You will find that this makes more sense if you have read Part 2
It might also be interesting to read this earlier story - which in many ways could be a prologue to this one - although the names and details are different. At some point I will probably do a rewrite to produce such a post, but all the good stuff is there already.
Well, I did it. Succumbed to the present continuous, I mean. Like it or lump it ;-| .
Since there is nothing else to be done, nOelle waits, kneeling on the low table. This corner of the park is peaceful, secluded, but it is still a public park. Her belly flutters; she is constantly aware of the vulnerability of her breasts, her sex, the blatantly sexual pose she has been told to maintain.
Her breathing is not peaceful - her chest rises and falls notably; she is only outwardly calm; her mind in turmoil, roiling with unanswered, unanswerable questions of immediate and urgent importance, none of which she can resolve.
The astonishing events of the previous quarter hour keep replaying themselves in her head, in random order; outrage, shame, arousal flooding her in rapid succession; I’m in shock! she thinks.
Every now and then some small sound brings her close to panic. But moving from the spot he has put her in is somehow much scarier than staying, so she bites her lip, tries not to betray her nerves by wriggling, turning her head at every sound, gasping out loud.
In vain.
All equilibrium is gone; the memory of strange men’s fingers greedily exploring her most intimate folds, parts of her which had so recently been brought to a peak of sensitivity by her lover - while she; she had held herself open for their hands, even kissed, her lips open, helplessly responsive - she is unable to forget the welcoming reaction of her own body to those rude outrages.
Tears keep threatening; are only held at bay by fierce determination, coupled with the fear of signalling even greater weakness than she already feels.
It seemed a long time, but possibly wasn’t; she finds herself moaning softly; low, but continuous; unable to quiet herself, needing some outlet for her tension, her fear, when there comes a noise that clearly is something coming - someone; footsteps on leaves. nOelle has to force herself to remain in her pose, on the table, when all her instinct tells her to run and hide. The fear stops the moaning dead.
A woman appears, not young, but in her prime, strongly handsome, tall; elegantly if severely dressed, but with a powerful sexual presence nonethless; walking purposefully, looking directly at nOelle, smiling a little - quietly satisfied.
nOelle is both relieved and horrified. Relieved that the new arrival clearly has expected what she sees, is not a stranger who will demand explanations; at the same time horrified to realise that it is a woman who will see her thus - who will understand what she has allowed to be inflicted upon her - will understand what this means in a way that a man never could.
Crushed, too, to realise that this strange little game is not over (for she had kept on hoping against hope that Thierry would appear, to congratulate her on passing a cruel little test, that everything could somehow revert to normality - carry on as it had been).
The woman is followed by a girl, a pretty young redhead; more than pretty - lovely; absolutely, heartbreakingly lovely - pale skinned, freckled, dressed if anything more provocatively than nOelle, only with perfect outward respectability; her appearance so remarkable that it commands nOelle’s attention, cutting through the fog of her turmoil.
She has on a pale, gauzy, cropped blouse, tie-fastened, over a black leather waist-cincher corset and a ridiculously short, stiffly pleated skirt. Opaque stockings gartered above the knee; vertiginous heels, cuffed at the ankles, a wide leather collar and cuffs with business-like metal rings that are harsh against her pale loveliness all combine to create a vision; a woman, technically dressed with perfect decency, who nevertheless presents as a sexual fantasy creature; a being that can only exist as she is for the purpose of provoking thoughts as to how she might be used for sex in the mind of anyone seeing her.
This impression is only enhanced by the way she moves, by the submissive acceptance in her body language, in her face, that seem to proclaim full awareness of the urges her dress and behaviour provoke, and full knowledge, too, that she will be unable to resist anyone who might choose to fulfil those urges.
She is like a creature from another world, thinks nOelle.
The girl’s firm, well-shaped breasts move as she walks, naked under the filmy blouse, eye-catching, the nipples hazily distinct through the gauze. With a little shock, nOelle realised that she has been pierced there, surprisingly large, obvious rings hanging from each nipple. nOelle finds herself staring; fascinated and shocked at the idea of the thick metal piercing that tender, sensitive flesh … she bites her lip, involuntarily feeling sympathetic pain in her own nipples - so recently abused by a stranger’s hands.
The older woman breaks the spell by walking directly up to nOelle, smiling her sardonic little smile as she sees just what this apparition is doing to the girl.
nOelle starts, looks up, briefly, but cannot bear the cool intensity of the woman’s gaze and looks down, blushing, humbled, realising with an inward cringe just how weak she is, how small her resources after the shocking events of the morning; wondering what fresh outrages will come now, and whether she will have strength at all to resist, to maintain her dignity, even; biting back fresh panic.
