You will find that this makes more sense if you have read Part 3
“I … I consent, to … your control … of … of everything, of … of anything … for … for thirty days … of … of my life.”
nOelle can hardly believe that she is doing this, that she has arrived at a place where this is what makes sense to her, where to have got the words out brings, more than any other emotion, a sense of great relief — of tension released, of a falling away of uncertainty.
The mass of contradictions that are war within her haven’t disappeared, haven’t gone away, but the fact that she no longer has to choose, the absolution from responsibility for what happens next, is experienced, paradoxically, as freeing, liberating — even though she knows that she has given up on something important, given up on herself at some level.
Without intending to, she looks up at the woman with a smile — a smile that tells much with its weakness; I don’t even know her name!, its uncertain hope, its willingness to please, its acknowledgement that this defeat is in many ways welcome — but most tellingly makes it clear that nOelle accepts the woman as her superior. nOelle’s smile is in fact a plea for mercy; please … please, be kind to me, because I have acknowledged my weakness; this is the message that Anne-Marie sees, and in response her own smile is gracious, but all satisfaction and pleasure — utterly without softness or any hint of mercy; she reaches down to caress the girl’s cheek;
“If you’ll open your thighs a bit wider, pretty, and put your sweet little tongue out, I’ll take a quick picture for Thierry; he’ll be happy, I’m sure, to see you so compliant — that your consent means something.”
And of course, given what nOelle has just consented to, from what she can guess about the outlines of a regime that produces girls like Natalie, there is nothing, nothing whatsoever for nOelle to do in response to this softly worded suggestion than to treat it as an ironclad order; to let the apprehension and humiliation that come along with this acceptance be what they are, but at the same time not to let this affect her obedience, as she self-consciously shuffles her legs apart and, having to clamp down on her breathing, puts her tongue tip out for her new mistress’ entertainment, so that a photograph capturing just how far she has fallen, how fast, can be taken and shared (just an hour or so since Thierry and she were sitting in the cafe at breakfast, a more or less normal couple).
(Thierry, as a matter of politeness, forwards the picture to the posse who had been part of the little scene in the park, earlier, confirming that they’ve helped with a successful ‘take-down’, thanking them, wishing them pleasure in their use of her, making it clear that there should be no holding back with the girl on his behalf — that his wish is that each of them should take from her exactly what he wishes, without any restraint at all; I don’t need her back, really, as I’m bringing another one along right now … my plan for this one is for her to go all the way — become Castle chattel.)
nOelle hates herself for her clumsiness in complying with the demeaning order, sure that Natalie would have been silken elegance itself in the same position, certain that she will be judged; seen as ugly, clumsy, ridiculous, unattractive.
Understanding — a lowering realisation — that for her, now (naked as she is; humbled, demeaned, shorn of all other considerations that normally apply to a person), that to fail to be sexy, to be elegant, to be pretty, is to fail completely (for it is clear that, in this new context, nothing about her but her sexual attractiveness really matters any more). With this, the thought of being found unattractive in her movements, her positioning becomes almost physically frightening; and she looks up again, needy; seeking to find in the woman’s expression whether her failure has been noticed, and if so, whether it is tolerated, or met with disapproval.
What she has not imagined, and which feels worse than either of those, is what she gets, which is genuine, open laughter;
“Oh dear! My, my, little girl! You have much to learn, and quickly, if such lumpish clumsiness is not going to get you into all sorts of trouble. You’d better take yourself in hand, pretty; watch Natalie here, if you want to see how to get along.”
It is frankly bizarre, to be kneeling here, naked, in a public place, legs lewdly splayed, still pushing her breasts out, still weakly smiling, being spoken to in such terms; the weirdness of it nearly oversets her and she has to clamp the smile onto her lips and manage a small nod of acceptance, before the woman’s faint but menacing expectation is relaxed.
