Castle Moments 1 — Three Vignettes

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Incentives

It was remarkable how effective Anne-Marie’s new target scheme was at motivating the girls to invite use.

Such overt (but still submissive) seduction did also seem to encourage more sexual cruelty from the members, so that girls had sometimes to be taken out of circulation for a day or two at a time to recover — but of course it was not always decided to adjust their quota to reflect this; consequently some girls had their original quota to meet, in less time. This was a real win-win — for the members, at least — girls more docile, more nervously submissive, and at the same time more urgently eager to be used.

The impossibility — the utter impossibility that she is going to do this again; offer herself so blatantly, so desperately, so sweetly. And to these men: a party of grizzled, abrupt Afrikaaners, big boned, hard-faced, whipcord strong and relentless.

Nicole has never had to beg, before; in the Club Room, she has always been one of the popular girls, and had always — despite serving with great commitment and pretty submissiveness — always felt, within herself, as if she was a willing participant in even the most debauched and degrading circumstances. She liked sex; further, whether she actually liked it or not, she definitely needed rough sex; she liked powerful men, she liked the exclusive setting, respected Anne-Marie, felt special; even if other women might well judge her a whore — and a depraved one at that — she had never felt dirty inside.

But these quotas, these incentives, this reduction of all her sweetness, her willingness, her acceptance, her openness — all of this, to be reduced to dumb, uncaring, hard-edged numbers; it was cruel — that’s what it was — cruel.

Last night, having had the quota system explained to them, this party had decided to play a trick on Nicole — they had monopolised her for the whole evening, used her and abused her in many ways — all of which she had held herself open for, tried to please them in spite of, thanked them for prettily. But whenever any one of them needed to actually fuck something, he would go and grab another girl — even if it meant borrowing her from another member — so that she ended the night way down on her quota of ejaculations (‘doses’, in the jargon that had inevitably grown up around the system).

And tonight, so far, has been a repeat. The threat of the public whipping imposed, each week, on the girl with the lowest score is urgent and horrible in her mind; she’s never been within a mile of it being her, and now; now, she is so far behind even the least popular girl of last week that it seems inescapable. Every fibre in her rejects the idea that it will be her, this week, who is humiliated like that, in such sterile, unsexy surroundings — in the former piggery at the back of the stable block; stripped, chained naked in the stone-walled pen, cruelly whipped, no witnesses but the staff and the other low scoring girls, nothing sexy or sophisticated about any of it, left out all night, taken off duty to recover the next day, so starting with a handicap for the next week. None of this can happen to her — she won’t permit it!

Of course, she knows.

Knows with bitter certainty that she has nothing to do with anything about it — no power at all — that unless by some miracle each of these men (who have all used other girls at least once already this night) — unless these men decide to overdose on viagra and keep her up all night, that on Monday, in the grey early light, she is going to be the one chained to the whipping post, begging helplessly, abjectly, brokenly — she who will be suffering terrible agonies.

And for the first time, The Castle feels like what it has been, in reality all along — a heartless and savage prison for helpless, foolish young women — a monstrous denial of their dignity. Of Nicole’s dignity (truth be told, she had known all along, too, in the back of her mind, but refused to let herself see it). The Castle, this experience, is not, she finally realises, something that she will laugh about with her girlfriends when she’s a married woman — delighting in shocking them with her wild youth. No. It’s the end. The end of something — for her, and for every other girl who comes through here, she realises.

The realisation comes all too late, of course; there is nothing, literally nothing she can do about it now; she is past all that; lost; gone.

The pitiless, stone-hard truth of it breaks her.

But being broken won’t excuse her from her quota, and so, broken, her world in pieces, she nevertheless goes back into the Club room — smiling, bouncing her tits, licking her lips, wiggling her hips, carefully and intentionally humiliates herself; begging, posing, contorting herself, doing things she has never considered before, rubbing her sex on their boots, telling them how wild she gets when she has three men fucking her at the same time, promising them anything, everything — while they laugh at her, pointing out that they already have licence for anything and everything, since she is a Castle girl, is she not?

