Every now and then
Every now and then, seemingly at random, they gave her a few minutes, sometimes an hour, even, to herself. Perhaps on purpose, perhaps just another expression of their utter lack of interest in her as a person, in her thoughts, feelings, desires.
But if they had planned something for her as a subtle torture, they couldn’t have come up with anything more effective.
For it is in these periods of quiet, left to herself; naked - of course; in silence - of course, that she is unable to prevent herself unpacking her feelings about her condition here.
To examine for herself what it truly means to her be a chattel of the Castle. To have offered herself up for this ( really, though - she had had no idea; they had manipulated her so beautifully, she had even giggled as she had offered her wrists to Anne-Marie for the shackles, bent her head accommodatingly to the side as the collar had been fixed, gasped prettily and wriggled seductively as the chauffeur’s fingers had surprised her by clumsily caressing her lower lips, as Anne-Marie watched ).
Ah, how sweet and sexy it had been.
Then, rapidly, how heart-stoppingly terrifying, how devastatingly shaming, how psychologically destructive - almost watching herself as she gave so much of herself away - seemingly without even struggling, as what she had considered her life (all her hopes, dreams, her past, her future) was rendered meaningless - a silly fantasy which had slipped her grasp; becoming what they required of her - responding helplessly to the regime, to the drip-drip; watching herself become a whore, an eager, willing slut; a sex-slave in truth.
Now the bell rings, breaking in on her reverie and with a surge of emotion, she realises again how astonishing it is to be her, to be here, to be in the grip of this cruel but enthralling intensity. To feel as alive as this - to feel like this so often..
She doesn’t know how she hasn’t ripped asunder, these last months - mentally or physically - so gloriously, so thoroughly, so violently, has she been fucked, by so many, many cocks. And so cruelly, sadistically hurt, by people who look into her eyes as they inflict their cruelties, by others who laugh at her screams and sobs, bantering between themselves. All of this without the slightest allowance of privacy - all her emotions, all her responses, all her weaknesses, observed, commented on, joked about, caricatured, replayed on screens, discussed with strangers over her head as she kneels, naked (or adorned in ways that make her more than naked), all her effort concentrated on presenting breasts, sex, buttocks, lips, hands - all just-so.
And once again, she knows that offering herself up to the terrible destructive intensity of this is her only option.
The clanking in the corridor. Here’s the footman with her chains. With the whip.
Her little interlude is ended, just as it began - at the whim of someone else, for no reason that concerns her.
Her heart flutters. The appalling desperation at her helplessness invades her, nearly unhinging her, as it does every single time ( it is impossible, it seems, to get used to anything, here ). She lets it ride her - there’s no fighting it - until once again, she discovers that, somehow, she can live this life; swallows a sob, blinks back her tears, feeling the quiverings in her belly - the aftershocks of the wave of terror - receding.
Then, deliberately taking herself in hand, with desperate concentration, she arranges herself as beautifully as she knows how, thighs obscenely, shamingly wide (”When will you fucking learn, whore? Keep your CUNT open! Now I’m going to have to make you scream again.”), shoulders back, breasts jutting, belly in, hands behind her neck, tongue softly between her teeth, lips parted, eyes down.
As he enters the room, she lets her hips surge, pushing her opening sex forward a little, offering herself. She’s breathless.
How can it be so thrilling to be so scared? So heartbreakingly aware of her vulnerability - the knowledge that she is a possession to be played with, and nothing more. Never anything more.
Talking with Anne-Marie (a group self-discovery session, with two other girls - and sometimes members who enjoy such things attend - made to verbalise their deepest, most shaming feelings, talk through terrible experiences, all naked, displaying themselves, all knowing that failure to be as open as required will result in terrible suffering), she has been brought to realise for herself that it is of fundamental importance that she be whipped; whipped impersonally, whipped harshly, whipped hard; made to scream, daily forced to experience abject, hysterical desperation, utter powerlessness, to be made to realise that her suffering serves another’s purpose, that she truly means nothing at all, except in so far as she is pleasing, entertaining. That this experience helps her to be more purely a thing, an object - of use to the Castle and its members for a little while longer.
She’s getting wet again, just before her whipping. Part of her knows she should be horrified and appalled by this, but also, knows that that part of her no longer really matters.
Deliberately, she embraces the knowledge that she is turning into a girl who derives sexual excitement from the idea of being cruelly whipped, gives herself over to it, although it brings tears to her eyes, and makes her tremble.
She decides (without looking) that it is the fat one with the bald patch. He likes to manhandle her, drag her around. He’s clever, she thinks - knows how much this distresses her. She smiles softly to herself - a small, sad smile - then allows her fear to invade her, until she genuinely loses the ability to hold herself upright and flops to the side, whimpering, offering him her fear for his pleasure, enduring the black despair as he drags her by the hair to the whipping frame, letting it take her.