This must be the person who will ‘collect’ her. Just the idea of being ‘collected’ is disempowering, demeaning; as if she is a parcel.
nOelle’s heart is pounding, it takes an enormous effort to stay still, not to wriggle away, not to flinch, as the woman reaches out and takes her chin, softly enough, but with fingers which clearly have all the strength nOelle lacks, and lifts it, so that nOelle is made to face the woman, whether she wishes to or not.
And she desperately does not want to, unable for more than a nervous, needy second to meet the piercing, slate-grey eyes, the cool, knowing smile with the overtones of amused condescension.
“So, pretty, this is how they left you, those crude boys? And you stayed like this, your thighs so wide apart, your dress unbuttoned? Waiting for us? That’s just so cute!”
“And you; before they went, they asked you a question. Asked for your consent, yes?”
Straight to the point. The point of fear. For nOelle has been shying away from the question as to just what it is that they required her consent for, of how it can be that she has consented to something so obviously portentous without any but the most vague and ominous idea as to what will be required of her?
In her mind, she is saying No - No- No - No, but she cannot speak; knows she won’t, knows that this is fear, knows that she will not, in the end, go back on what she has said, out loud, to Thierry, that she is committed. Committed, to this madness.
In any case, she realises, this woman’s air of command is such that nOelle is not sure how it would be possible to tell her something she did not want to hear, even if she, nOelle, were not already so dazed by the morning’s onslaught.
In fact, the woman’s obvious strength, her singularity of intent, her confidence is such that nOelle is conscious of a strong desire to please her, to align herself with what the woman wants, do what she wants, to seek shelter from her own confusion in this woman’s certainty.
The woman lifts her chin again - more gently this time, but irresistible nevertheless, strokes nOelle’s cheek with the back of a finger, softly, very softly, and nOelle finds herself nodding, confirming, feeling as if her heart will break, knowing that, however soft this woman is, however welcome her serene and powerful confidence, that nOelle’s best interests are not being looked out for, that she is being invited further into the trap that Thierry has laid for her. The trap she does not know if she can escape from; even if she wants to escape from - even though she is certain that she should be trying to escape.
The voice is soft, quiet, gentle, almost sympathetic;
“I need to hear you say it, pretty; tell me - out loud. Tell me that you consent, that you accept what he told you. That you are happy to obey. That you know that, once you come with me; once you are ours, that disobedience will be impossible - that compliance will be enforced if necessary.”
I want to hear you; hear you say; Yes. I want you to say it like this; Yes, please madam. Will you do that for me?”
.. and she holds up her ‘phone, making it clear that she is recording a video - that she wants to document nOelle’s consent, her commitment.
Quite suddenly, nOelle wants to - everything coming together in a little surge of needfulness - a need to please this woman, to feel safe, to honour her commitment to Thierry - and something deeper, too; something to do with the girl - the beautiful girl. Some fascinating mystery about her; something delicious; something tantalising; something dangerous - but oh, so seductively dangerous, something that shifted, deep in nOelle’s belly, when the girl appeared, her clothes, the piercings, her face; some yearning that needs an answer, that nOelle knows she will never discover if she does not let herself go, let herself be taken along this path.
And now nOelle’s heart is full of pain and sadness, because she knows that these people do not mean her well - that her Thierry, even, does not mean her well - perhaps never did; that she has been betrayed; seduced, tricked, trapped; that it is a wrong that has been done to her that has put her in this position; so exposed, so vulnerable; that this is cruelty, abuse; that she should have the strength, the will, the desire to resist it.
But it’s sadness, not anger, not strength that she feels. She has looked for resistance, while waiting, without success; and found only sadness; sadness because, in the end, she knows, deep in her self, that she can say ‘no’.
That if she does, all this will be over. That they will leave, she can button her dress, retrieve her purse from the table, where it sits, with her phone, her cards, her keys - her life; her normal life. That it’s all right there, just a few moments of decision away; her life, unchanged by this momentary madness. That to say no will be easy, and that she can get back to normality; So there’s no anger at Thierry, at those men, at this woman - if anything, she is conscious of feeling flattered that they consider her worthy of such attention, that they want her, find her pretty, sexually interesting.
No, the sadness is for what she is going to lose; what she is giving up; for her own weakness, for her own foolishness, for the shame and distress she is sure are in her future; because she is going to say yes - for no clear reason, except that something inside her demands that she does; demands to find out what comes next.
She hears herself say it, say the words - exactly as required of her - as if it is another nOelle - calm, not too shaky, perhaps a little husky, but it’s her own voice;
“Yes. Yes, please Madam.”
