Understanding Ownership
“But ..but I don’t understand… You .. I .. we .. I mean .. it’s - it’s all that matters to me, now. Being .. being with you .. “
“Being mine. Belonging to me.”
“I .. I .. yes.”
Her eyes drop, her voice is breath-soft, but desperately sincere;
“Yes. Yes. Belonging to you. And .. and you - you want me? Want me to .. to .. Want to .. to own .. me? Don’t you?”
“Indeed I do, pretty, indeed I do want you. Who could resist, seeing you like this? You’re utterly gorgeous, utterly desirable. Of course I want you to belong to me. Want to own you. Possess you.”
She forces a tiny little laugh, but it comes out as a breathy, soft expression of arousal. For indeed hearing him talk about her like this has a powerful erotic effect on her, and what she wants to do, right now, is the thing which most reliably results in him fucking her in this new, aggressive, greedy way that drives her to delirium - which is to kneel down, face on the floor, ass high in the air, arms splayed, palms up, thighs widely parted.
But she makes herself move the conversation forward. Something tells her that this is her last chance to get this clear - to make her limits clear.
“You .. you can’t know how - how totally it affects me - to hear you say that. .. everything .. everything ..”
She’s in danger, again, of going to her knees, and he can see it, grinning at her;
“I thought you had something you needed to say, little wanton.”
“Yes .. yes I do. And .. and it’s like this; I .. I am so .. grateful - I am, I’m grateful that you - that you want to .. own me. Grateful and happy. but .. but that can’t .. really, can’t ever - mean .. sharing me .. Not any more .. never. Never again. I .. I just .. I can’t face it again.”
She had rehearsed this little speech, but it now sounds desperately weak, tentative - her voice had gone into that silly upward note at the end, as if it was a question, when it was intended to be the last word on the subject.
Clear, Finished. Sorted. No more getting fucked by wrinkly old men she’s never met before; her heart skitters weirdly at the memory, and a quiver visibly runs through her, setting her breasts softly moving.
There’s a silence; his face is calm, and he’s smiling just as before, but she knows there’s something wrong. Her heart beats faster - he hasn’t even reacted - let alone said anything! She flushes, feels tears gathering. Her awareness of her own weakness grows by the hour, it seems, these days, and she tries - determined - to control her jaw, set her lips in a firm line; only it turns out that her body wants to pant a little, and her lips are parted again, her tongue tip flicking out nervously.
She can’t bear the silence, but at last, he moves.
To take off his shoe - an immaculate hand-made leather loafer (she does love his clothes). He holds it up.
“Do I own this shoe?”
She’s off balance; “What?”; then, ashamed at her own submissiveness, but unable to muster the least pushback, she drops her head;
“Sorry.” He never repeats himself (Pay attention; you know what I’ve said);
“Yes. Yes. You own the shoe.”
“Good girl! And I own you, too?”
“Yes. Yes, you own me, too.”
Her heart is banging loudly in her ears now, her chest heaving; she’s biting her lip. He can’t be .. can’t ..
But he is; “Jenkins!”, he calls, and the tall, bony butler/chauffeur appears, forcing her once again to resist her deep need to cover herself up. The man makes no secret of the fact that he is appraising her breasts, her legs, her sex.
R notices, too;
“Looking rather good this morning, isn’t she J?”
“Yes, Sir, Indeed she is Sir.”
“Glad you approve. Now, you take the same size shoes as me, I believe?”
“Indeed, Sir. I’ve benefitted from several gifts in that line from you, Sir.”
“Good, well here’s another pair, on loan. I want you to wear them for a week or so, then I’ll have them back. OK with you?”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you Sir. “
“That’ll be all. Oh, and bring me another pair, will you - the black ones?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Actually, Jenkins, on second thoughts, when you’ve done with them, why don’t you put them on eBay for me. See what we can get for them.”
“Yes Sir, of course, Sir.”
She is trembling, tears tracking down her face. He sits in silence for a little while, then;
“Sit a little straighter, will you, pretty? Open your pussy more. I don’t want to have to remind you again that you are to advertise the availablity of your sex more obviously.”
She complies without hesitation, deeply eager to please, despite the shock and despair at the ease, the finality, with which he has demolished her iron determination to limit the implications of this ‘ownership’.
“Good girl.”
Something inside her breaks, for good. Each time this happens, she is sure it is the end, the final barrier. But it seems there is no end, no bottom. Only this endless, desperate journey of need and shame; yearning and desire driving her to offer herself to him ever more completely, humiliation and degradation the toll she pays; a toll that fatally only feeds more yearning, more desire.
She sinks to her knees, face down, thighs splayed, shows him how her hips surge toward him, feeling her sex lips spread by the movement, engulfed by gratitude and the deliciousness of her sweet subjugation to his cool, cruel manipulations.
“Please .. please, Sir..”
