You will find that this makes more sense if you have read Part 1
There came a rustle of leaves, and then a shockingly bright light was directed at her; straight into her eyes.
Dazzled, it seemed to her that four, five strangers — perhaps more, men, were coming through the trees, one with the light, another with a video camera — something like that; there were flashes as if from a still camera.
nOelle cried out sharply, frightened. She stiffened, but Thierry’s fingers were still inside her, and his cool, even voice in her ear held her;
“Calm now, stay beautiful … calm yourself, pretty … calm. Keep your skirts lifted. These men are to see just how it is with you.”
His strong arm around her shoulders helped her do as he wished, to accept this shock that was clearly no surprise to him — to resist her powerful need to pull down her skirts, close her legs, turn and fold herself into his body — to end this lewd exposure, to seek safety from the eyes and intrusive cameras.
But holding herself open came at a price — her heart raced, her belly was in knots, her fingers were numb, trembly, weak, so that holding anything was more a matter of stasis than intention.
Thierry spoke again;
“Hold youself nOelle, just like this — that’s right, good girl. Remember, this is me, I know just what I’m doing. I’m going to step back now — just a little. You’ll remain here, as you are — let them see you — see you as I want you. Make me proud. Whatever happens, stay as you are now.”
She cannot respond, trembling, but manages to do as he wishes as he steps away to the side, holding herself by an incredible effort of will, her skirt lifted, her thighs spread, flinching only a little as strange hands came from behind her to twitch the bodice of the dress open, then caught her shoulders and jiggled them, setting her breasts moving.
She was showing her breasts, her naked sex to strangers — the lifted skirts an explicit invitation to look at her spread pussy, the labia still open — as Thierry’s strong fingers had left them — no doubt glistening with her wetness, betraying her arousal. The situation was impossible, yet more packed with intense sensory detail that seems possible — reality imposing itself upon her, inescapable — hyper-real.
Her breath came in short, terrified sips, but somehow — as if obeying Thierry’s wish was the only thing she could cling to amid this madness, she kept her thighs apart, didn’t fight to cover her breasts.
Someone said, in a brash voice;
“Ho! Great tits!”, and some genial laughter followed, as nOelle blushed deeply.
Now, with an inevitability that is crushing, another man’s fingers come to her sex, casually confident, invasive, quickly in between her labial lips, moving inside her, discovering her open-ness, her wetness, her heat. Now his thumb is on on her clit and an involuntary gasping moan breaks from her, making the mixture of shame, helpless arousal and fear she was experiencing obvious to all; her mouth opening, slack.
She is in anguish — the violation is enough, but that this was being videoed, pictures being taken — these were strangers witnessing this, as well as perpetrating this. But — but were they friends of Thierry’s? Was he … was he expecting her to … to have sex with these men?
Breath came in soft wailing gasps, the humiliation burning into her, but she kept her face smooth, didn’t cringe, although her chest heaved and her heart pounded.
This couldn’t be happening! Why could she not find some way of stopping it? Why did his request that she hold herself take precedence over this awful experience of humiliation?
The first man, behind her, took her chin and turned her face to his; finding no resistance, only numb acceptance, he leaned in and wetly kissed her, mouth open, insistent, tasting of a different tobacco than Thierry’s, his scent powerful, strange, other; an assault.
Not knowing what else to do, not having any will, in fact, to do anything for herself, she let him kiss her — his tongue pushing deep, her own mouth working reflexively against his, as the other man’s fingers plundered her, his thumb on her clit devastating her as she finds herself responding, the first man hurting her nipples now, seemingly knowing just what to do to get her writhing with arousal, hips working, moaning into his mouth. Somehow she kept the skirt lifted. The knowledge of the watchers, of the cameras was like a constant searing pain in her chest, making her shake and quiver.
There were other comments, quieter, but direct — the sort of things men don’t let normal girls hear; things about her body — crude, direct, aggressive. She understands, feels with her body, the violence, the heartless, greedy, casual selfishness of their intent, and is transfixed by it; terrorised, mesmerised, dazzled emotionally just as much as she is by the light that is still being directed into her eyes.
Then, the two men stepped away from her, leaving her alone with her shame, her fear, her isolation — a single, exposed female, surrounded by strange men, advertising (however unwillingly) her vulnerability, her availability for sexual (ab)use. It was impossible that she could be living through this — except for the fact that she was here, with no choice but to live, to experience, to be the nOelle whose choices had brought her to this place, to this moment. This was her life; she had no other. nOelle was this girl, displaying herself thus; about to reap the consequences of her choices; without the option of being anyone else, of having a different life. This agony was hers. There was no resiling from it; wishing for death was definitely in her mind, but without result, thus far. It seemed she would have to live through this.
More laughter, then; she was trembling visibly, cheeks burning, biting her lip to keep control, desperate not to submit to the hysteria that threatens her.