A voice inside her is screaming that this is madness, rank insanity, that these people are maniacs, need locking up, that she cannot (Can not!) let herself be taken by this woman to god knows where for god knows what to be done to her (clearly nothing good, nothing healthy, nothing wholesome, nothing nurturing).
Her chest is heaving, but she controls herself — suppresses the voices, pays attention to her body, finds that some aspect of her has been coolly considering the situation, and that she already knows some adjustments she might make, things which may improve the acceptability — frankly, the sexual attractiveness — of her position; and, painfully shy, horribly aware that she is being watched by two women who understand far too well what is actually going on for her, she rearranges herself for the delectation of men. Men in the abstract. Greedy fuckers; makes herself more interesting for the crude desires of crude men. Carefully, doing it as best she can, wanting to be good at it. To please this woman.
Also, not to have Natalie consider her as hopeless.
nOelle’s head droops in shame, but her body is held as well as she can manage it.
It comes to her then, that it feels good to try to please this woman. Most obviously, because she’s scary, and trying to please is the obvious path to feeling less frightened — but there’s more; something she wants to gain, something it seems important to have, something to work for — the woman’s approval.
Already, disturbing as it is, the quality of the woman’s attention — the experience of being so carefully, so intimately observed, by someone who seems able to see inside her mind — this is powerful. And already nOelle knows that she wants more of it.
Which is a frightening thought, for if this woman can see inside her, then nOelle cannot get away with anything. Her heart thumps, loudly, in her ears.
Frightening it may be, but it is also tantalising — for if she can be sincere in her wish to please, then surely the woman will be able to see her sincerity? And if she knows nOelle is sincere, then will she not be pleased?
A long pause; nOelle feels she might lose it, so exposed, so shamed, so degrading is it to pose so obviously, all the while managing such a firestorm of conflicting emotions, desires, fears, until, at last, there comes release;
“Is that it? Well, it will have to do then — you’ve work to do on yourself, girl, hard work, that’s for sure.”
This stretching of time at moments of consolidation — the aftermath of a push for deeper, explicit complicity from a girl with what is being done to her — this is one of Anne-Marie’s more methodical techniques: obtain the objective (in this case, the extension of consent), then press home the implications with some sharp demand; next, simply pause time. Enforce a pause.
Let the girl’s brain do the work — let her process what has just happened to her, how much weaker she has just let herself become, how much more dependent upon Anne-Marie’s wishes; let her stew, until the awful contradictions of her position have her approaching a meltdown — and then offer a way out — a way out that involves immediate, pretty compliance with some simple, if demeaning requirement. Knowing that the girl will grasp at it as lifeline — a release from the torment of having to think about what she has just given away. An escape into obedience.
“Well then! Fun as this is, it’s time to go. Natalie, will you put the collar set back on her, and her dress. Hands behind her, this time, and we’ll leash her, I think, since she’s had a wobble.”
“Oh, and Natalie, you needn’t think that I didn’t notice you taking an interest in things that don’t concern you. I didn’t bring you to gawp, or to form opinions; you know better than that. Two black marks for you.”
“Thank you, mistress; two black marks.”
The girl has an accent — her French with a soft Irish lilt, a perfect fit for her other-worldly quality. She sounds grateful, genuinely grateful for whatever ‘black marks’ are — which surely cannot be anything good, thinks nOelle.
Again, the woman walks away, her attention on her ‘phone, makes a call, leaving nOelle and Natalie to shyly manage their joint compliance. Each is clearly tentative, nervous. Each wants to convey to the other both respect, tenderness and understanding, each is tormented by imagination as to the other’s opinion of her.
Natalie, whose disposition is intensely shy, nevertheless knows that she must put her greater experience to use — help the girl (who trembles so piteously, who is clearly in such a febrile state) to get through what is coming to her as best she can.
For nOelle’s perception of Natalie as supreme in her elegance, her beauty, her apparent calm in such strange circumstances is simply an artefact of Natalie’s conditioning. The lovely redhead has learned to appear calm and accepting of even the most disturbing scenes (the learning was terribly hard and at times had brought her to black despair, her natural character being to be highly emotional and expressive, girlishly reactive to every little thing).