And, of course, despite everything, despite her cutely desperate giggling as she had debased herself more and more obviously, literally begging to be fucked in the most abject of ways; despite all this, it is indeed Nicole who is strung up in the piggery, naked, sobbing bitterly but without rancour in the cold east wind; Nicole who is repeatedly whipped with the old bullwhip — an experience beyond anything imaginable, she discovers. Even though they don’t really use any of the long, heavy whip’s awesome destructive potential on pretty, valuable girls, each girl who has felt it knows that it is capable of terrifying damage. Knows that, if some member should decide it would be entertaining, that she could be destroyed this way. Ruined.

Broken Nicole is even more popular than before. Only the older, more experienced members (and Anne-Marie, of course) really understand what has happened with her, but even the most purblind and ignorant of them gets some sense of the softly infinite depth of the commitment with which Nicole now offers herself — of the hopeless, desperate completeness, the eager gratitude with which she serves whoever should choose to take her.

Several weeks of this breaks Nicole absolutely — she becomes a helplessly willing nymphomaniac, breathlessly needy. Her orgasms are clearly the point at which the paradox of her crazy existence forces itself into her consciousness — she becomes almost hysterical each time (and she comes easily, these days, if permitted), floods of tears, abject gratitude, intense sensitivity, terrible vulnerability.

Beaten immediately after this, she can be transported into some trance-like state, hyperventilating, taking the whip as if it is a sacrament, even between her legs. The sight is remarkable, but Anne-Marie has had to limit these sessions to preserve the girl’s usefulness.

—

A Look

The lovely brunette looks over her shoulder at him, lips just parted, a complex mix of vulnerability, fear and promise in her eyes, her shoulders bare over the basque whose lace frills delightfully offer up her proud nipples, the large hoop piercings with their shiny little bells.

He relaxes into the deep leather armchair, smiling at her.

To receive such a look from a beautiful and artfully presented girl whom you have never seen before must always be a thrill, he muses.

But when you know, and the girl knows too, that there are four other girls, equally pretty, equally eager, equally alluringly presented, each uncomfortably aware of the punishment she will suffer should she fail to meet her quota of qualifying usages for the week, all offering themselves to him — a stranger — with what they hope will be the most enticing pose — that all will gladly open themselves for any fancy he might have — from a tender kiss to cruel teases with the lit end of his cigar at their most tender places — this knowledge, he thinks, makes the eye-watering membership fees of the international network called The Castle well worth the cost.

He smiles at the girl, encouraging, until she blushes and, at last, hopeful, begins to stand, then watches her swallow, make herself smile sweetly at him as he beckons, not to her, but to the blonde. He continues to grin at the girl, making his intention to tease her cruelly clear, before he turns to pull the blonde’s head down to his, forcing her to straddle his lap. When she sees he wants her breasts, she leans in, letting their fullness sway toward him, not flinching, just huskily sighing her pain as he bites into their softness, still watching the girl at the bar as his hand grasps the blonde’s moist sex.

Maybe he’ll have both, he thinks, or maybe, tomorrow, he’ll have the brunette delivered to him hooded, so that she will never know he has used her.

In the end, though, he forgets. The blonde — Nicole — is spectacular — almost unhinged in her eagerness to please, working with him to unleash his most aggressive desires, then opening herself completely to him as he satisfies them, taking whatever he chooses to do to her as if it is a gift — and he is entranced with her for a few days, even rebooking his flight to have another day with her. He sees the brunette around, of course, but hardly looks at her; has completely forgotten his little teasing game. There is no reason, no reason at all, why he should remember, of course. That the girl is a Castle Toy means that at some level she has accepted that she is meaningless.

For poor Claudette, though, this moment burns, burns deep, and burns long. It is not that the particular experience is so unusal — not a few members like to play such petty and cruel power games, and she’s had her share of such humiliations — but this one just happens to be the one which breaks her heart.

The next day, at breakfast, when Anne-Marie asks her why she looks so agitated, Claudette goes pink, then breaks out into loud and gusty sobs, which, as is the normal way of things, gets her banished from the table, to kneel in the corridor outside Anne-Marie’s office, skirts parted, thighs spread, face down on the hard stone, her heart full of cold ashes, until eventually, Anne-Marie arrives. Claudette is messy, and sobbing again by then, a footman having been so taken with the pathetic sight she presented that he decided to use her rear — a quick and dirty fuck, just rubbing one out inside her, since he had plenty on his job-list — leaving her with a sticky libation across her naked buttocks, the white contrasting with the still-visible tell-tales of an enthusiastic thrashing endured the night before (of course, staff usage does not count towards quota tallies, although staff opinions do matter for sentiment analysis).

