Before him, sex had been something she was embarrassed about, furtive about, nervous about— something to be attempted in the dark, in silence, in dread that she was doing it wrong.
Now, sex was something that had consumed her, devoured her, possessed her. She wasn’t nervous, not any more; she was quivering with desire. She wan’t embarrassed; she was devastated by her own wanton-ness.
Before, she had worried she was no good at sex.
Now, she was worried that she was going to lose the ability to separate sex from abuse— he had told her he was going to make sure that this happened, in fact— that she was to become a creature for whom sexual excitement and humiliating cruelty were permanently mixed-up.
The idea reduced her to a trembling jelly, if she didn’t stop herself thinking about it. Which, increasingly, she found herself unable to manage.
She really, really didn’t want to take off her bikini, not in front of Ryan’s stepdad and his two friends.
But Ryan had boasted at lunch how she always sunbathed topless, and she had somehow liked them all knowing this about her— had felt all daring and sophisticated. Somehow this was enhanced by being the only woman with four men— three of them older than her dad and about a thousand times richer.
But now they were all looking at her, and she felt totally un-sophisticated. In fact, she felt like a scared little girl.
Somehow though, she didn’t have the nerve to brazen it out, or to tell them all to stop staring. She desperately didn’t want to show them her breasts, but the fear of seeming a fool, a silly girl who made vain boasts, was even more powerful, and she made her trembling hands move to the little strings. She knew her cheeks were pink as she pulled the skimpy fabric away.
Why had her breasts grown so much in the last year? They were so obvious!
Why had Ryan invited his stepdad to the beach with them? It was obvious they would never swim, or sunbathe. They had come to look at her tits, that’s why— and she knew it.
At breakfast, that morning, with her boyfriend, his stepfather and three friends, all older men, casually talking after the meal, Sir Charles, the step-father, had caused his friends to laugh rather loudly.
Gemma had looked up, a question in her eyes— were they laughing at her? There had been overtones of sexual nature through the previous evening. One of the friends, in particular, had made no secret of looking her over rather slowly, grinning his approval, and she had felt decidedly odd about it.
Meeting her eyes, Sir Charles had said, perfectly clearly, with a casual half smile— as if he did this sort of thing all the time;
“I said I’d bet a thousand pounds that we’ll all have had all your holes by nightfall.”
At night, in the sexualised atmosphere of the evening sessions, she had become, if not comfortable with, at least accepting of degrading sexual demands. Not even accepting of, perhaps— just defeated in her ability to imagine resistance.
But in the mornings, at the breakfast table, in her skimpy but nominally ‘decent’ daytime minidresses, to meet these men who have taken such freedom with her body— taken such greedy, cruel liberties with her dignity and her self-worth, to serve them their breakfasts, meekly obedient; to sit at the table with them, with the atmosphere of domestic existence, and yet to remember how this one had used her asshole so aggressively, this other one her mouth, forcing her, his come jetting from her nose— and to remember her own helpless compliance, so shaming, only a few short hours before— to meet their knowing looks was impossible, and she would frequently need to blink back tears of hot shame and humiliation.
And yet she could not make herself be angry, or even judge them. They had told her what they would do, and somehow, she had not managed to leave. She could leave now, she supposed (although the idea seemed fantastical, otherworldly; what would she do? Where would she go?).
It had got to the point where she felt relief when one of them decided he was ready to fuck her again, welcoming the chance to lose herself in the ignominy of being used as a set of warm holes in the morning sunlight.
Alongside all of this, she found herself increasingly demanding of herself that she serve these men with total dedication. There was no specific reason for her eager, humble sacrifice of every last shred of her own dignity to these random stranger’s pleasure, but it was something to do with the need for oblivion, she had decided— the need to submerge herself totally, to cease to have any responsibilities for maintaining an identity.
To give herself over without any reserve at all.
At other times, kneeling at the old man’s side, basking in the rare warmth of a conversation with him, she blushingly agrees with him that being beaten— being taken far beyond her limits— changes her, every single time; that it is this repeated but always unique experience which somehow has made it necessary for her to stay with him— to ask him, each month, if she may be permitted to continue to serve him— nominally as his PA, but in practice as a helpless sex toy.
Sweetly, haltingly, her voice soft, ashamed, but clear, she can be brought to agree with him out loud that it is absolutely necessary that she should be beaten, that mercy must not be shown, that she understands why the beatings must be sexually humiliating. Her voice is often rather low at this point, her eyes a little moist— but her nipples will also be stiff, as he has pointed out— and her sex becomes hot and sticky, her labia swollen and pink, telegraphing her arousal.
