Earlier versions of these stories appeared in a tumblr blog
SENTENCED
She was sentenced ten weeks ago. Since then, in accordance with the laws applying to women who are convicted of ‘Behaving in any manner judged as having the potential to pervert god-fearing men’, she has been kept naked (apart from the sash, the colour of which denotes the length of her sentence - 6 months).
She was given the choice of horrible menial labour and a full sentence, or voluntary service in the priest’s house associated with the women’s detention centre, with possible parole after ten weeks.
Young and pretty, she was advised to choose service - but not forced. She was, of course, shown the menial labour to which she would otherwise be assigned - gutting and filleting fish in a gloomy shed, fitted with an electroshock ‘encourager’ to ensure performance.
Defiant, she had chosen the menial labour - spat in the face of the prison officer. But the following week, offered the choice again (after being hosed down with a freezing water jet to get rid of the persistent slime of fish guts), she got down on her knees and pleasured him with her mouth in the sight of three guards, tears on her cheeks, and begged to be allowed to serve.
Her ten weeks is up today.
The sensitivity testing - and the expert opinion of the priest assessor - indicated that she should be assigned to that special branch of the priesthood - the sexual adepts.
Their secured wing of the priest’s house has a progressive atmosphere - girls have individual rooms, food is good, there is no overt harshness. The requirements are daily group therapy sessions in the mornings - where attitudes to sexuality and responsiveness to physical and emotional stimuli are discussed, with the emphasis strongly on the exaltation and liberation of desire - and in the afternoons, group sex sessions with the priestly brothers, during which they apply carefully developed techniques to increase and reinforce libido and sexual responsiveness.
Decidedly reluctant at first, the powerful atmosphere of the place, the richness and relentless nature of the erotic atmosphere - lesbian rapes perpetrated by other, more ‘senior’ inmates ignored by the guards at night, the brothers both highly skilled and smoothly insistent by day - brought her to the crisis that was the first intended transition of the training several days earlier than usual, thus indicating that she was likely to end up rather deeply conditioned.
Resources and expertise were accordingly concentrated on her. She was treated almost as an equal by the brothers, excused the therapy sessions, included in religious and philosophical debates, allowed to rehearse her still heretical views on the rights of women.
She was not, of course, excused the group sex sessions, and increasingly joined the sexual aggressors at night, forcing her attentions on newer arrivals with cool smiles, conflicted but decided cruelty and urgent demands.
An innocent when she had arrived (her crime? daring to flash her knees at a boy from the men’s university; unfortunately when a male lecturer who found her forthrightness in seminars particularly irritating was watching. He had denounced her immediately.), she is now a confident and eager sexual being, albeit riddled with internal conflicts.
She has been encouraged by the adepts who have had charge (and use) of her for nine weeks to retain her distinctive personality; they have focused all their energy on bringing her to a particularly high pitch of sexual appetite, in which they have succeeded (as they usually do with girls of her calibre).
Our photograph is taken as she presents her case for early release to the tribunal. Naked, of course, her confidence and certainty in the justness of her case are evident in every detail of her stance, despite the fact that she is exposed before seven highly superior and extravagantly richly dressed lords of the high church, none of whom makes the slightest secret of admiring her form, or omits any chance to quote tasty morsels from the brother adept’s report, describing her sexual responsiveness and avidity.
Her expression, though, betrays the first clouds of confusion; confusion, tinged with fear; confusion that will turn into disbelief, then to argument, merely vehement at first, and then finally into hysteria; screaming, physical rejection of what she has been told is to be her fate - that she is to be dedicated as a public whore at the altar of the men’s temple.
“Tut tut! Your refusal does you no credit, girl. This is the greatest honour your religion can bestow on you, my pretty”, intones the bishop presiding, once she has been subdued. His smile is a hypocritical smirk, and His comment elicits smug laughter from the others on the panel.
“You’ll need to be broken of your silly ideas first, of course. I’m having you assigned to my personal care.”