Her New Home
To have brought such a girl - not without kicking, and screaming, and cruel mind games - but brought her, nevertheless, to the point of unquestioning acceptance of a harsh new reality - that she must at all times present herself as prettily as she can, as enticingly as she can - whether naked (as she usually will be) or clothed; that it is the right of anyone, anyone at all, to use her for their pleasure - either in inflicting suffering on her, or in sating their sexual desires - in the confident expectation that she will sweetly and softly collaborate with her own debasement.
To do this to a beautiful, proud girl, to break her thus, but without rendering her a drooling, mindless idiot - to have her know exactly what she has lost, what she has become, to see her, held in common at the service of your fellow Castle Members, serving them with such pretty, if blushing, compliance - this is the ultimate in satisfaction for those members who pride themselves as procurers.
Maya, pictured, only gave herself over three weeks ago, and still cannot believe what she has done. In the past 24 hours, two members of staff have fucked her mouth, one her pussy and one her arsehole; she has been slashed with the short crop they carry seven or eight times - either for minor infractions or for entertainment, and suffered her regular early morning ‘just to remind you that you are nothing but cunt’ whipping to boot. While on duty, she has been harshly thrashed across the bottom with a belt, been slowly and excruciatingly brought to public orgasm through alternate knowing manipulations and gentle but repeated strokes from a small multi-stranded leather flogger, has had eight different men come in her mouth, suffered two arse fuckings (one so unrelentingly aggressive that it had driven her into hysterics), twice been used by two men at once, and made to perform with another girl and a double-ended dildo for a mixed dinner party of well-dressed snobs, hating and loving the intensity of the debilitating orgasm that overtook her so suddenly, so completely and so obviously when one of the women had caressed her nipples and clitoris with those long lacquered nails of hers..
Now doing decorative service in the member’s hallway, a cheerful stranger has just told her that in half-an-hour, after he has had a shave and a haircut, he will take her outside to the stables, tie her to a post, and ‘see what a dog-whip will do to those lovely tits’.
She is turning over and over in her mind, how it can be that she is not running to the exit, or going insane, or plotting to kill the man who brought her here.
Why, instead, she is thinking that the stranger who is going to cause her such suffering is devastatingly handsome, wondering if she can entice him to use her pussy instead of her poor torn rear passage, and hoping that her procurer ( the man whom she once thought she might marry ) will come again tonight, even though it distresses her so to be used in front of him.
A minute later, Anne-Marie appears and spends a little time looking at her with that casual but all-seeing gaze before approaching and taking the points of the girl’s breasts in her hands, softly but very definitely taking possession of them. The older woman watches critically, then gives a small nod of approval as the girl straightens, moves her shoulders back - making clear her eagerness to offer her breasts for whatever Anne-Marie might wish of them - cruelty or caresses.
“Pretty, you looked so sad just now. I wanted to remind you - you have just under a week to go of your probationary period. You may leave at any time in the next 6 days. Perhaps you should? You are being used very harshly, I know - and not just because you are fresh - not only for your beauty, either - although that is part of it, too - but because your responses to cruel treatment are so delightfully entertaining. That first video of you on the members’ site has been upvoted many times; there’s already a queue of requests for weekend bookings, should I decide to make you available.”
“But should you stay? Should you let us do this to you, lovely? You must consider very carefully. If you don’t ask to leave, you know that we will simply keep you - move you into another category; that you will in some sense become a thing - a belonging; what we call a chattel slave?”
Anne-Marie feels the jolt of alarm that shakes the girl, sees with pleasure the widening of her eyes, the tiny trembling of her fingertips, the sudden deep breath that makes her lovely breasts move, the working of her lips.
After a judicious wait, making sure the girl knows she is being made to wait, that she knows she may not speak unless commanded to, letting the impact of the power imbalance between them impress itself on the girl, Anne-Marie says;
“Speak then, pretty; tell me.”
Tears in her eyes, the girl seems almost to have forgotten how.
‘Funny,’ thinks Anne-Marie - ‘she had no trouble opening wide, offering her throat to the valet who whipped her this morning - and so sincerely, too’.
At length, Maya manages to make her mouth work, even if what comes out is a near whisper, husky with emotion;
“Please .. please Madam, I .. .. I. This .. This is my ho..home, now.”
To be Fucked Like This
To be fucked like this, devastated like this, dominated like this, unhinged by her own shocking pleasure, irresistible, unmaskable…
…
Mostly, of course, it was not like this. Not at all like this.
Being sordidly, boorishly used by men - the men often strangers - even the ones who weren’t strangers known only from previous fuckings, from casual comments as she served them, as often as not accompanied by equally casual, shockingly intimate caresses - crude and hurtful manipulations, too - being used by men without regard for anything but their own pleasure; of course it was rare for it to be like this.