Softly, quietly, but sincerely, she can calmly explain— even to a grinning, leering stranger— that she understands all of this, that she welcomes it, is grateful for the care being taken with her— although it makes her blush hotly and feel sick with shame and fear.
But now, exposed so degradingly, restrained, opened so that the stranger can see her most private parts, beaten so harshly, unable to control the flexing of her hips that she knows must bring his eyes to her vulnerable sex— now, she would give anything on earth to be spared just one blow; her voice shamelessly proposing other uses of her body— of her holes, promising her own eager service. Now, she wishes she could die.
Suddenly, with piercing clarity, she realises that she is well beyond the point of no return.
That the little promise she had made herself (was it only thirteen weeks ago?)— that she would leave before it got anywhere near such a point— that that little promise is a forlorn memory.
It is the recollection of this shattering realisation that makes this one beating, out of so many, stay in her memory as a singular event; makes it possible for her to replay exactly in her mind the pathetic, wrenching moan of despair that had broken from her then.
Makes it certain in her mind that that was the day which had marked the irrecoverable change in her.
The change which for the first time saw her able to take a random visitor’s cock fully into her throat without being forced, saw her kiss him softly, openly, giving herself to him as fully she would to her employer (now her owner), even as his big clumsy hands foraged painfully at her sex.
The day she became a sex slave in her own mind.
Beatings are no less awful; the experience of whoring herself at his whim no less humiliating, no less shameful; the impact on her self-image no less destructive (it seems there is never any end to how far one can fall— no bottom to the pit of degradation). But since that day she has ceased even internal mental resistance, has instead found herself compelled by some inner force to offer herself up meekly, humbly, eager to please, to whatever is being inflicted upon her, however dire…
These days, he has her explain to visitors what it means to her to be ‘fully, utterly broken’, which she understands as an invitation to show how sweetly, how prettily, she can convey to these strangers that they should take the opportunity to exorcise their most depraved and violent fantasies on her defenceless body, her tender, offered psyche.
An invitation which she has come to regard as her highest test, to which she dedicates her all.
At this moment, she realised that she had become something totally other— a creature transformed.
Nothing of the girl in the mirror could be connected with her self-image of only a year ago.
Although the heavy insignia on the chain was the symbol that marked her— to those in the know— as common property; although the permanent markings on her buttocks proclaimed her provenance— the mark of the man who had enslaved her— it was the knowledge that she had consented to wear, for most of her waking hours, the innocuous looking little rubber rollers between her rear teeth, that had really changed her— again.
So small, yet so effective in preventing her from closing her mouth, these, together with the red lipstick they required her to maintain at such a degree of glossy perfection, offered her mouth explicitly as a vehicle for male sexual use; these were the obvious results.
But what she had learned, after just an hour, was that it went much, much deeper; than the literal inability to bring her teeth to close— the near impossibility of even getting her lips to close (requiring uncomfortable and ridiculous stretching— and for what? a few seconds of relief?)— that these condemned her to a continuous round of little things— unimportant in themselves, but adding up to a constant drawing of attention to her open, decorated mouth.
For her lips would get dry and need moistening with her tongue -its flickering so obvious between her opened lips; breath coming through her mouth would be audible, then her tongue would get dry and she’d have to swallow, trying to generate saliva then and move her tongue in search of moisture, and then she’d need a drink (drinking liquid without being able to shut your lips required odd movements that attracted attention); then, when people looked over— their senses alerted by something not quite right with her, she would find herself having to deal with that attention— and, if there was any hint at all of sexual interest, would know that she must encourage it— smile, lick her lips in a more directly suggestive manner, look down at her opened cleavage, inviting the other to look there, too.
All this meant that her mind was constantly distracted, that she could never relax. The random buzzes from the little timer in the roller device that indicated she was to take it out for twenty minutes made it impossible ever to become habituated, develop any routine; each time she put it back in, she suffered intensely— her submission made manifest in such an intimate manner.
All this flowed from the simple ‘yes’ she had given them on the morning when they’d suggested it. She’d not hesitated a second. She always said ‘yes’, of course. ‘Yes, please’.
But she hadn’t understood that the constant offer her open mouth represented, the constant attention-drawing moves she had no choice but to make, that all this would cement her own understanding of herself, from then onwards, as having lost herself utterly, as having become nothing— nothing but a willing, complicit, helpless vehicle for the use of men.
And the tender pity for the loss of her old dignity was overwhelmed by a fierce, undeniable surge of gratitude and sweetness, that she should have been permitted to experience this extraordinary existence— become the creature in the mirror…