And then she looks up; needs to know what effect the words have had on this remarkable woman, whose personality is impressing itself ever more firmly into nOelle’s psyche. Anne-Marie’s response is judged perfectly for maximum impact on nOelle, as she smiles a little - a cool, calm smile, of satisfaction, but not relief; there has been no surprise, no jeopardy, no doubt in her mind; she reaches out to smooth the girl’s hair, her voice even softer; slow - almost sad herself;
“Oh you pretty; pretty girl, you can’t know it, but that’s you, over. That’s it. You’re ours now. We will make of you something remarkable, never fear. You’re in our hands now. It’s all over; all the doubt, all the insecurity - it will all ebb away now, if you just concentrate on me. On what I ask of you. It will be hard for you - very hard, don’t doubt it. But if you can give yourself, give yourself to me, it will be easier, I promise.”
A long pause, Anne-Marie looks deep into nOelle’s eyes, and nOelle lets her, for as long as she can bear the emotion that mounts in her at these words, words that she can’t really understand, can’t even hear properly, such is the rushing in her mind, but the import of the little speech somehow gets across, and makes her tremble, makes her blush, makes butterflies flip and flap in her belly, makes her breath come in rapid, panicky sips, as the shame builds in her, until she can manage it no longer, and closes her eyes. Anne-Marie lets her chin go, and nOelle’s head drops, too, as an overpowering, gusty sigh overcomes her, before her lips buckle and the soft tears come.
Anne-Marie’s voice is in her ear, soft but also very clean and self contained, with not the slightest room for nOelle in them;
“You don’t get to cry, pretty - not anymore, not unless someone with rights over you - which is almost anyone, for the next while, at least - wants to see you cry; in which case they will hurt you; make you cry. So bite your lip now pretty, make yourself smile; no-one minds if your eyes are watering, but sobbing is a no-no. Pretty and sweet and desirable at all times, from now on, little girl. Anything else will bring both pain and bitter regret.”
A brief, flashed look up from nOelle, needing to check that this little speech is serious, delivers instant confirmation, with convincing certainty, despite Anne-Marie’s mild expression.
The shock of this has an immediate impact; the tears are blinked away, nOelle’s back straightens. An urgent feeling that displeasing Anne-Marie in any way will be a terrible idea takes hold of nOelle, and she makes it obvious that she is behaving, even though it makes her cringe with shame, to be so abject. But when Anne-Marie smiles at her - a little reward of a smile - she cannot suppress the warmth that glows in her for a second. Anne-Marie is a master at such micro-rewards - tiny sparks of hope allowed to a girl, something to sustain herself with ‘Anne-Marie was kind to me, once, and it felt so good’. And the gratification mixes with the shame, the cocktail being mixed in her for the first time; the addictive cocktail that will bend her soul.
“Just so. Remember that, will you? I expect to be paid attention to, not to need to repeat myself.”
“Now, dear, let’s have a look at you - see what we have; they took your bra, I see, but your tits don’t need it, do they? Such obviously perky nipples! But your lovely stockings, ruined on this rough stone! Tell me, did they take your panties, too?”
“What’s the matter? Too ashamed to answer? That’s alright, sweety - it is shameful, isn’t it? To have let this happen to you? It’s good that you feel like this; important; you must ever try and hide from your shame. A girl that loses her shame is no use to us, none at all; cynical girls belong in whorehouses, not with us; remember that too, pretty, if you can. Manage your shame for us, show us what it does to you, how it makes you weak - vulnerable.”
“But if you can’t speak, then you’ll have to show me. Just lift your little skirt up for me.”
nOelle stares for a second; lift .. lift my skirt? Now, for .. for her? the idea was incomprehensible .. but then, on the slightest hint of a rising eyebrow, nOelle finds herself moving to obey - again, the idea of displeasing this woman is frightening, and she just has to live with the shame of lifting her skirts to show her naked sex; her pubes trimmed into a neat lozenge as Thierry had suggested - clearly a pussy that is intended for display; feeling her cheeks burn and her throat constricting. The knowledge that the redhead beauty, too, will see her like this also burns - it’s all so very hard to bear, so very hard to accept that this is real, that this is happening - in a public park, lifting her dress to show two women she has never met before that she is naked under her dress - again she has to fight down the threat of panic.
“That’s right, all the way up, open your legs a little more - get your bum up in the air more … Lovely! Now, we’ll just twitch at the top a little and - oh, what sweet, firm breasts you have. Stay, stay like that for me pretty!”
She steps back and takes pictures with her ‘phone, while nOelle, who cannot really understand why she is so meekly obedient (save of course, that Thierry has asked her to be - but really - he can’t have expected her to go along with this sort of thing, can he? And so why is she?) fights with her feelings and against her better instincts, co-operates, trying to hold herself well - not to have the pictures be unflattering.