This breaking of pretty girls who have been led to become sex addicts (while being encouraged to believe that their unorthodox views have meaning) is of course, a perk that the Lords of the High Church reserve to themselves. Thanks to the steady supply of new ‘talent’, they have no compunction in using the crudest, most aggressive methods, even though these result in mental breakdown rather frequently.
The realisation that the brother adepts with whom she thought she was developing such sophisticated rapport were in fact cynically and ruthlessly preparing her as an entertaining morsel for these corrupt High Priests does her terrible mental damage.
This too is part of the plan, and indeed, once broken, she becomes a helplessly responsive, eager sex-toy, since it is only in extreme sexual intensity that she can forget what has been done to her.
OUT OF THE BLUE
Out of the blue, this morning, He had asked to wait for Him in the hallway outside His office, naked.
It was time she learned something, He said.
She’d worked for Him for three months, during which time He had hardly seemed to notice her, apart from as an increasingly dedicated servant of His needs - all the while she had been falling in love with Him, despairingly - doubting He would ever notice her, in her demure, timid clothes, her inability to meet His eyes, or think of anything to say to Him beyond meek assurances of her willingness to work, mumbled apologies for her many (according to Him) failings.
And then this insane, this outrageous demand - delivered as casually as His requests for coffee.
She is quivering. She’s not stupid (far from it - she has two Phds in subjects she now realises are utterly pointless), and she knows, of course, that this is not reciprocated love (in her mind, a short, bitter laugh dies as it is born); that she will be used without Him acknowledging her existence as more than an available resource.
She knows that this will damage her - that she has already been damaged - damaged by the knowledge of her own pathetic weakness in obeying.
She’s probably going to be fucked as something lower than a whore. Like a sex doll - except that, unlike some lifeless rubber doll, she will be exerting all her human capacity to give Him - what?
Anything He might want, she realises.
Anything.
Her belly flutters.
She is appalled at how calm she is.
At how willing her heart is to welcome the humiliation, seeing as it offers her a chance to be noticed by Him.
The reality is, of course, intense and disastrous beyond her wildest fears.
She is utterly, completely ruined.
She is too inexperienced to be alluring with her boss’ three guests - she’s clumsy, unsure, desperately nervous; misunderstands what it is that they want from her multiple times. They all laugh at her (Him included), sneering, deriding, but casually tolerant - there is no chance, after all, that they will not have their way with her.
They quickly resort to manhandling her carelessly, yanking and pulling her into the positions they would like, opening her forcefully, without gentleness.
She does, somehow, manage to control her instinctive resistance quite well (doing her best for Him), hardly fighting as they wrench her thighs apart, force their cocks into her holes, bite her soft breasts.
She keeps her cries of pain and shock and shame soft, weak - still, desperately, wanting to please, pathetic.
Until, devastatingly, sexual intensity builds in her, un-noticed, until suddenly she is jerking, thrusting her hips, needy, desperate, visibly eager for release, mewling with the force of it in her belly as she opens herself, grinds herself; hearing their laughter like salt poured into a wound as she gasps out orgasm after orgasm that surpass any emotion she has experienced in her young life; sobbing with the awfulness of it, smiling helplessly through the tears as she thanks them, abjectly.
I am lost, is all she can think, as they leave her; naked, sticky, crumpled, stained, hurting - in a heap on the floor, talking immediately again about the deal, about a boxing match that will be fought tomorrow. I am lost.
And yet.
And yet.
Her life has meaning now. She is a victim; a helpless victim. His victim. This degradation will be visited upon her again, she knows; without warning, without recognition, without recompense, without any sort of consideration at all. It is her that He can call on to accept such treatment, though, and none other. She that will render Him this service. He wants her for this - and this, dreadful as it is, is unique - is special to her.