Without careful self-management, the emotional weight on Natalie at being made to be complicit in nOelle’s humiliation would be sharply evident. For seeing this lovely girl, so ignorant of what is being done with her, what lies in store for her, is bringing up the still raw emotions of her own early encounters with Anne-Marie, the events of which she still cannot wholly accept; for, despite her beautiful behaviour, Natalie is a girl in torment, still, in the aftermath of her own introduction to this new world. Anne-Marie’s world.
Meanwhile nOelle, who is so frightened of the older woman, is terribly needy for Natalie’s approval, and terribly uncertain of it. The girl has seemed kind, a little, but her beauty and poise are intimidating; her intentions, her status relative to nOelle’s, unknown.
Anne-Marie is, of course, perfectly aware of the touching little ballet of tenderness and tension that is being played out, and decides that the effect upon the new piece is appropriate; she decides to let it play out. It always helps if a new girl becomes fascinated with a girl a little farther along, and this nOelle seems, from her sidelong glances and darting eyes, to be quite definitely interested in Natalie.
Natalie helps nOelle to her feet, subtly giving her slight support until she is confident the girl is steady on her feet (she is, after all, fully naked, standing in a public park, when such a thing had been unimaginable for her an hour ago).
Then Natalie stoops, bending smoothly at the hip, the micro-skirt flipping up to expose her own nakedness beneath, to retrieve the skimpy dress, then does her best to make good the worst evidence of its maltreatment before offering it to nOelle, who gratefully slips it over her head.
Her relief is short-lived, though, as Natalie first shows her the collar and cuffs set, and she has to accept those — somehow much more serious now; but a further shock is to come as Natalie first brings nOelle’s wrists behind her back (nOelle wasn’t really capable of paying attention to details when this was instructed), and joins them there (even more disempowering than when they had been linked in front), then begins to tighten the chains to the collar, forcing nOelle to bend her arms as her wrists are lifted. Even a little lift imposes stress on her shoulders, and she whimpers, softly, although without any resistance.
But worse is to come, as Natalie produces a long coil of braided white leather, with a snap-shackle at one end, and a woven handle-loop at the other. The shackle is attached to the cuffs, and then Natalie does something extraordinarily shocking to nOelle; she passes the handle end of the leash down, then forward, between nOelle’s legs, and carefully, gently, but deliberately, pulls at it until it begins to snug itself tightly into nOelle’s crotch — it must be totally obvious from the rear what is going on, she suddenly realises — the leather pulling the thin fabric tight to her buttocks; and then, a final pull and the leash insinuates itself, gently enough — but shockingly intimate, between nOelle’s inner labia, and this time the whimper is more despairing, her eyes very round, her body twisting and jerking slightly, almost of its own accord, seeking what freedoms, what opportunities there might be to escape from this irksome and disturbing restraint — and finding nothing. Nothing, at least, that would not require outright defiance — and that is off the table — nOelle completely vanquished for the present.
The little sad cry attracts Anne-Marie’s attention, and she looks up from her sotto-voce call, looking briefly and carefully at the detail of Natalie’s arrangements before nodding a curt approval and indicating with a flick of her fingers that they should move off.
Natalie makes an obvious move with the leash, very gently, to nOelle, signalling that she is about to turn and walk back in the direction from which Anne-Marie had appeared — wanting nOelle to be prepared. But despite this, the utter unfamiliarity — frankly, the awfulness — of being leashed like this means that nOelle is not at all ready, and the leash tightens rapidly before she can move her feet, pulling her wrists down, jerking her neck backward, awkwardly, and sawing the leash yet more deeply into her damp sex, bringing another noise — more of a cry of shock and weak outrage this time; nevertheless, nOelle finds that the immediacy and the threat of this arrangement is well understood by her body, which begins to move with remarkable alacrity, seeking to reduce the tension in the leash at once.