Once Natalie has cleaned her up, Anne-Marie reminds the girl that, since she sobbed without any imposition of cruelty from a superior person, she has committed the crime of allowing her own feelings to be expressed without permission, and must now be forced to cry — to restore the balance of things.

Pale faced, Claudette slowly, but with pretty docility, kneels and, as is expected of her, admits that it is right and proper that she be hurt, that while, of course, Anne-Marie has the right to hurt her without reason at any time, that this time, it is she, Claudette, who is begging to be punished. Then, when Anne-Marie casually indicates the frame, the girl walks to it, hesitant but obedient, and co-operates (hardly knowing how it can be that she is doing so, allowing herself to be made helpless in the face of wicked cruelty) as Natalie — Anne-Marie’s current favourite — first removes Claudette’s dress and folds it neatly, then fixes her wrists and ankles to the frame, pulling straps tight, spreading, opening and immobilising the lovely girl, who is now trembling and shaking, unable to prevent herself from pathetically tugging at the restraints, futile, ridiculous.

“Twenty, I think”, says Anne-Marie, shocking both girls. Unprovoked crying is rarely so severely punished unless it is a girl’s habitual problem, and Claudette rarely cries.

By the time Natalie has finished with the long pony whip, Claudette is, though, crying bitterly enough to satisfy the hardest heart; her shrieks of distress and pain have become increasingly heart-rending, raw with her desperation, the impossibility of having to suffer more strokes wrenching at her mind and her body. A biddable girl, mostly helplessly generous with her soft loveliness, she is not often so harshly chastised. Even that type of man who finds a girl’s beauty an incitement to cruelty rarely finds himself beating Claudette severely — her body moves so enticingly under the lash, her face is so transformed by despair, that lust often overtakes them sooner than they had intended.

Natalie’s own sympathy and shock at the number of strokes has in no wise diminished the weight or brought mercy in the placing of the blows; Natalie is both deeply obedient and uneasily aware of her own developing taste for inflicting cruelty on other girls, a trait which Anne-Marie is carefully encouraging. Poor little Natalie, so horrified and overthrown by being whipped herself, so kind and sympathetic in her basic nature, cannot understand why it excites her so to inflict suffering on her sisters in servitude; how it can be that she finds their cries of agony so affecting, so satisfying. When Anne-Marie asks if she, Natalie, should herself be treated harshly — to atone for her own sadistic pleasure, the girl stares at her mistress, transfixed, shaking; seeing all too clearly the trap into which she has been led. Nevertheless, numb, she agrees; accepts that she must be made to suffer for her own cruelty, for her enjoyment of the suffering of others.

Tasked by Anne-Marie, Natalie now researches exotic and perverse tortures, providing her mistress with a growing list of bizarre and obscure ways in which young women have been mistreated across the centuries, around the world, so that each month, those members who enjoy such things vote on which atrocity they want to see delicate little Natalie subjected to. Natalie is unable to decide whether to accept or abhor the fact that, far from curing her of sadism, the monthly maltreatments are adding to the perverse pleasure she feels at the suffering of such as Claudette.

Mortified, now — consumed by guilt and at the same time sexual heat which she is, of course, not permitted to relieve — Natalie once again helps Claudette make herself presentable for their Mistress, but it is a still trembling, still shocked Claudette, obviously in the grip of intense emotions, who kneels on the hassock before Anne-Marie, her dress opened, her thighs lewdly spread, her pretty breasts on show.

It takes only a few precise, skewering questions, before Anne-Marie has it out of her.

“You’re asking to be put on permanent dungeon duty, rather then serving in the Club-Rooms?”

“Y … yes, Madam. Thank you Madam.”

Claudette has never given any trouble, proved rather easy to train, having been overawed by the smell of power and wealth that characterise the Paris Castle from her first visit.