Whoring herself has been added to the list of other services she performs for Him that are beyond the job description she signed up to - like collecting His dry-cleaning, arriving at 6 am to claim His favourite meeting room. She is never thanked for any of these, and so, she realises, she will not be thanked for this.
The difference, though, is the devastating, humiliating, but glorious intimacy of it; the intensity of it, the wildness of it. She hugs it to herself even as she weeps.
If she stays, every day will be visited with intensity, with the possibility that sublime degradation might be visited upon her at any moment.
She wants it. God help her, she wants it all.
WHAT HE WANTS
Things like this left her breathless, transfixed by her own reactions, her helpless responses - so accepting, so willing, so pathetically, foolishly grateful…
She had been waiting for him - she was always ready early; not that he had ever made a fuss, but somehow she had understood from the very beginning that his attention was not hers to command - that it was up to her to maintain his interest - and she had no intention of losing him if she could help it; just the thought of that, late at night sometimes, would fill her with a cold hollowness.
He had arrived, smiled at her, made her heart melt, as always, and said, simply;
“I haven’t much time. Show me ..”
He’d started saying this recently - it was all mixed up with the ‘no-panties’ thing. He would just say it, at any odd moment - Show me your pussy.
At first, she had grinned at him, to see that she had got the joke, and wasn’t a prude.
Then, when she had realised he was serious, she had taken it as a dare, or a little in-joke, and done a ‘naughty’ flash for him, smirking and grinning.
But - that’s not what I want - he had said, smiling, but also calm and serious - I want you to show me your pussy - lift your skirt right up and stay that way; show me - show me what you have to offer…
So now she knew what he wanted.
But .. just immediately? No Hello, no nothing - just Show me?
It was rude, and .. disconcerting.
And also stupidly cool. Here he was, this amazing man, and he could just walk into her house and say; ‘Show me’ - and she would.
Lift her skirt up, push her groin forward a little, shift one foot to open herself wider; blush, feel her heart skipping a beat - and show him her naked pussy; feeling so slutty, and so eager, and so weak, and so needy, and blush deeper, feeling the heat of it at her sex, too.
Hot, and hopeful, too.
He had put his hand there, grasping (she let out a sharp soft Ooo-oh! of mingled shock and pleasure at his cool, firm touch), then pushed her steadily backwards, until she had no option but to fall back onto the bed.
He pulled her blouse open, lifted her legs, unzipped his flies and simply pushed into her (how was she so wet, so quickly?), forcing a cry from her that was intended as protest but came out as weakness - not that it mattered, he was already into his rhythm; deep, forceful, unhurried strokes that pushed the breath out from her each time, so that she was panting in time with him, feeling her breasts jiggling, holding herself open for this greedy, selfish assault, helping him use her - making herself as she thinks, as she hopes, he wants her to be.
And getting turned on by it too (by the feeling of being used, as much as by the actual sex, she realised a couple of weeks ago, by the excitement of knowing that she, mousy Cleo, could be this .. this slut, this eager, willing vehicle for this man’s desire).
She was in love with Cleo the slut.
And then he had come (she revelled in the momentary tension that even he could not control as he jerked inside her), pulled out, wiped himself on the remains of her blouse.
“I shan’t want you until the weekend, now. Jenkins will message you.”
And he was gone, leaving her with this feeling.
Breathless.
Transfixed.
Torn between tears and glory (how can she allow herself to be treated so - to be made to feel worthless? But then the intensity of being with him, of being used like that…).
Lying there, her hips still surging, her heart overflowing - so tender, so wounded, the knowledge of her degradation, the danger of the path he is leading her down, its destructiveness, of her own rapidly disappearing will to resist, her growing need.
The terror at the idea of falling, of being pulled, further down.
The eagerness, the swooning delirium at the thought of being so taken.
It is ten minutes before she lowers her legs. Ten minutes before the feeling fades, Ten precious minutes of intensity - of being completely his.
For life will be grey now until she is informed by his assistant when, where and how she will be ‘wanted’.
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