This, though, is just the first shock — the act of walking is almost a new experience for nOelle, so strange, so shaming is it to be restrained and led like this, unable to use her arms for balance, each step bringing unwelcome and un-ignorable, devastatingly intimate friction between the ridges of the braiding and the sensitive lips of her sex. There’s no time to worry, though — it’s immediately obvious that the slightest failure to keep pace with Natalie will bring another tightening, sawing action from the leash into her tender labia, so recently softened and puffed up with the heat of arousal; the effect is to require from nOelle a very earnest concentration on the act of walking, with precious little room for anything else.
Having nothing else to latch onto, nOelle fixates on Natalie. The redhead’s walk is effortlessly seductive despite her vertiginous heels, and nOelle knows her own attempt to match step and swing must be crude and awkward by comparison. Blushes rise into her cheeks as she feels her breasts, braless, barely held by the still unbuttoned bodice, sway in the cool air, humiliation at the feel of the leash working, obscenely, in her sex — eating into her self-esteem — feeling the woman’s eyes on her behind, judging her clumsy attempts at a walk that is at once elegant and also minimises the raw sensation of the leash in her sex.
nOelle is swallowing back hiccupy tears now, knees trembling and weak, breath coming in random gusty jerks that only set her breasts moving more conspicuously. Can she handle this? And if she can’t handle this, how will she manage what is really going to happen, later — for whatever that is, it seems certain to be shocking and degrading?
Always the question in her head, whirling, chaotic, desperate. Why has Thierry led her to this? Why did he demand her consent? Why has he abandoned her to these abusive and demanding strangers? Is this how she is to become ‘*remarkable, special, valuable*’? Who is this woman? Who is Natalie, and what, exactly, is her situation?
nOelle is all at once terrifyingly, heart-stoppingly scared — but still Natalie keeps walking, so that there is nothing for it but to follow, or have the lead cut more deeply into her sex…
All nOelle knows that is certain, that is not shrouded in questions, is that Thierry wanted her to obey, that she has consented, given herself up to … to this woman, and that she is watching, judging, and so she tries not to think, just to walk as best she can, almost grateful for the simplicity of it, despite the feeling that she is dying inside.
Then they come through some foliage and there is a car — a huge old classic Bentley carriage of a car, with a uniformed male chauffeur, wearing a cap and jodhpurs, like something out of the 1920s — and he is looking right at nOelle!
He must be able to see her breasts — the dress, pulled apart by the enforced backwards set of her shoulders, has let them sway all but free — he must see the leash cutting tellingly into her groin, know that she is cuffed! This is impossible to believe — to be like this, on a public street! Her heart is thudding like a trip-hammer, her ears are roaring, she feels faint — but at the same time the only possible thing is to do as is expected of her, to be passive and concentrate on not looking too ugly or stupid, fixated on maintaining her pose as they come to a halt.
The feeling that this is a public place is overwhelming, and she can only stare at Natalie’s feet, although a part of her is pathetically needy to see if he is looking at her, how he is looking at her — whether he despises her, or is sexually interested — or both.
More tears gather, and she blinks them desperately away, trying to control the heaving of her chest that is making her exposed breasts move so obviously.
All options for self-respect have been denied nOelle, save for one — sexual attractiveness. If she gives that up — lets herself cringe, her face crumple, lets herself become ugly, then she will have nothing — nothing at all.
And she isn’t strong enough to bear that — to risk total shame and failure — even when the alternative is going along with this shocking and degrading weirdness. This madness to which she has consented.
Already, she is telling herself that one cannot consent to such treatment, in advance, without being advised, that no-one would judge her (no-one sane) if she were to renege on her commitment to these people.
But that’s not the point, is it? She remembers that there is, also; unimaginable, but horribly unsettling, the talk of ‘force’ — of it being made impossible to refuse their bidding.
It’s all too much, and once again she works to shut down her thoughts, to concentrate on just being, on not looking too ugly.