Within a week of that first encounter — a night that overwhelmed her with new and shocking realities — realities that she could not have imagined without seeing them for herself — within a week she had tremblingly accepted the ‘sponsorship’ offered her by her lover’s father-in-law in return for a year of her young life. Within minutes of that acceptance, she was submitting, without anything other than hopeless and amusing flapping of her arms, to the rather violent buggering the older man inflicted upon her, despite her naive astonishement and fearful outrage — her shocked little moans and spurting tears only inciting him to greater vigour. Without a single word of reassurance, ring-gagged immediately, she was then stripped, cuffed, whipped, vigorously fucked in all holes by several others, strangers to her, then finally leashed and led away — without protest or struggle, despite the depths of fearful anticipation in her lovely eyes.

Until now, despite everything that has been done to her, all of which she has more or less prettily accepted, no matter how debauched — until now she has not, Anne Marie knows, been really deeply affected — her submission and obedience sweet enough, her pain and pleasure real, but her inner self not engaged — left unsullied, untouched; cocooned somehow by her acceptance. Anne-Marie has been waiting for this moment to arrive.

“My dear, you must know that despite this man, this visitor, not selecting you last night, your record, your sentiment response metrics, your quotas, are all satisfactory (no girl ever ranks higher than ‘Satisfactory’) — you are a popular girl with the membership and seen as easy to manage by the staff — a popular fuck for the footmen as well, I believe. Further, I know that your weekly dungeon assignment is something you dread.”

All girls, no matter how special, however much in demand in the club-rooms, must spend at least one night each week in the dungeon level below, naked, chained, subject to the aggressive and depraved uses and abuses which arise from members’ more transgressive desires (these being generally considered too noisy or otherwise disturbing for the Club-room).

Claudette is quivering now, desperately blinking back imminent tears;

“Please … please, Madam. I … I … — … being … I … I can’t bear to be … to be rejected … any more … not … not when I … I have …” — and here she breaks down; “ When I … I offer myself so … so … so … nicely . J-just li-like … like a h-helpless … l-l-little wh-whore …”

Anne-Marie’s fingers reach out to toy, absently, with the silvery little bells that adorn Claudette’s nipples. She thinks for a while. The bells tinkle. Claudette’s breathing is audible, ragged, but it is clear that being touched by Anne-Marie — even in such a manipulative, absent-minded way, is calming her.

Then;

“Very well. You’ll be used in the dungeon three nights a week, and serve in the Club-Room for two nights. But I’m increasing your quota — 10 more ejaculations a week, inside you or onto you, no other girl involved. I want to see you offer yourself more abjectly, more blatantly, to more men; if you’re being considered, you won’t just look willing, you will go to your knees, wriggle your butt, cup your tits, put your tongue out and waggle it around like a desperate street whore. Some display whippings, too — the way you screamed just now was most arousing; I’m sure Natalie would be happy to do you for us with a big ugly strapon while you’re still on the frame — to add a cherry to the cake.”

These destructive and humiliating impositions were only maintained for a couple of weeks, but had a profound effect on Claudette. She became shameless, eager, an avatar of displayed lasciviousness, made still more obvious since spending every alternate night in the dungeon meant that she usually bore visible whip marks. She was often used both heavily and harshly as a result.

Often such a marked increase in general usage would result in a girl needing to be taken out of circulation more often — but in Claudette’s case the change in regime that was imposed upon her also seemed to change her appetite for being abused, the girl becoming more entertainingly responsive to violation as her number of encounters increased. After this point, Anne-Marie never had reasion to take her out of circulation for other than strictly physical damage concerns.

All girls, Anne-Marie has learned over the years, have something like an ‘optimal usage rate’ — a level of usage which keeps them close to the peak of their usefulness to the Castle membership — providing the most entertainment value over time. Further, she has discovered that this differs rather widely from girl to girl (and indeed, for each girl at different times in her ‘career’ — Claudette being a case in point). A girl that is less used than would be optimal for her temperament will either become more resistant — begin to think of herself as having rights over who uses her and when — or, alternately, too desperate — off-puttingly emotional in her neediness.