“That’s lovely; the boys will be pleased with your obedience; although of course it only inflames them, the idea that a girl like you - such an innocent - can be ordered around so easily. And you know what inflamed boys get like. Still, it’ll make the other girls jealous, won’t it?”
It was terrible to display herself so to these two women, each so impressive in their very different ways, to hear these words; appalling to shame herself so in front of women, particularly.
For a girl like nOelle to have allowed herself to be cozened into making herself sexually vulnerable in this way must bring judgement, which might well attract insulting labels like ‘slut’ and ‘skank’ and ‘whore’.
This would be bad enough from a man; but then again, a woman knows that, in man’s mind, these are not so much terms of disgust, but rather a confirmation of licence. In essence, if a man intends to press himself sexually onto a woman, without regard for her pleasure (or perhaps even consent), he has to reassure his inner self that this woman has been cast out from any place of purity - such as the one where his mother is placed; these insulting terms, applied to the woman in front of him, to the woman whom he desires to abuse, can provide him with that reassurance - sanction him to unleash his vilest lusts, absolve his conscience.
But in the sense in which a woman would use these insulting terms; the import, the force, the harshness of such use from a woman would be infinitely greater. For, to a woman, another woman who deserved such a label was a traitor; a vile betrayer; one who would aid and abet the cruelties of men by making it easy for them to believe that women can be so crudely categorised; giving them reason to believe that there exist women with whom any atrocity, any selfish greed could be sanctioned, simply because they deserve such labels.
And so for nOelle, presenting herself thus, near naked, to these two; having allowed the abuses of the morning, having clearly consented to the furtherance of such abuses - to have other women see her thus meant that she, nOelle, deserved these harsh descriptors, had to know that in the other woman’s mind, she, nOelle, was considered trash. Truly, a whore.
The pain of this understanding cuts at nOelle like a knife. But there is nothing for it, nothing to be done. The consent had been given. Thierry’s words are sharp in her mind. She is to obey, and at the same time, if she does not, it will make no difference, since compliance will be enforced. And because Thierry had said this, she is certain it is true; for his utterances of this sort were always to be relied upon.
Bearing this shame, nOelle feels something break; that something in her is being torn, shredded, trashed. With Thierry, earlier, it had all been about him and her; the strange men were cartoon characters - male caricatures - rapacious, sex-hungry boys, irrelevant to the drama of the moment except to play out that role.
But at this moment, now, in the presence of these two strange and elegant women, the whole thing takes on a horribly tawdry aspect. A slut, she has permitted her man to whore her to his friends, without a single complaint. The friends will obviously be fucking her, soon enough, without considering her as anything but a warm body, and these women will in some wise be facilitating that fucking - will know exactly what sort of a dirty, degraded whore nOelle has become. I have become a whore, and these two know it. Soon enough, for sure, others will know it too.
There is a bitter, sick taste in the back of her mouth; disgust. Sure that these women are feeling disgust in respect of her, she is mirroring their opinion in her own body, inflicting it upon herself, in her shame. In her distress, nOelle bites her lip, shakes herself, to stem the tears of self-pity that threatened to overwhelm her; tears that are no longer permitted her. Her imaginings over the past weeks as to whether she was being used by Thierry as a whore now seem almost quaint - laughable schoolgirl nonsense; this - this is what whoring yourself feels like.
It will take nOelle a while to realise that the women she is about to become intimately acquainted with are not the women she has been imagining. They will not, for the most part, see her as a traitress (although to be sure, their use of the cruel words of disdain and disgust will still bite harder than from the lips of a man). They will judge her mostly on how beautiful she manages to be when suffering. And even this judgement will not come with disgust, but rather, some mix of pity and admiration - sometimes, even, desire. And she will find that she too judges few of the subjugated girls - the enforced wantons who will be her sisters in submission - harshly, either. That in fact, within this sisterhood, there is still a hierarchy of disgust - that only certain girls - those who have become most abjectly servile and needy - will be called ‘whore’ and ‘slut’, that the term, between these sisters, will still carry a sting - even in the midst of a a world of sexual excess.
“Natalie! come, please; let’s get nOelle here off this cold stone; so rough - and damp, too, poor girl.”
With an arm each, they help nOelle down from the table, and she finds herself grateful for their support once she is standing, too, as her knees are weak and shaky.
The woman steps away, though, while nOelle is finding it enough to do to calm her breathing - somehow standing upright has forced a return of her psyche to the real world, to discover that the madness is real - that she is being helped, perfectly practically, by this vision of controlled sexuality - whose face, up close, is not only lovely but clearly full of sympathy for nOelle, although the girl is clearly careful to express herself with the smallest looks, her eyes soft and wide, her hands gentle, supportive.
