there, and somehow it wasn’t at all awkward. We were just getting used to a new reality.

At last; “Umm … Listen”

“Yeah” my voice was soft and somehow overflowing with love, even if it was equally sad. I wasn’t angry with him any more. This was where we were. I hadn’t left him yet. If I was going to stay, then this was my reality. That I was going to say yes, that I was going to let a number of unknown men do terrible, degrading things to me, so that my boyfriend and possible fiancee could see me, in his own words, defiled, sexually broken. And if I was going to leave, there would be precious few more conversations like this with him.

“I’ve been thinking, and … and I definitely want you to talk it through with Maddy. It’s impossible for you — having me as the only person you can talk to. I … I’m so-o biased.”

And we were laughing together again. Laughing in the insane ward, but laughing.

“I’m serious. Invite Maddy over. Show her the DVD. Talk to her. Tell her anything — everything. She can call me if she wants, but I think she shouldn’t — she needs to hear you, and only you. Your view, your feelings.”

Silence.

“OK. OK, I’ll call her, get her to come over.”

“Good girl. I’ll stay over at Freddies again tonight, leave you some space.”

Silence

“Umm, just so you know, he’s not in on it. And … and …”

“Yes.” again, my voice is unbelievably tender, encouraging him, telling him at a deep level that everything will be ok. Why I do this, I do not know, but I do it completely intentionally.

“I’m … sorry, Mia. So sorry. This is … this is awful for you.”

“Thank … thank you, Justin. It IS … terrible. Really, really hard. ” I am crying again.

Long, long pause, then I say;

“Do … do I have to?”; my voice is tiny, but still soft;

A beat, then his voice, carefully controlled — again, its obvious that he is finding it very hard to say the words, that he is having to force himself;

“No. No, of course you don’t have to. You should say no. You should definitely say no. But. But I … I do want you to say yes. And … and if you do I will make sure that … that they do these things to you. Hard, cruel; heartless. That’s how they’ll be with your lovely soft body. And you will suffer, and you will break, and cry and beg, and they will abuse you anyway. Use you like a slut, like … like a fuckydoll. Like a cheap street whore.”

Silence — again, not stressful in the least — almost a magical moment between us, insane as THAT sounds. I’m conscious of a weird feeling of gratitude that he can say such dreadful things to me — that he can be so honest. Crazy.

“Which is why … why you should say no, babe. Just … Just say no!” He mimics a scary government advert against hard drugs, and laughs in a forced way. I join in, equally false.

“O … OK. Speak to you tomorrow.”

And he rings off.

Scared to be alone with my thoughts I ring Maddy immediately, and beg her to skive off work early, come and see me — promise to tell her everything.

“Oh, and Maddy?”

“Yeah?”

“Bring some Vodka?”

“Wow — sounds serious! Sure thing babe.”

And then I bury my busy brain in tidying up the grungy mess I have allowed the flat to become over the last few days — take-away debris, wine bottles, soggy towels in a heap, sink full of dishes.

It’s starting to be impossible not to think about that last conversation with Justin, though — the weird, intense tenderness, the complete absence of my former anger with him, the creeping acceptance that something terrible was going to happen, and that I was going to let it happen — all that stuff. Thank god for Maddy at the door. She’s going to be so angry, she’ll shock me out of this stupid, passive mood that seems to be leading me inexorably into madness.

It’s actually really hard to tell her — not surprising really — but it does surprise me — I’ve spent days thinking about nothing else, stuck within the claustrophobic bubble of the flat and the increasingly bizarre conversations with J, so it comes as a shock to consider what it’s going to be like to break it to someone to whom it will come across like surreal and possibly criminal madness. I find myself thinking how hard it must have been for J to tell me, that night. This is too weird — sympathy for him!

After a couple of drinks she gets it out of me; I am blushing, but I straighten up;

“OK, you … you have to let me just say it, because you … you won’t believe it. He Last week, he just came out and told me what he wanted for his birthday.”

I couldn’t continue, but Maddy thought I had finished.

“Excuse me? That’s what he did that has got you so worked up? The scumbag — how dare he demand a birthday present? Especially after all he got you this year was … what was it? Oh yes; being a real-life fantasy princess for a whole damn week!”

I almost cried at that point, and Maddy backed off;

“Oh my god, I’m sorry babe? Jesus! Pretty bad, hmm? I won’t say another word until you say I can — promise!”

I realise that I’m not going to be able to just say it, so I tell her to watch the screen, set the DVD running.

She cottons on really fast, grabbing the remote from me halfway through the woman’s intro piece, pausing the disc and staring at me with wide, shocked eyes;

“He … he’s never? NO! You!? He wants to do … do that — to you?”

I’m crying like a broken thing now, all my tension working its way out of me as I nod slowly at her, tears flowing down my cheeks, my lips quivering, holding back the sobs, feeling myself go all trembly.

There is a long silence, she’s looking at me intently, and I’m unable to meet her gaze, keep on looking at her knees, then gathering the strength to look up again for a few seconds. At last, she says;

“So he … he told you this, this fucking madness when? I mean; I mean it was days ago, wasn’t it? That day you were off sick — he told you the night before, didn’t he?”

I nodded, the tears slacking off, getting myself back under control.

Now it was Maddy’s turn to seem embarrassed, to look at the floor. Eventually, she gathered strength, and looked at me, almost staring into my eyes as she said;

“Mia, that was four days ago. What the fuck is going on? Why haven’t you left him, the bastard?”

Of course, I had no answer for this — I had asked myself the same question so many times, and been unable to answer it. This time was no different, except that she didn’t let me off the hook — demanded an answer, demeanded that I say something that I meant. Only after a long, uncomfortable, desperate time under the intensity of Maddy’s stare was I forced to confront myself, until I realised what the answer must be — the truth I had been hiding from; I saw then, desperation mounting in me, that Maddy had realised it too. I went red, dropped my gaze, unable to meet her eyes, shaking my head ineffectually, trying to deny it. To no avail; it was Maddy who actually said it;

“Jesus christ … you … you’re going to say yes! My God, Mia!! Is that for real? Are you fucking crazy?”

I couldn’t speak, couldn’t look up, for such a long time. She came over, suddenly, and held me, and I clung to her. She let me sob. I kept trying to pull myself together, to say to her ‘No!’ — no of course I wasn’t going to say yes, that I wasn’t going to let myself be depraved by Justin’s evil ‘friends’. But I never actually managed it, not even when the sobbing had died away.

I never said ‘yes’, either, but by the time I had calmed down, and wiped my nose and eyes with enough tissues, it was too late. Somehow it was clear, between the two of us, that Maddy was right. I was going to say yes. I expected her to leave, or to start arguing, or something. Anything, in fact, but what she did do;

“Well, I suppose I’m going to need to watch this through then, see what is to be expected.”

She really is an incredible person. Tough-minded beyond belief. I was so, so grateful for her understanding — for her willingness to see what was real for me. To think that she was prepared to support me with this was an amazing relief. At the same time, thinking back, I can’t help wondering how it might have gone if she had argued with me — would she have convinced me to leave Justin? Seeing her now with that pretty girl she and Justin have their hooks into, I wonder if she would have simply taken me for herself. I’ll never know.

Read the next part of Capitulation