Over-usage, on the other hand, brings a multitude of risks — not least temporary incapacitation or permanent damage (physical or mental). Of course, such overuse — extreme abuse — is explicitly allowed for — feeling completely free to take a pretty and helpless young woman far beyond her limits, just for fun, is the point of membership, after all.

However, in her role as manager of the Castle’s ‘stable’ as a whole, it is Anne-Marie’s responsibility to ensure that the ability of the Castle, on any given evening, to provide a member with a wide range of entertaining, docile and pretty young women to abuse is maintained — despite the inevitability of occasional satisfying evenings for members resulting in the non-availability of particular girls. It is on the basis of her analysis of this capacity that Anne-Marie has convinced the Grand Table to give her the power to declare girls unfit for duty on the basis of her judgement of ‘optimal usage capacity’ for that particular girl rather than on more directly ‘functional’ criteria as had previously been the case.

Interestingly, Anne-Marie has, on the basis of their understanding of the sophistication of her work, received more than one job offer from Members who are captains of industry of one kind or another, to come and run their corporate HR departments at Board level. She has always politely declined.

When her year was up — the ‘sponsorship’ had specified a year, and she was a free agent, Claudette did not exercise her right to leave — or to collect the significant sum of money that had been deposited in a Swiss account for her.

At the same time, the Grand Table agreed with Anne-Marie that she should not be offered a new contract this was not because of any defect in the girl, but an outcome of one of the occasional ‘gluts’ of new girls — younger, newer, more shocked by what they had given themselves over to — simply; more fun to fuck with.

Unusually, Anne-Marie did not seek another owner for the girl either, but recommended her to one of the communal homes where ex Castle girls sometimes go (see Liana at The Castle, Pt 2), a position which the girl accepted without comment, and where she lived quietly, speaking very little, caring for other women with great tenderness, for a little over three years. Then, one day, without any sign that anything had changed, she rather calmly asked the house mother if she would be so kind as to arrange for her, Claudette, to be returned to The Castle, as Anne-Marie’s possession, without restrictions or time limits — a nameless chattel slave — all her remaining assets to be transferred to the home. Her goodbyes were very affecting; she clearly did not expect to see any of them again.

Anne-Marie, although Claudette’s nominal owner, paid her little attention — pleasurable or painful — and Claudette, in turn, was at the same time a perfectly submissive and satisfying Castle girl, and rather unremarkable. She was sold on within a year, accepting being so casually disposed of without complaint, serving her new owner — a drug-cartel boss — with apparently complete and unquestioning devotion until they both disappeared during some intergang struggle a few years later.

—

Airtight

In her mind, at this moment, although her body is immobilised, she is thrashing, kicking, screaming, wrenching herself about, throwing them off her, forcing the invading cocks out of her body. The unstoppable force of her suddenly unleashed will is cruelly revealed as meaningless, though, against the immovable constraints of the tight bondage — and it breaks: a great and magisterial wave of fierce power smashed to ineffectual spray by an uncaring, disinterested, unchanging rock.

Anna was always the sweet giggly one. Although her persona was so child-like, silly, lightweight, superficial; although her parents were both overprotective and over-supportive, so that she was innocent of experience long after her friends, she always knew, in her inner thoughts, that sex was going to be her thing.

As soon as she could arrange to get away, she had — not going to college or university, but getting a job in the big city near friends who had already escaped, so that she could share a flat with them. And as soon as she was away, she had thrown herself at men of all kinds. She was feverish for sex, overset by sex, enamoured of sex, gloried in sex — and she soon discovered that she liked large, strong, masculine types who could manhandle her nicely and take her forcefully. With these men she became even more intensely her sweet, silly, adoring persona.

At the same time, at work — assistant in a shoe-shop (she adored shoes), she was discovering that she was more than sweet giggly Anna. It appeared that she knew — just knew — all sorts of things about what would make people buy shoes — window displays, which shoes were hot this week, where to put the mirrors, what to say to the rich bitches, what to say to the trophy wives (so brash but so insecure), what to offer the young girls wanting to look tough, what to offer the older ladies wanting to look chic. And, when she was promoted, she realised that she know other things, too; what to do about pricing, how to get delivery men to stack things in the store-room the way she wanted them, how to choose the Saturday girls, and what to say to them when they were caught stealing. She was a store manager within nine months.