Experiencing this new reality brings another wave of sadness, of despair. Yearning, she looks around at the pretty, soft greens of the park, as if there will be some rescue there, some reappearance of Thierry to announce the success of his great joke. But there is nothing; nothing but peace, nature going about its business, self absorbed and uncaring as always, and there is nothing to do but concentrate on not falling, on standing with what poise she can muster, try to face her reality with some shred of dignity.
“Dust her down a little, That’s it Natalie, get her presentable, if you can.”
The woman turns away, attending to her ‘phone screen, her attention elsewhere.
Despite her attire, the girl, who must be Natalie, is not brash, but demure and careful with nOelle, not speaking, not looking nOelle in the eyes, but gently using her soft hands to make nOelle understand what she wants.
Once nOelle seems steady, the girl gently but firmly taps the inner sides of her ankles with a toe, until nOelle realises that she is to move her feet apart - to spread her legs a little - oddly, after the much more explicit scene that has just passed, this simple move makes her blush terribly.
Next, Natalie rearranges and smoothes nOelle’s hair with her fingers; produces a cotton kerchief and makes small make-up repairs, dabbing at nOelle’s eyes and lips; precise, neat, gentle. Then she straightens and neatens the folds of the dress, her hands, unlike the woman’s, expressively respectful and careful of nOelle’s dignity.
From an elegant fabric shoulder bag, the girl brings forth a white leather collar, to which are attached long, slinky silver gold chains, each of which is attached to a smaller white leather bracelet or cuff. The whole assembly is elegant and pretty, but nOelle understands all too well the implications.; she is to be collared, cuffed and chained. The girl is collared and cuffed, too; she wears no chains but sturdy, if discreet rings make the option of chains clear.
nOelle’s heart thumps, but the girl is softly insistent, and soon nOelle wears the white collar, and the chains fall in elegant arcs to a cuff at each wrist.
Natalie then lifts nOelle’s hands, bringing them together, and shows her how two matching little sprung catches can be brought together - snik - to lock her wrists together; nOelle jerks, shocked; horrified suddenly at the thought of being restrained so, but Natalie’s hands are immediately vice-like, suppressing the pulling away. This controlling move is softened by a carefully minimal shake of her head - evidently meaningful, and nOelle realises that it is a warning, intended kindly, and tries to calms herself, flooded with gratitude; this vision of loveliness is kind! The idea of this almost oversets her; she wants to cry, but then the moment is over, as Natalie moves to stand beside nOelle, her own hands clasped at the small of her back, and they wait.
Wait, until the woman is finished. Wait, as if their time is worthless; as if the only person who matters is the woman. It’s ridiculous, immediately chafing for nOelle - the idea that she should simply put herself on hold; but Natalie’s attitude sets a precedent, and nOelle is unwilling to go against it, aware that she is in uncharted waters, feeling ignorant and impotent; lost.
Standing there, she finds herself accepting the feeling of being under the woman’s control - not responsible; tremblingly passive, remaining so despite her thumping heart, jerky breathing and occasional numbing spasms in her thighs.
But when the woman speaks;
“Natalie, will you get nOelle’s purse, please; keep it safe for her. Then lead the way. nOelle will follow you, and I’ll walk behind - I want to watch how her arse moves.”
.. something in her revolts. It’s not that she is making a bid for freedom - more that she is so unused to being talked to, talked over - in such demeaning terms, that her whole being reacts - reflexively rejecting such treatment as it might a foul taste - with no time for thought; she steps backward suddenly, gathering herself for movement, shaking her head, letting out a weak, soft, desperate cry;
“No .. no .. you .. I .. you can’t ..”
Having moved, having spoken, without realising she was going to, nOelle is now required to decide what to do next; what she wants.
Be what you wish to seem.
But she has no idea; no idea at all, what she wishes to seem, let alone be.
All her bearings have been rendered meaningless; for the first time in her life, she understands that it can be possible to have a mind that is blank; empty, stuck.
nOelle is aware that she is making a pathetic spectacle of herself, inviting trouble, without the slightest chance of changing anything. As an act of resistance, in the context of the wildly bizarre things that have been done and said to her this morning, all she can manage is this feeble protest.
And yet .. and yet .. her body cannot simply accept submission meekly - without something - some little attempt at resistance - some sign that she, nOelle is a person.
A weak, foolish person, pathetic, perhaps, but nevertheless, a person who should not be treated thus!
At the same time, nOelle feels fear rising; knowing her weakness, she dreads - she has no idea what - but deep inside she knows that she is no match for this woman - never will be; nOelle fears her; she hasn’t feared anyone for years, and it surprises her how defeating it is. How can her wonderful Thierry have given her into the hands of this cruel and frightening ice queen?