It is terrible to be alone, still dazzled by the light, unsure exactly what is happening — it had been better when the men were touching her, she realises — at least their maulings had distracted her from thinking about what is actually happening.
Her mouth frames Thierry’s name, but she dare not speak — at least, no sound comes out. Why doesn’t he help her? Why is he exposing her like this to these strangers, using her thus? Why is she obeying his wishes, exposing herself so, shaming herself? Why is it that obeying him is still somehow what makes her feel safe, when it is requiring her to make herself so vulnerable? And, vulnerable to what, exactly? What is going to happen to her? Surely, nothing good.
Why hasn’t she pulled her body into a defensive ball, as she so urgently wishes to do? Why isn’t she screaming at them to stop filming, to go away, leave her alone?
The urge — the deep and powerful need to lower her skirt, cover her breasts, protect herself — burns inside her, but she cannot — will not — betray his confidence in her, betray her own voluntary promises to him, requests of him that he should do with her as makes him happy, urgent proclamations that she wants for herself what he wants from her.
Even if this is what her relationship with him now means, it is all she has. The truth of it becomes clear. This is what she has; all she has. That he is everything to her. He’s right, though — it isn’t love, it isn’t sex, nor even her desire to please him. No; it is pure dependence. This is frightening, but the idea of not having him is more so. And so she clings onto what she can; her ability to keep her legs apart, her skirt up, her thighs parted, not to give way to the screaming hysteria which threatens. With a grim and terrible effort, she controls her ragged breathing as best she can, although her chest still rises and falls rapidly, deeply, her breasts moving hypnotically for the watchers.
It seemed an age that things stood like this; her strength, her faith in herself, her hope all ebbing away, heart hammering erratically. It ate into her to know that, even in this shocking situation, she was thinking about how she must appear, making small adjustments to her position, desperate at some animal level to appear attractive, not to be found unappealing.
Then a voice, not Thierry’s — older, deeper, cold, entertained;
“So, pretty, you have had the choice explained to you — as much as it will be explained. Now it is time for you to choose; to consent, or to refuse; yes, or no? Make no mistake, this is a momentous decision for you — it will shape your future. And yet you must make it without any more time to think, or ask questions. You must speak your consent; silence will be taken as refusal.”
Time seems to stop. These men, these strangers, Thierry removing her bra and panties, exposing her; the filming, the bright light; the meaning of any consent — if not the detail — seems clear; she will be sexually used by these men, without the slightest tenderness or personal consideration.
Her mind races; I … I don’t want this — I …I don’t! I don’t want these men all thinking they can fuck me! It can’t be! But then — what must she do? If she says no, what would be the consequences? Surely, she must lose Thierry? This is so clearly what he wants, that to say no must have terrible consequences, surely?
And yet, and yet; he had said, so clearly, more than once, that her choice must be her own — must be for herself, not for him. Is this, then, some sort of insane test? Is he wanting her to prove that she can be strong, stand up for herself, even in the face of such an obscene shock as this? Surely not? Such a test would be cruelty itself — and inevitably destructive — after this, everything between them must change; whatever the outcome. Even if, somehow, she can keep him, things will be very different, after this experience.
How, though? Does she hate him for this? No — NO! comes the thought, like a standing stone; she could never hate him — no matter what dreadfulness he has unleashed on her, she cannot forget what he has done for her, how he has transformed her, built her strength.
She is quivering with tension and fear, utterly off-balance. Nothing in her life has prepared her for a moment such as this.
She keeps coming back to the impossibility that her breasts are out, her skirt up around her waist, her legs spread, her sex wet. Her chest heaves, making her breasts rise and fall, her sobbing breath imparting little jiggles to her nipples, inviting attention, speculation, ribald comment. She is fighting, fighting so desperately hard, not to give way to sobbing. He hates weeping; she has trained herself never to weep in his presence, no matter what.
She couldn’t tell where Thierry was any more; perhaps he had even left? She felt panic rising;
‘Please, please … “ but what was she pleading for?
In any case, she is ignored; no response save a short, entertained laugh; they are enjoying her distress, her exposure.
It was impossible! How could she comply? What risk would she be taking to say no? Dared she risk letting Thierry down?
Still the challenging silence. Nothing would do but an answer. Tears gathered in her eyes, her lips quivered, belly quivered; she wanted to run, to hide, but knew she couldn’t. The question had to be answered.
“Come now, pretty; we have no need to wait. There are other girls.”
She had to choose — be what Thierry wanted her to be — accept all these frightening but unstated implications — or give up, go back to being a non-entity, disappoint him.
It was unbearable! Oh, but this was cruel!