She holds herself as best she can, blushing, trembling, having to live up to the reality that her breasts are on show in a public street, and the consequent need to present them well — even for the eyes of the unknown flunkey. Her heart is hammering, as she squashes the desperation and shame that threaten to overwhelm her, holds back her tears, tries to manage a face as enigmatically smooth and pleasant as Natalie’s.
Natalie has her stand while the chauffeur opens the rear compartment for Anne-Marie, before leading nOelle behind the car to the off-side. The man comes around the front, grinning openly at the sight of the two of them, so clearly presented for sexual use, and it becomes very hard for nOelle to keep her position, so impossible it is to accept.
Nevertheless, fear keeps her her head up (though her eyes are downcast), her posture straight. Her knees are shaking and it is as much a relief as a humiliation to be obliged to kneel on the deep pile carpet of the rear compartment of the car, shown that she is to spread her legs widely, then has the bodice of her dress fully opened by Natalie, who goes on to push the skirts of her dress right back to her hips, so that her sex is on show. The leash is coiled neatly between her knees, snaking obviously back between the junction of her thighs, still held in place by her sex lips.
Natalie kneels beside her, linking her own hands behind her back after loosening the tie of her own blouse, then bunching up the front her own little skirt, so that their mistress is presented with two pairs of unfettered breasts swaying and jiggling above naked, parted thighs as the car gathers speed.
It’s insane, but at the same time, it’s the only reality she has, nOelle thinks, as the car turns, turns again, the small rear window making it hard to see where they are, so that she almost immediately has to accept that she is lost, has no idea where she is, or in which direction they are taking her.
Finally without distractions, beyond keeping upright when the car, driven fast, takes the occasional sharp turn, nOelle’s mind seethes with questions, but, forbidden to speak, they whirl around inside her head, until she becomes uncomfortably aware that what is increasingly on her mind are not the urgent questions about what is happening to her, what her future (30 days!) will bring, but the question of the woman.
nOelle has never before spent any time thinking about whether she is sexually interested in women, in other girls. It’s simply never been an issue. Sexually awkward as she had been before she met Thierry, she simply hadn’t thought about much more than hoping she’d not be too disappointing to a nice boy. And — after Thierry — she had had no need at all to think about anything beyond — because Thierry was always far, far beyond where she was in any case.
But now, made to kneel like this — clearly in some sort of intentionally sexual ‘display’ pose, facing the woman (who is again busy, reviewing something on her slim laptop, making short calls where she speaks in clipped, definitive sentences, while the person at the other end speaks hardly at all), nOelle is forced to accept that she is in the hands of a female sexual predator, and all the earlier thoughts about what another woman will think of a girl like her come flooding back.
What will the woman think — think of her, nOelle, after she has allowed herself to be treated as she has been this morning? What sort of interest will this woman have in a girl whose reaction to such treatment has been acceptance, submission? But it goes beyond that, of course — for nOelle has proved herself to be a girl who will make very obvious efforts to present herself as sexually desirable in even the most demeaning conditions.
The thoughts combine with nOelle’s uneasy recognition that she finds herself nervously concerned to be thought of well by this woman — to be approved of — and that, in the highly sexualised atmosphere, it seems inevitable that this will require nOelle to think about being sexually pleasing to her, and, all of a sudden, nOelle finds herself urgently needing to understand what the woman thinks of her breasts, her face, her thighs, naked as they are, wondering whether she should splay her legs more widely, acutely consciousness of the fact that her nipples are growing stiff as these thoughts chase each other round inside her head, as the certainty comes upon her that, at some point, she will be called on to satisfy this woman’s sexual desires.
This new thought catches her hard, almost undoes her, with a wave of mingled fear, embarrassment and — frankly — arousal surges in her, so that she cannot suppress a little whimper.
Ashamed at her own weakness, her own wanton thoughts, nOelle reddens, tears once again brimming, emotion making her chest heave uncontrollably.