In the end, all she can do is to give in to the shaky weakness of her legs and sink, helpless, to her knees; finds herself begging incoherently, her words not even clear;
“Please, please .. not .. I mean .. I .. not .. I .. .. can’t !”
Confusingly, the woman seems not in the slightest put out; in fact it is almost as if this is exactly what she had hoped for; she comes closer, puts a hand in nOelle’s hair and pulls her head back, making her look up - gently enough, in no hurry - then looks nOelle in the eye, lifting an eyebrow a little in amused enquiry;
“My, oh My! Has Thierry has misjudged you, pretty? You know, you may not speak unless expected to? And are you crying? There’s punishment in store for you - unless of course you tell me it has all been a terrible mistake, that your consent was meaningless, that you have been assuming this is all a rather cruel joke, that want to leave; go back to your safe little life.”
“Is that it, pretty? Haven’t you the heart for it? Are you not the girl he thinks you are? Don’t want to end up like Natalie, here? Is that it?”
The woman obviously finds the whole situation no more than entertainment, seems heartless; surely she must know that nOelle’s world has been shattered in the past hour? That nOelle has had no time to decide what she wants, to even begin to process what’s going on; that nOelle has no idea - beyond the frightening few conditions which have been laid out - no idea what her consent means, who these people are, what 16 days means.
It is as if it would amuse the woman, please her, to be able to tell Thierry that he has misjudged nOelle. nOelle, desperate, tries to look back at her, maintain her status as a human being, as some sort of equal.
It’s terrible; nOelle knows her weakness from the outset, knows how weak her voice sounded, knows the complete unreadiness of her will, her muscles, to resist; feels her little strength draining away by the second. Knows that, in raising her pathetic challenge, she is already defeated. Yet she cannot - must not - let herself collapse; something in her clings desperately to what she has left of her sense of self.
‘It’s strange ..’ nOelle thinks, later, in the aftermath of those astonishing first days; a creature changed forever by a devastating mix of heartless psychological manipulation and cruelly greedy sexual usage;
’..so strange; that I spent my whole life assuming that I had rights. That they were important. That ‘rights’ were things which could not be taken from me. That people would not do terrible things to me - more, that in general, they would treat me with some minimum of respect, of decency; that I had a ‘right’ to expect this.’
‘That even if some terrible thing were to be done to me, it would be a crime, that I would feel as if the whole world must recognise that, because my rights had been violated.’
‘So strange, for it to be so easily demonstrated that rights don’t exist. Or, that if they do, they exist for someone else - for something else - for ‘the State’. For ‘Citizens’. For ‘the United Nations’ - I don’t know. Certainly, that they don’t exist for me. That I have no rights - that I never had. Not in myself. Not that I can discover, here, now. Not that mean anything to do with what is real.’
‘Because for me, tonight; here; so lonely, so sad, so defeated, so sore, ‘my rights’ mean nothing. I am here. But why? Because Thierry planned for me to be brought here. Because I consented. Because these people have the will and the means to enforce my consent. Because they have cast off any moral inhibitions in respect of the girls here; because they take our consent as license to treat us worse than whores, worse, even than dogs. Because I have let myself be treated so.’
‘What of this has anything to do with rights?’
‘Do I feel violated? Yes! Personally, I have been treated shamelessly - vilely; cruelly abused. But is it my ‘rights’ that have been violated, or my body, my mind? Do I have any rights? Where are they tonight? Why have they not helped me?’
’ The reality is, that if that horrid manservant came to me now, took off these chains, unlocked the door - gave me back my clothes and my purse, and offered to call me a taxi, I would not go. I don’t really understand why, but I know that I wouldn’t. That in fact, I would sit here, waiting for him to put the chains back. That I would not fight him if he tried to bugger me again, or use my mouth.’
‘There is some inevitability about being here, some need in me to see how I will respond to whatever tomorrow brings, here. Something permanent about me in this place that I have never felt in any other place. It’s not that I want to be here; it’s that, being here, I can’t think of any other place that is more fitting for me, more suitable.’
‘And what has any of this to do with ‘rights’? They choose to bring girls like me here, and degrade us. We - or at least I - accept that I belong here, at least for the moment. And that’s all that matters. If I am here, I will be used with cruelty and sexual greed - that seems clear. I have no rights. I am a girl, who has consented to be kept in a place where girls are raped and abused. I will be raped and abused. I will try to be myself, try to see what myself means here. It will be terrible. Maybe it will destroy me. But rights make no difference at all to any of this.’