Anne-Marie had spotted her like this; intrigued by a display of rather outré studded and padlocked high heels in what had, the last time she looked, been a rather unremarkable shoe store, she had ventured inside, and quickly realised that the young, sparky manager with the perky tits and the ready smile was what made everything tick. Ensuring that Anna served her, she was interested, her antennae alert. But it wasn’t until she saw something happen that she decided to act on her interest. That something was a ‘phone-call. When Anna looked to see who it was calling, she changed in a half second — her cheerful, in-control-but-fun-and-creative-with-it competence disappeared, to be replaced by a sweet and silly simper and a high-pitched coo-ing sound, Anne-Marie didn’t hear the conversation, but saw enough to know just how it went.

Anne-Marie became a regular at the shoe store for the next few weeks, enjoying herself as she got to know the ball of contradictions that was Anna. When she was ready, when she knew enough, she called Cesario, the son of a member of the Venice outpost of The Castle, a giant of a boy, rugby player and latin lover rolled into one, with the morals of a wolf — one of her current favourite procurers.

The Castle was happy to pay men who brought new girls of the right kind; it was considered important to have girls who had arrived by different modes all lumped together (girlfriends cajoled, young whores employed, vulnerable girls tricked, bimbos conned, employees blackmailed, submissives coerced, sex addicts entrapped) — it enhanced the notion in the pretties’ heads that it didn’t matter what sort of woman you were, The Castle knew how to get you, how to trap you, knew how to keep you enthralled, knew how to break you, knew who to sell you to.

Anna fell heavily for Cesario. Within 2 weeks, after a weekend at his father’s palazzo, he had told her he wanted her exclusively — she was to move into an hotel room he would provide, and she said yes at once. Things were going well, until he had told her she should give up work, and he realised he had made a mistake; sweet giggly Anna had disappeared, and a calm, level-headed, confident Anna had spoken from that pretty little face, still smiling, still sweet, but with a very different energy;

“No, sweety. I will not do that. Not for you, not for anyone. Sorry, but I love my job, I’m good at my job, and I am going places with my job. Just you watch.”

And that, it had appeared, was that.

Luckily for Cesario, macho as he was, he had a healthy respect for Anne-Marie, and was not too proud (or sexist) to ask her advice, as some of his older rivals might have been.

She took him for an expensive lunch at Le Bristol, talked to him in excellent Italian, and listened carefully.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, I have the outline of an approach, but I want to sleep on it. Good afternoon, young man, and give my regards to your father, do.”

Cesario smiled a small smile, then, recalling a story of Anne-Marie when she had first worked at The Castle, a story his father told as a conquest of a proud but ultimately humbled young woman. Anne-Marie, of course, had no way of knowing what was in his mind, but nevertheless, she caught Cesario’s eye, and stared into him, her gaze soft; friendly, even, but at the same time almost unbearably intense. She didn’t speak, didn’t move, the expression on her face mild and approving, with the merest hint of an enquiry, but he began to feel an urgent need to shift in his chair. Eventually, he could keep still no longer; tried to make a natural move, to appear relaxed, and failed entirely. He looked down, flushed, then up again, almost pleading.

Anne-Marie stood up, then, still looking at him steadily;

“Just so.” she said; “Perhaps you’d tell Filipo from me that I still have those high-heeled thigh boots he used to like me to crush his balls with, if he’s feeling neglected by that little tramp who replaced the little tramp who replaced your dear mother. Bonsoir.”

Anne-Marie’s plan is simple and cruel. She calls the owner of the chain of shoe-stores, and has Anna fired (the woman is not a member, but even more usefully, an occasional visitor, utterly terrified of exposure; of course, Anne-Marie makes no such threat — and never would. Nevertheless, the woman is eager to do any favour — particularly such a simple one — and one, too, that might offer her the chance to fuck the effervescent little manager of the Rue Goncourt store in the ass with a fat strapon after whipping those cheeky little tits: there is mild regret at losing such a capable manager, but really, there are always more eager manager girls; while on the other hand, rich as she is becoming, there are fewer and fewer willing strapon victims). More, Anne-Marie has the owner start certain rumours which will make it unlikely that the girl will easily find another similar role anytime soon.