The woman looks up, inspects nOelle casually, but with her all-encompassing attention, then laughs, easily, lazily;
“For a new piece, you certainly seem to have the trick of drawing attention to your tits.”
And this breaks nOelle’s control; tears began to roll down her cheeks; how can it be that, in such a short time, she is now in a situation where someone she only just met, whose name she doesn’t even know, can feel it appropriate, acceptable to say such a thing to her?
How can she be here, posing so extremely, on her way to some unknown destination, having heard — and only dimly understood — so many threatening and disturbing descriptions of what her immediate future hold in store (30 days!) — all of these statements seemingly taking for granted that nOelle is in a condition of complete vulnerability and lack of control.
At the same time, how can it be that, no matter how outrageous and impossible her situation, nOelle knows that she is carefully holding her shoulders in just the right way to keep her breasts moving freely, is powerfully aware that she is resisting her instinctive need to close her thighs, to hide and protect her sex — the object of so much unwanted attention this morning — that she is in fact over-compensating against her instincts, pushing her hips forward.
Shame, confusion and helpless need for approval eat into her as she bites her lip to keep from outright sobbing.
The woman leans in, quite tenderly wiping the tears from nOelle’s cheeks, talking in a soft voice, that nevertheless has an edge of cruel amusement to it which has nOelle quivering.
“Tears can be fun, pretty — even sobbing, in its place. But you must remember, no matter how desperate you feel; you must always, always, stay pretty. It’s very simple; girls who aren’t pretty aren’t sexually enticing, and we have no use at all for girls who aren’t enticing — unless of course it’s to hurt them — make them cry and scream and beg. But even then, you see, it’s important for you to stay pretty — so that there is some chance that someone will decide to stop hurting you and choose to fuck you instead.”
Of course, this little speech rends nOelle’s already tattered heart, making it even harder to maintain her last shreds of composure (at the same time, of course, making her more desperate to mange to hold on; I’m enjoying this one, thinks Anne-Marie; Thierry’s taste and technique are really rather refined these days. If she works out, we may have to see if he’s interested in joining the Great Table.)
But the woman, uncaring, wants a response;
“Did you understand me, girly?”
And she lifts nOelle’s chin, making it clear that, this time, eye contact is required, and nOelle, quivering, desperately trying not to sob, lips trembling, shoulders shaking, does her poor best, hating herself for this abject submission, but unable to find any will to demur, let alone resist;
“Yes … yes …”
Why am I making it so easy for her? How is she doing this to me? Why am I so pleased to see that she is enjoying this — even though her enjoyment comes from shaming and frightening me so, enjoying having me display myself so shamefully for her? Why am I not angry at her? Why do I want to please her so earnestly? How can I survive this?
“’Mistress’, pretty — call me ‘Mistress’. All women are your mistress, all men your masters, unless you are certain otherwise. For instance, you haven’t been introduced to Natalie here, so for now, she is your Mistress. But in fact, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, her status is essentially the same as yours, and so now you know that you may never speak to her — thus no form of address is necessary. Simple, eh? For you, now, life is generally simple, so that there is no excuse for being less than perfect. And, of course, imperfection is rewarded with cruelty — often disproportionate cruelty; which, of course, you will accept as prettily as you can manage.”
“Shall we try again? Do you understand?”
Fresh tears squeeze from nOelle’s eyes, but the woman’s right hand is now foraging vigorously at her sex, and nOelle is shocked to realise aware that those fingers are both knowing and skilful, so that there is an additional tone in her voice which goes beyond fear and bewilderment as she says;
“Yes, M … Mistress … Th … Thank you, Mistress.”
nOelle doesn’t know where her ‘Thank you’ came from, save that she is so desperately eager not to give the woman the slightest cause for displeasure, and that servility — however humiliating — seems to be the right attitude.
Anee-Marie laughs, sitting back, leaving nOelle’s sex helplessly flexing, looking for the vanished source of sensation.