En route to Breaking Point
He’d explained to her that being roughly used in public places - stripped of her clothing, forced against hard corners, used on rough surfaces, cold, wet and dirty - that this would have an enormous psychological impact - would be something which would move her rapidly in the direction of what he called ‘your breaking point’.
She had believed him, of course. He always told her the truth - was unflinchingly open about what he was, what he wanted to force her to be.
That was the weird part about it - he had told her, that very first night, that he was a greedy, cruel sociopath, with an instrumentalist view of others, and that his sexual requirements of women were outside anything that might be deemed socially acceptable. He had told her! And instead of running a mile, her knees had buckled, and she had cried - soft, soft tears; unable to speak, until he had grasped a handful of her hair and pulled her head around to look deeply into her eyes, at which point all she had found that she wanted to say, in the softest, most sexy voice she had ever heard from her own throat, was; “What .. what are you going to do with me?”
But believing and experiencing were two different things, and the aftermath of this first public violation (the sex was exceptionally rough and abusive, and he was greedier than ever - utterly careless of her own pleasure or wellbeing) was deep, intense and more destructive than she could have imagined.
For days afterward, she wept bitterly, sometimes hysterically, for hours at a time, showering, tenderly caressing herself - soothing the many small welts and abrasions, the major hurts - the tear at her rear passage, the wrenched shoulder - but also looking at herself in the mirror; her breasts, her sex, her belly, her mouth, her thighs - through new eyes. Through his eyes (the mirror strengthened this otherness) - understanding these precious, soft and intimate parts of her body as having been transformed, somehow, into more-or-less satisfying parts of a sex dolly - a living, breathing, suffering, moaning sex dolly. A sex dolly that had been her. A sex dolly that she was becoming.
There was not a iota of anger, though, nor the slightest thought of escape; just a sense of soft pity for what it is that she has lost.
Even at its worst, there is a cool voice in her head which accepts this as a necessary part of the process. His process. That he knows what he is doing to her; that he understands what it is doing to her; that this is what he wants her to experience. That she has already decided that she wants to become what he needs her to become.
If only it wasn’t so sad..
But once the worst of the anguish had passed, she observed in herself an increasing recognition that those parts of her which advertised her as a sex dolly, which were useful to him in this way, were what she wanted to think about most - how to present them, how to beautify them, how to open them to him, how best to serve him with them.
And finding herself wanting, she made efforts to improve - depilations, tweaking, shavings, applications of lotions and the like took more and more time each day; she booked additional exercise classes, simplified and improved her diet, walked and moved in front of the mirror, practising stripping, lifting her skirt, lifting and offering her breasts, spreading her legs….
And when next he knocked at her door, without prior notice, as usual, she was pathetically grateful to find in herself nothing but intense joy and eagerness to please.
Which was just as well, because he had brought a Russian business partner along, who had his own demanding and degrading requirements of her soft and carefully presented body.
Serving this ugly, crude stranger in full view of her master was impossibly humiliating, but even in the midst of it, crying softly, she was aware that she was better able to manage herself - keep her face pretty, open her thighs, accept biting teeth, keep her hands locked behind her in the face of overwhelming desire to protect her poor breasts - than she would have been before the factory alley episode.
She wondered how many more such public violations it might take to bring her to her ‘breaking point’…
Learning Silence
Not being permitted to speak (well, nothing beyond ‘Yes, Sir’, ‘Thank you, Sir’ and ‘Please, Sir’ - she has already been trained never to use the word ‘No’) was having a deeper and deeper impact with each passing day.
“We’ll spend a week on the island.” he had said; “Full service-girl conditions will apply. You’ll be kept naked apart from any adornments I might fancy, collared of course. You’ll eat and drink from my fingers only. Oh, and you won’t speak. We’ve had some interesting conversations over the past year, but I’m getting beyond that with you; for that week at least, you’ll just be fuckholes, tits and ass, and pretty eagerness to please at the few simple things which will be permitted. If it goes well, and I’m still finding you entertaining after a week, I may decide to prolong the arrangement.”
On the first day, when she had thoughtlessly exclaimed ‘Oh! It’s wonderful!” on seeing the main hall in all its grandeur, he had grasped a thick handful of her hair, thrown her roughly to the floor, then dragged her, forcefully, down the hallway on her hands and knees, scrabbling weakly, uttering desperate little moans and cries, biting her lips to stop herself from babbling apologies and making things worse, tears spurting from her eyes, stockings tearing, her breasts popping out of the low-cut top.
He’d hooked her wrists and collar to an iron loop in the wall and, very business-like, thrashed her with a leather crop which hung, ready, on a hook there - the first time he had used a purpose-made instrument of punishment on her.