Six weeks later, Anna attends a ‘Friday open night’ at The Castle, on Cesario’s arm. She giggles and gawks all night, and without needing too much persuasion, she is encouraged by him to fuck with him on stage, in front of the seventy or so diners and twenty or so Castle girls present. She is shocked and delighted by how much it turns her on.

A month after that, when Cesario has anounced that he is moving to Brazil for a couple of months, and has no further need of her, when her old flatmates decline to have her back unless she is willing to pay the two months rent she still owes, she meets — apparently by accident — the customer she remembers from the shop — and then realises that she is the same woman she had glimpsed that evening at the Castle, so regal, so impressive. Within half an hour, Anna is weeping helplessly, having rehearsed her sad story, confessed her fast approaching destitution, her fear that prostitution may be the only option if she is not to be driven, humiliated, back to her small town, to her parents. Within a week, she is inducted as a new Castle girl, and Cesario gets his payday. He doesn’t need the money, but honestly, he likes earning money that way better than any other…

And for six weeks, bubbly, giggly, sex-mad Anna manages everything — the stripping, the whipping, the violation sex, the roughness, the humiliations, the public fuckings, the unwilling orgasms — manages it all without losing her little smile for long. Not that nothing affects her — of course it does; she is consumed by it, engulfed by it, turned inside-out by the way her deep and natural appetite for sex is turned into an instrument of subjugation and control, terrified by the speed with which it has become her reality that she sees a whip as a sexual object, by her increasing tolerance for being thrashed as a prelude to being fucked, has shocked herself by encouraging men to whip her, knowing that they will fuck her harder if they do.

But nothing has done more than temporarily crack the cover-story that is giggly Anna. Only Anne-Marie knows the real Anna — the one she saw in the shoe store — that she is in there. And it is that girl whom Anne-Marie wants to own, wants to be able to whore out, to see abused. It is that girl whose beautiful eyes she wants to see fill with despair.

It is almost nothing, the clue that Anne-Marie gets — a little flinch, quickly masked, then another, in a slightly different circumstances — but it’s enough. Pretty Anna is terrified, it seems clear, of having more than one cock in her at a time. It is remarkable to Anne-Marie that in six weeks and more, this has not been forced on the girl — but apparently not; perhaps capable, managerial Anna is not as buried as it seems, wonders Anne-Marie.

It matters not, of course, because now Anne-Marie has altered the roster so that Anna will be used in the dungeon every other night for the next few weeks.

When the time comes, Anne-Marie is there. It is the fifth night for Anna of her new, dungeon-centred life, and although there have been some torrid moments, the giggly sweet, fun persona is still front and center. But now, here come the very guys Anne-Marie’s been waiting for — finance types; young, brash, powerfully muscled, greedy, callous, a crew of three. She beckons them over, explains her plan.

And here it is, unfolding just as she had hoped it might — the experience clearly breaking every possible boundary for the girl — a full-spectrum violation of her integrity, a challenge that she cannot meet, cannot overcome, cannot giggle about, cannot manage, cannot mask.

Ten minutes later, the young men are gone, sated, high fiving and laughing together — having forgotten the girl already, heading for the Club-room, beers and shots, via the showers.

But here is Anna, still bound, still shaking, her eyes unfocused, and here is Anne-Marie, stroking, murmuring softly, kissing gently as she slowly, methodically, releases the straps, calming and controlling the girl in equal measure, talking her down, seducing her, owning her.

Anne-Marie orders the the girl showered, douched, her collar and cuffs replaced with especially wide, heavy, hand-tooled leather ones, a tight waspie corset fitted, over-tightened (’until she yells’), before she is delivered to her private rooms. Anna’s hands are locked behind her, and Anne-Marie takes her into her arms, lying back in the bed, and begins to talk to her, quietly.

If you ask Anna, now, which the pivotal moment in her Castle experience was, she will tell you it was when she was bound, ring-gagged, invaded by three cocks for the first time in her life, aggressively and savagely triple-fucked right through a full-on panic attack and out the other side.