“Thank you, is it? My, my, perhaps Thierry is right — perhaps you are ready for this.”
Then, as nOelle flushes deepest red, trembling, she speaks in a new voice;
“Ah, we are getting closer. The blindfold, please Natalie”.
Not having the willpower to do anything else, nOelle kneels, trembling, awash with emotion but totally docile, as a silken blindfold is tied tightly around her face, until everything goes dark.
Looking inside herself for a moment, nOelle realises, wonderingly, that the woman’s insulting compliment, has been received as approval by her body — that this, and the blindfold — which would have any normal person reacting violently, have in fact calmed her — made things easier.
The woman is pleased with her, and, strangely, she finds the blindfold actually welcome — relieving her stress rather than increasing it. Some part of nOelle shuts down, accepts the dark as a reduction in her responsibility for the situation; a reason for her passivity. It’s impossible to know, now, where they are going, so she is excused from trying; it’s equally impossible to know where the woman is looking, and so things are simpler — nothing to react to — just … just hold this degrading pose.
Everything seems slower now, calmer, emotions felt less intensely now, as if through some soft syrup.
Just … just … remembering the feel of those cool strong, clever fingers peeling the braided leather from between her sex lips, stroking her there, teasing at her clit hood, remember that this is being done to her as she is tied, by a stranger, in a moving car with two other strangers … she ought to be fighting, or plotting her escape, or screaming — something … but somehow… there is an inevitability about things, and gradually, the feeling that she ought to be feeling something else, something less passive, this feeling ebbs away as the car purrs along, and nOelle realises, wonderingly, that some of that emotion has been a sham. She knows that she ought to feel affronted, outraged, unhappy, desperate to escape, that a ‘normal’ girl would have those feelings, and so she had told herself that she did, had faked herself into feeling that way.
But in fact, she realises, in her relative calm, she is not in fact unhappy — or resentful, or even strongly distressed — in spite of everything. So what is she feeling? She certainly isn’t happy, but then again, she cannot not find it in herself to be angry. She is not eager, but she is a million miles from resisting. It’s not that she is not frightened, not shamed, not alarmed — but that there is something about the calm certainty, the casual confidence of Thierry, of this woman — about the acceptance of Natalie and the chauffeur, about the feel of wealth and power that exudes from all of it, that makes resistance seem futile, and acceptance inviting.
nOelle is aware, too that the heavy sexual overtones have affected her — that while she is not strongly aroused, or wanting sex, that there is a heavy, sweet feeling in her limbs which she recognises as the precursor to lust, however strange — unacceptable — it might be to feel this way, that the feeling is real; at the same time, it’s all so improbable, disconnected from any previous reality, that she is at one remove, not directly involved, only able to be passive, accepting.
She knows that she should be alert, should be thinking hard about the extraordinary situation, concerned for her own well-being, for what might happen next — that she should be on guard — but somehow she can’t act on any of this. Thierry wishes her to be here; she holds it in her mind, reminding herself that, in pleasing him over the past months, in accepting other wild fancies of his, she has become more, so much more than she had ever been before. She has arrived here by accepting, by striving to be what he has wished her to become, and, in doing so, become someone more alive than she had ever dared dream she might be.
She must hold to these thoughts in the difficult moments — this acceptance that Thierry knows what is good for her, better than she knows herself. Hadn’t she told him just this, almost as soon as they had first met?
And so this — this situation is indeed shocking, extreme — but no different, really — except in degree.
But then as these thoughts lead on, nOelle begins to wonder, to question, just how easily she has been subdued, and now her fears grow again. Is she as stupid as a budgie, that she can be pacified by taking away the light, by a silly backhanded compliment?
Now, she forces herself to become more alert; the relaxation is struggled against, replaced by a growing, preternatural sensitivity at her tender zones — her exposed breasts, her bare, spread thighs, her vulnerable sex, her lips — all on display, all within the woman’s range — she could be caressed or teased, or even struck, anywhere, at any moment. Arousal grows, heartbeat rises, breathing deepens, her body shifts; she feels arousal growing; unmistakeable, shaming, sexual arousal; her body is alert, looking for touch, for sensation.