Except that, at that moment, she saw, as if by revelation, that it was also magnificent, incredible — that she would never, in her life, forget the intensity of this moment — offered, worse than naked, her heart pounding, offered to strange men, for impersonal use as a sex object, by him who had transformed her from a mousy non-entity — he had made it possible for her to be the centre of this scene — the centre of sexual attention for many men, presented to them in this extraordinary way — worth the effort to record.
And suddenly it seemed clear. Hard — impossible — insane as it might seem — as it undoubtedly was — this was not about her doing as Thierry wanted; this was not a test — this was an opportunity. This is what Thierry had meant about it being a choice for her. She can say no — she can!
But she’s not going to. Because saying no is to retreat, to refuse the possibilities he has shown her — the possibility of intensity, of aliveness, of wildness.
Oh, but if she were only less terrified of this wildness! Can she, will she, survive whatever is implied by this?
‘16 days’ pops into her head; It’s sixteen days. Yes, it may be madness, but it will end. 16 days.
A tsunami of energy floods her; she knows. Her hips surge, without conscious impulse. Male laughter, more comments. Hot, helpless blushes. She’s going to do it! Terrible doubt, and at the same time a wild, free astonishment at the idea of submitting her soft intimacies to the greed of these strangers. Desire, fear, wanting to please, like a little girl, playing up to Daddy’s friends… ridiculous — seductive…
“Yes — Yes! I … I consent.” Her voice is surprisingly strong, though breathy and tinged with fear and doubt.
“Ha! Told you, Charly! They’re all whores at heart! You’re buying. Never bet against old T when he smiles like that!”
There is a silence, extended, then, suddenly, the light goes off, and Thierry is at her side, smoothing her skirts down back into place, tugging the bodice together (without buttoning her up), kissing her on the lips, holding both her hands behind her back; tenderly, gloriously cupping her breast in his strong hand, stroking her hair back into place. She’s crying now, but not sobbing, soft tears simply overflowing, heart still racing, chest heaving, but the tension is broken. It’s over — the awful requirement to choose behind her. Now … now he will dispose. It is done. She is still his. Except that … perhaps … she is not. Perhaps she is her own person, now. Certainly his warmth, his strength is pleasant, welcome indeed — but something has changed. But there is no time to think;
“You did beautifully, pretty — just as I knew you would. Now, things are simple; you are to wait here, just as you are — don’t move — you will be collected by someone — obey them in all things, as you have consented to do. If you don’t obey, you’ll be forced anyway — you have no rights for now, none at all, not over your body, nor even your mind, to be frank; you are as a creature — a dog, or a horse. A lovely creature, which will bend to the will of whomever controls it — one way or another. But I wish for you to obey, to be docile, prettily compliant, no matter what is asked of you. I will see you quite soon. You continue to be remarkable.”
And with that, he abandons her, walking away to catch up with the others who are leaving already, greeting them; talking to them cheerfully now, about other things; How was the shooting last week?, Those Canadian oil stocks…. and they amble off, in the direction of the city — as if nothing more interesting than a little game had been played, already forgotten.
He’s gone, leaving her: outwardly decent, if provocatively dressed, naked apart from the high heels and the thin, short dress, with the bodice all but open — alone in a quiet backwater of the park, kneeling, up on the table, hands clasped behind her, thighs spread wide,; her sex, she suddenly realises, as wet as it has ever been. She is trembling; too nervous, suddenly, to allow herself to cry, her nipples stiffening.
What had just happened? Those men — Thierry had shown her to them as a sexual object — his fingers inside her, her breasts loose — surely that can’t be something so uninteresting that they would all just walk away? They liked her breasts — one of them at least — didn’t they want more? She had been so scared of the owners of those gruff, crude voices simply throwing her down and using her like a whore, but now she was ridiculously full of fear that she had somehow failed — that they had decided she wasn’t even worth a casual fuck.
Waiting, un-nerved, feeling rejected, she might even have preferred them taking turns with her over the stone table; using her like a drunken tart at a party, rather than being abandoned like this; left alone to ponder the unknowable imnplications of such a shocking episode, of the consent that has had no outcome, of the meaning of being collected, of this strange idea that she must consider herself as no more than a creature.
Her relief ebbs away as if it had never been.
She’s quivering, on the brink of tears. She wants to shout to him, beg him to come back, not to leave her here, to ask more about this ‘consent’, to know what he meant when he said she would be forced. Forced to obey? How could such a thing be?
But she doesn’t; she controls herself, holds herself still, tries to maintain an outward appearance of calm, at the least, to control her breathing, blink back the tears.
Be what you wish to seem; he had said this to her, many times.
She wanted, above all, not to appear pathetic; to be in such a weak position, and also pathetic, was simply too frightening; and so, whatever might happen, she held herself as best she could, keeping her face calm, pretty, despite the terrible feeling of vulnerability, her breasts unfettered, swaying softly, the cool air against her hot sex reminding her how aroused she had gotten, that she has no panties under the short skirts.
She waited …