’ Probably, I have no ‘right’ to consent, even. If the police came, they would cart all these swine off to jail, try them for violating the rights of we girls. And if I tried to suggest that this place makes sense for me, they would put me in a hospital - probably a psych ward.’
’ And none of it would get anywhere near the truth of why I am here, of why they want to degrade me, of why I can’t stop thinking about Natalie, of why I cannot imagine ever not needing Anne-Marie to approve of me, of why I don’t hate Thierry for tricking me into coming here, into consenting - of how I can see that what he has done to me makes sense, and not just for him, but for me as well, awful as it is.’
These thoughts gave nOelle no comfort at all - rather the opposite, bringing intense feelings of vulnerability and apprehension, so that the tears came again (how could there be any more tears?) until at last, physically drained, emotionally shell-shocked, she succumbed - more to exhaustion than to sleep.’
Now, right, now, on her knees, feeling the damp earth further ruin her stockings, She can’t answer; can’t speak, can’t face the woman’s gaze. Thierry told nOelle that this decision was hers, that she shouldn’t consent for his sake - but now - in the face of the overwhelming presence of this woman, of her amusement, her evident relish at the possibility of nOelle failing - does she even know what she wants?
What she wants, she realises, is to be told what to do. If Thierry were here, she would look to him. In his absence, it must be this woman. Insane, but it is the only thing that makes sense, and wonderingly, nOelle looks up, looks at the woman, helpless, wordlessly pleading, in her weakness; knowing, having judged the woman as heartless, that it is likely that she will be told to do something that is bad for her. Preferring even this to this blank, terrible stuckness.
nOelle has spectacularly misjudged Anne-Marie. In fact, the woman with the cruel smile understands the girl’s feelings at this moment rather better than nOelle understands herself, having walked many confused and frightened young women through these soul-rending decisions, during which they will make impossible commitments, agree to conditions the implications of which they cannot possibly understand, the results of which will violently and indelibly mark their lives.
These are amongst the most interesting experiences of her life - what she lives for, even - these threshold moments. Engineering a girl’s existence so that she is forced to experience such moments at times and in ways that afford maximum value for her, and for the members of the organisation she serves is the domain in which she finds maximum scope for her talents.
Having lived, herself, through many such moments at the hands of a Master of this art, she is not in the slightest uncaring about the psychological and emotional agonies these experiences produce. For how could she be so adroit, so immaculate in her judgement as to how to intensify and mould those agonies to maximum effect without the incredible attuning she has to the feelings of the girls she handles? More to the point, how could she feed the hunger in her for the agonies these girls suffer as they are taken down if she could not feel them at one remove, from close observation of pretties like this as they are cozened into suppressing their own better natures, into embracing degradation?
For each girl, each time, each moment is different. There is an overall shape to these events, to be sure; a strong directional bias, of course - but beyond that, Anne-Marie has an artist’s sensibility to the smallest nuances of a girl’s expression, the way her hands move, the way her belly quivers, and allows the feelings these sensibilities engender to guide her choices as to how she manipulates the girls whom she shepherds so expertly.
Anne-Marie finds the term ‘shepherd’ both appropriate and savagely amusing - although she has shared this thought with very few. For the mental picture the word shepherd brings to mind is of wise kindness in the care of foolish, lovable creatures with little strength or wisdom of their own.
This image strangely hides the real intent and purpose of shepherding - which is, of course, to maintain a flock of the unwise, weak, lovable creatures in the best possible condition so that, by losing first their freedom, and later their lives, they can serve the hunger of the shepherd and those the shepherd serves. The knowledge, wisdom and care of a shepherd in respect of the flock is not, ultimately, exercised for the good of the flock - but for the good of those that feed on the flock.
A good shepherd must learn to understand sheep intimately; to be aware, almost before they are, of what is needed to maintain them in the desirable condition - but this understanding is put to abusive ends. The shepherd’s knowledge is specifically and exclusively used to ensure that the sheep satisfy the needs of shepherd and the those who employ the shepherd - in this case, the callous and greedy epicures of sexual sadism who are the Members of the Castle.
In this case, right now, Anne-Marie is playing things entirely ‘by ear’ as she elegantly squats beside the beseeching girl, who looks so lost. It would be easy, at this point, to simply manhandle nOelle along - she wouldn’t resist, and all would go much as planned.
But Anne-Marie senses the opportunity for something deeper here - some more subtle and complete taking, and is letting her intuition suggest her actions.
She leans in, to speak close to the girl’s ear, in a warm, intimate and sincere voice - meaning every word she says;
“The thing is, pretty, that you are stuck now because you genuinely have two paths open to you. Because this is genuinely one of those moments in your life which mean something on a grand scale. The tragedy, for you, is that neither choice is good. At some level, I think that you know this.”