With arousal comes a cessation of thinking, the body takes over, and, rather soon, she is calming again.
The rest of the journey goes like this — in an increasingly trance-like state, detached from reality in the darkness, cycling from being centred in her body, not thinking, passive, through moments of alertness, then growing anticipation, fear, arousal, which takes her back into her body, to passivity, alertness, fear, arousal …
She’s in a condition of maximum sensitivity when the sound of the ground under the wheels abruptly changes to suggest gravel rather than tarmac, accompanied by a slowing, and her breath catches — have they arrived?
She feels sick, suddenly; weak and fearful, terribly vulnerable, trapped by her own acceptance, her own consent. Her chest is rising and falling again, as her heart thumps, trembling with anticipation, suppressed panic, simultaneous helplessness — all of which she is striving to suppress, in the service both of any last illusion of dignity and a shockingly intense desire not to displease the woman she knows only as Mistress.
Fear is only one component of this urgent drive, and not the main one. For in this new reality, nOelle already knows — deep in her belly — that while Natalie is someone she instinctively trusts, it is this smooth and enigmatic tyrant of a woman who matters, upon whose opinion nOelle’s treatment will depend; and while that, too, is frightening, nOelle cannot pretend that she is not fascinated, that she has not already been deeply affected.
This insight all but floors her, right here; a low, soft, awful cry escapes her as, again, her body responds, knowing that the only way for her to maintain this woman’s interest is to let this ‘Mistress’ get inside her head; that whatever this means, in the long run, it will make what Thierry has done to her seem superficial.
The intensity, the implications of this are too much; her mind recoils, unable to deal with it, shutting down, so that the awful clarity begins to blur; while nOelle knows that she cannot escape it, she is desperately, desperately pleased to retreat, retreat from this vision, retreat into the immediate task of holding herself well, of trying, without looking up, to understand whether anything is required of her, ruthlessly suppressing her torrent of emotions — trying to be more like Natalie.
Dimly, she knows that this is exactly what her insight shows, that this vortex will trap her, take her deeper, but for the moment, she can do no more than this — than make herself as sexually interesting as possible, within the limits of what freedoms she has.
She blinks back tears, perks up her posture, sweetens her plastered-on smile, lets a bump in the gravel jiggle her tits, riding it for maximum effect, hating and loving the little wave of pleasure that achieving this brings in its wake, as she imagines the woman’s smile of complacent, superior, sneering amusement.
I’m lost. I’m sooo lost. And … and I don’t have the strength to fight. Who am I trying to kid? I can’t even fight with Thierry! But this — all this … those men, this woman, other girls, this car. They … they have me, and … and they’re so good at it, so … so confident, so … so … cool. Look — look what they’ve done to me already — in just a couple of hours, got me worse than naked, got me to consent, got me chained, on a leash…
She has to work on herself, for a moment, again, to regain control…
See? I can’t; I can’t fight them. Just … just have to … to try. What … whatever they want. Whatever She wants… Get … get through this … 30 days!
Oh fuck we’re stopping… My heart! My heart!
But she doesn’t faint, doesn’t lose control, despite the wild and too-rapid thumpings in her chest. Instead, as the sounds of the car fade into unimaginability in the heavy silence that is only found far from the city, nOelle holds herself remarkably well, thinks Anne-Marie, considering what she has just been put through.
Her report to Thierry will be cool, but encouraging. This little thing is certainly going to be taken to the next stage, of that Anne-Marie is sure. She smiles, just as nOelle has imagined her — only with a little extra dose of cruel pleasure in the mix — as she savours the prospect of a formal Castle initiation — the full-on, ritualised, intense and thorough violation which will introduce the alluring, innocent before her — who is so entertainingly and bashfully presenting her half naked body — to her new reality.