Afterwards, as she knelt before him, face stained with tears, breasts and buttocks marked with shockingly red weals, hands locked behind her, thighs apart, eyes down, still choking on his come after a particularly vigorous and unrelenting throat fucking, biting her lips to keep from sobbing, he had explained in a firm but perfectly normal voice;
“I am no longer interested in anything that you might think, pretty. Anything at all. If you hold any interest for me in future, it will because of your mouth, your tits, your cunt, your ass - and how you make these interesting and entertaining for me. Any evidence at all that suggests you have thoughts or feelings beyond soft eagerness to please will be met with harsh punishment. Disproportionately harsh - I’m seeking to make a point, here, and I don’t want you to miss it, or fail to understand the seriousness of it. Do you understand me, pussy?”
It had taken her twenty seconds or more to convince herself that she was safe to say “Yes, Sir”, and even then she had barely managed more than a half whisper.
For a day - two days - after this, not speaking had been like a game. A cruel, mean game, to be sure, but still a game - ‘how long can you last?’. But when on the second day she had dropped a glass of wine she had been delivering him onto the unforgiving stone flags of the corridor, and been unable to contain her distress, crying out; ‘No, no, no!’, several times, he had waited until she finally reappeared with another glass, let her place it on the side table, then taken a thick pinch of her carefully trimmed pubes and yanked sharply, pulling her to her knees, squeaking weakly, concentrating mainly on not using her hands to protect herself, on not closing her thighs.
“Dropping a glass is a failure, pretty - but a perfectly normal failure. Letting me hear your voice, though, is a direct disobedience, about which you have been warned. Go and find Taylor, kneel for him and ask him to take you to the basement, restrain and gag you and give you twenty with the buggy whip on your behind. Tell him I said he could have you until seven tomorrow morning - any way he likes.”
Since then, not speaking has been a continual torment.
Somehow, despite the shocking nature of his demands and abuses, his sexual requirements of her have been something that has never generated anger or defiance - only submissive impulses, surprisingly intense sexual pleasure and shame, plus some tender regrets for her previous self - more than made up for by the inexplicable inner peace that being with him gives her, that she has concluded she is addicted to. Oh, and the spectacular orgasms he brings her to. She is ashamed, often, to admit to herself how greedy she is for these.
But this crude rule, so inflexibly and harshly enforced; this denial of the validity equally of the lightest or most urgent thought or feeling she might have, this is feeding a growing urge to resist, to reject - frankly, to scream.
It increasingly takes all her energy to keep her mouth shut, to say those few permitted words in neutral tones, prevent other words from slipping out.
Her inner peace is dissolving, and now the sexual demands he makes of her are becoming mixed up with her resentment about the enforced silence - to the extent that, last night, when the retired Commodore from the neighbouring island had come for dinner, she had found herself suddenly twisting away at the very moment when, as she knelt, naked, in front of the fireplace, the frankly repellent old man was about to drive his viagra-stiffened cock into her rear passage.
The resistance was futile, of course, and seconds later she was speared and once more submissive, moaning helplessly as he put his foot onto her head and crushed her face into the stone hearth as he rammed himself into her. And later, of course, she was punished for this - not on her buttocks - still too raw from the buggy-whip - but on her breasts instead - the first time anyone but he had whipped her intimate parts, the Commodore laughing as he hurt her in a sneering way which was particularly corrosive, so that, left hanging and spreadeagled in the restraints, she wept more brokenly than ever before, while the two men exchanged yarns and laughed over port and cigars around the fire.
And now, today - the day before the last of the week, she awakes and is conscious of some change; some shift, but is unable to put her finger on just what it is, until, hours later, lifting her silly little skirts in a pretty welcome for the Commodore’s casual gropings, she realises what it is.
She has no desire to speak.
As she interprets his vague hand wave as a desire to have better access, and squats obligingly for him, opening herself, lifting one knee onto the arm of the chair, leaning forwards a little in case he should wish to bite or lick her nipples, she realises that peace has returned.
Her master’s voice comes back to her; “Just be fuckholes, tits and ass, and pretty eagerness“.
A few tears drip from her eyes, but she is smiling, lips open, tongue tip invitingly flickering, as the Commodore looks up;
“Like being a whore, do you, pretty?” he says in his reedy voice, his gnarled fingers working greedily in her wide open, moist sex.
“Yes, Sir, Thank you Sir.”
He feels the deep quivering that passes through her as the truth of this hits home, and interprets it as sexual arousal. He pulls out to grip and twist her proud little clit, using his long, cigar-yellowed thumbnail, pinching as hard as he can. He isn’t playing with her pussy for her enjoyment, he reasons, grinning as her eyes and mouth open wide and her hips buck.
Her little cry of pain is so soft and seductive that he finds himself reaching in his jacket pocket for another little blue pill. This bitch was going to have his dick rubbed raw at this rate. Well, he’d see what he could do to get his own back by biting those lovely titties - so excitingly marked by last night’s flogging.
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