Painful fuckings, desperately unwanted fuckings, humiliating fuckings, shameful fuckings, being fucked while hysterical, three of them at a time, the out-of-time thrustings pulling her apart, fucked while sobbing pitifully, while tied, while being whipped - all these brutal uses, unattended by any pleasure at all on her part, were daily occurrences, over which she, of course, had no say, no means of prediction, no allowable response other than maximal offering of her soft body, and no defence either - physical or psychological.
Nina was simply there, smiling nervously at any man who beckoned her, grabbed her, pawed her, threw her down, entered her, hurt her; and when no-one was using her, then displaying herself (for fear of punishment) as wantonly as possible without stepping over the impossible-to-determine line of ‘too brazen’, that equally resulted in cruel punishment.
But these rare fuckings, nevertheless; the ones that affected her so (despite often being themselves painful, unwanted, humiliating, shameful) - these fuckings were transcendent, transformative, addictive, out-of-body experiences.
The men who brought about these experiences more than occasionally were the ones before whom no humiliation, no self-degradation, no display of neediness was too much for her last remaining shreds of dignity; the times when Nina found herself trying anything she could to communicate to whoever it was that was using her just how urgently eager she was for them to take everything from her - how willing she was to be destroyed for their pleasure. Love? No, of course it wasn’t love she felt for them. Terror, need, craving; pathetic, shaming gratitude maybe - but not love.
It was these addicting fuckings that occupied her mind, on the occasions when Anne-Marie would remind her that Nina was in fact, free to leave - not bound to the Castle, like some other girls, by contract, or by reason even of obedience to a lover (for her procurer had gone back to Brazil months ago).
There was no ‘standard’ Castle contract. Well, of course there was; it had been produced - after an interminable series of meetings, during which some bitter disagreements had broken out, leading to the resignation of one member - by a sub-committee of the Great Table: it was eighteen pages long, and utterly unreadable, not to mention being riddled with internal contradictions and terms which, while psychologically impactful, would not pass any serious scrutiny (such as the renunciation by the girl of all her human rights). Anne-Marie had sat through all the meetings, acting as the committee’s secretary, smiling, nodding, proposing workable compromises, biting her tongue and suppressing her amusement when necessary. For, of course, no-one would ever seek to test the contract at law - the publicity would be too risky, members privacy threatened.
In theory, every girl at the Castle was bound by this contract. They had all been made to sign it. But everyone who understood things knew that it would never be referred to again - that what mattered, for each girl, was the agreement which Anne-Marie would set out for her, before she signed the papers. And these agreements, although full of familiar patterns, were individually crafted by Anne-Marie to suit the particular circumstances - how the girl had arrived, her temperament, how long Anne-Marie judged would be the shortest stay that would embed her position as a Castle girl indelibly into her self-image - these and and many, many other considerations would be taken into account in the fabrication of an agreement that would entrap the girl, as far as possible, through her own mental processes.
Occasionally, some Great Table member would raise the issue of some aspect of the official contract that he considered should be re-examined. At this point, the older, wiser members present would exchange calm but significant looks, and - as tactfully as possible - the proposal would be sidelined.
Anne-Marie would ask Nina directly, when it was that she would be leaving. And when the thought of a life where she would never experience those occasional, delirious, out-of-body experience fuckings, never again be so thoroughly used, so abased, so destroyed, so liberated; when the idea of that seemed so empty, so desolate and bleak that, despite her trembling, despite her blushing, despite her inner turmoil, she would say out loud that she wanted to stay, those present (it was always in Anne-Marie’s sitting-room, in the afternoon, when she took visitors, and other girls would be on hand as well) would mostly understand that the girl had full knowledge of what staying entailed.
When put on the spot, Anne-Marie smiling but inflexible in her gentle requests for more specifics, the girl would ask, tears glistening in her eyes, shoulders trembling, but in remarkably clear, if soft and husky tones; ask - ask to be held, to be chained, to be controlled, to be subjected to whipping, to rape, to be kept, to be put to use, to be whored, to be treated as a slave, as nothing but holes, breasts, entertainment; If .. if it please you, Mistress.
Then, even if they hadn’t known it, those visitors would soon learn that the cost of such an admission for a free girl like Nina was a planned assault, designed and measured in its intensity to take her beyond even what she had endured a month beforehand.
That Anne-Marie would explain to the assembly, in some detail, just what it was that Nina was being asked to accept - inviting them to participate in her destruction.
And that she, a shy 24 year-old, all but a virgin until 18 months previously, would find herself carefully, nervously arranging herself, thighs spread, arms clasped tightly behind her, shoulders back, to beg to be allowed to experience whatever outrages had been proposed to her, all for the privilege of being exposed to further outrages, in the eager hope that, one day, somehow, one of these all-consuming fuckings would somehow take her beyond herself, break her utterly, so that she became a nothing, a pliable, mindless fuck-doll; so that she would no longer be tormented by her shame at her own wanton nature, her craving for the oblivion of the orgasms she could only achieve under the total power of utter domination.
That she could become truly a slave.