“Simply, you have a choice between life and existence. By life, I mean the raw, wild, untrammelled, urgent and free experience of struggling for meaning in an uncaring world. By existence, I mean donning a thick, stuffy suit of padded armour that will keep you safe from the intensities of life, at the cost of constraining and limiting you in almost every respect - of submitting to convention.”
“Your tragedy, pretty girl, is that you are not going to come out on top whichever way you choose.”
“You know that you are not, truly, strong enough for the wildness of life - that you are weak - this morning you have learned a little about how weak; have met some predators who will use you without even noticing your suffering. This will be your experience if you choose the way of life - you will be condemned to find what meaning you can as prey.”
“On the other hand, you know from long experience that the constraints of convention will suffocate you - that your life with that choice will be one of mere survival. Worse, having known the intensity of feeling which only a direct brush with life can bring, you will always know what you have given up - have a taste in your memory of what could have been.”
“At this moment, girly, without having any control over in the manner of the asking, or understanding of the real meaning of your choice, you are being made to choose - the choice having been forced onto you by predators, who don’t really care what you decide - because these predators, as you will shortly see, are fat and well fed.”
“For in one sense you are lucky. The predators who have hunted you are in a position to provide conditions in which their meat can be maintained at a peak of desirability, of value, rather than chewed through and disposed of.”
‘And that’s why you’re here with me, now. Because I am the one who will look after you, if you so choose. I am the one who will take total responsibility for you; who will ensure that you are presented just as Thierry wishes you to be, so that he can boast of his prowess in the hunt, can show you off as the delightful specimen you are. I am the one who will make sure that you become the most entertaining prey you can be; that our predators find you desirable enough to keep.”
“But the price you need to pay, pretty, having given your consent, then confirmed your consent, and now failed me, is to consent once more, on your knees, here, naked. But now, to assure me that you are sincere, that you understand the meaning of the word consent - that you understand the finality of your decision, I will require you to consent to 30 days, not just 16. To give us 30 days of your life. To consent, now, or be left here, abandoned, having proved yourself too frightened to live.”
Anne-Marie stays in her position for a full minute after this speech is finished, sensing the violent trembling that has taken hold of the girl, savouring it, seeing on the girl’s face that her words are settling, deep in her mind, that internal war is raging, and she leans in, to plant a soft small kiss on nOelle’s cheek, and whisper;
“You are very lovely, nOelle, in your distress. Whatever happens you may know that I have enjoyed these moments.”
She stands then, and her voice is again one of casual but iron certainty;
“Here, Natalie - help nOelle up; remove the cuffs, the collar. Free her. Give her her purse. We’ll be leaving shortly.”
Utterly overset, inner confusion consuming her, nOelle allows herself to be helped upright, lets Natalie remove the collar and cuffs (experiencing this, bizarrely, as a loss, a hurtful rejection). She looks at Anne-Marie, confused, dazed, desperate, the emotional rollercoaster of the last hour wildly intensified by Anne-Marie’s strange lecture, reeling mentally, physically enervated, on the verge of tears but somehow knowing that crying is impermissible (she can’t remember why, just knows that it is so).
Anne-Marie catches her look, and smiles, encouraging without the slightest warmth;
“Now, nOelle, everything is very simple. You will take your dress off, and you will go back down to your knees - you will keep your legs very wide apart. You will put your hands behind your back, you will push your lovely tits out, and you will tell me that you consent to everything, to anything, to our control of you for 30 days.”
“Or, you will fail, and we will leave. There will be no shilly-shallying, no negotiation, no hesitation, no delay. Quick now!”
The last words are spoken in only a slightly different tone, but carry a weight of command that comes from a decade and more of certainty of being obeyed; they cut right through the fog in nOelle’s head.
She looks at Anne-Marie, turns her head and looks at Natalie (whose eyes, as always are looking at the ground soon enough, nOelle will be taught, to be looking at the feet of her Mistress whenever possible), then closes her eyes for a moment which lasts an eternity in her mind, before, very simply, very calmly, beginning to undo the simple fastenings of the dress. She lets it fall to the ground, uncaring, then sinks to her knees.
Her assumption of the dictated position is not particularly elegant or smooth, but is deeply affecting in the seriousness with which she abases herself - her thighs spread carefully wide, lewd; her hands gripping the opposite elbow behind her back, which is arched, her shoulders extravagantly set back, pushing her proud breasts forward without reserve, her face intent, sincere, concentrated.
The sounds of the park, quiet as they are, seem to still themselves, so that her soft, intense words rings out, so determined is she to be understood to be fully compliant;
“I .. I consent, to .. your control .. of .. of everything, of .. of anything .. for .. for thirty days .. of .. of my life.”