But that’s her cover answer — because the real moment belongs only to her and Anne-Marie — the point, during the small hours, when the real Anna was brought, smiling and crying at the same time, to accept that she would never again be a free woman. That this acceptance, paradoxically, made it safe for her to be herself, to retire giggly, silly Anna at last, to accept herself for what she was — allowed her to become a complete person, however harsh the reality would be within which she must exist. A proud, capable, intelligent woman, who had nevertheless lost her freedom, irretrievably, reduced to the status of a helpless, meaningless sex-toy. There were many tears that night, some shattering orgasms, and some agonising pains. But there was also the discovery that she, Anna, had found a Goddess to worship. A Goddess who would never, ever let her down, because she, Anna, would never be permitted to fail, not ever again.

Still a slave, still kept naked, Anna is the best back-office manager the Castle has ever had. She is fucked airtight every now and then, for Anne-Marie’s private entertainment, and cannot decide whether such experiences are heaven or hell anymore — only certain that they are the epitome of intensity.

Extras

Nicole — extra pictures

Nicole being led to the whipping place Nicole bathing Nicole taking it in the ass

Airtight / Anna — another angle

Here is an alternate (much earlier) version of Anna’s Story, with another picture. Note that, as it stands, this older version story is inconsistent with the developing ‘Castle’ world, where Anne-Marie has a fixed policy of not bringing her ‘civilian’ conquests into submission at The Castle. See ‘Liana, Part 1’.

When her lover had brought her, as a guest, to the Castle, those times, it had been the sight of this previously unimagined act — the penetration of a girl by more than one man at a time, that had particularly appalled her — more accurately, totally overset her. The first time it happened, she had to run from the room, to stand in the cold night air, trembling.

For a girl to allow herself to be used so — so totally used, so completely subservient, so controlled. It was beyond thinking about.

She had allowed him to bring her once more — not because she wanted to, but because she was weak and he was insistent.

It had happened again. He’d held her wrist, very tight, bruising her, and she had sat through it, quivering.

But she had refused ever to go again, and within a month they were apart.

A year later, Anne-Marie had come into the boutique she worked at. She hadn’t expected to be remembered, for all that a frisson ran through her own groin at the memories which rushed back, the remembrance that, as her lover had told her, ‘*Anne-Marie is the evil genius of the Castle*’; but in fact (of course) Anne-Marie remembered her well; greeted her with great warmth and tact, leaving her with the impression that Anne-Marie, evil or not, was immensely fascinating.

Within a week, she had become one of Anne-Marie’s ‘civilian’ conquests. Never for an instant before having considered sexual relations with another woman, she rapidly became obsessed, and was thus equally smoothly convinced, in a superficially hilarious conversation in a cafe with two or three of Anne-Marie’s impressive lesbian friends, that she was being ridiculous not to accept the offer of a two week experience as a full-service girl at the Castle.

That was nine months ago.

Her job at the boutique has long been filled in her continued absence, and she is the girl advertised in the discreet Castle catalogue as being ‘particularly and most rewardingly responsive to double and triple penetrations’.

And it is true. Each single time (and she has lost count, but it must be over a hundred), she is devastated by the experience, rendered mute, often for a day or more, so that sometimes she cannot bring herself to speak for days on end.

The suggestion that she is to be subjected, once again, to this outrage results in weak, despairing attempts at resistance — although she is generally considered among the most naturally submissive of girls. Since these attempts are clearly not attended by the slightest hope that they will result in success, they are regarded as highly amusing (if they were serious, then of course they would call down much crueler punishments, rather than the entertaining humiliations she nevertheless receives), and, of course, they have the (for her) unwanted effect of attracting members to try her out in just this way.

The most affecting occasions are those when Anne Marie chooses to emphasise her presence, demanding kisses from the girl as she simultaneously takes cocks in her front and rear passages, idly caressing her clitoris and stroking her belly as she is stretched on her back, anus and throat thickly, insistently filled, stretched; hands cuffed awkwardly, painfully at her back, breasts marked by the whip as punishment for her feeble struggles.

Nevertheless, she worships Anne-Marie, and is as proud as she is appalled to wear Madam’s personal brand on her cheekbone, and on her inner thigh.