Enforced Witness
To kneel, displaying herself, for the moment disregarded, ignored - a toy no-one wants to play with - instructed to watch as a girl she knows as a human being (for while conversation between girls is strictly controlled, they live in conditions of great intimacy, permitted no secrets, no hiding places, and each has a very clear understanding of the character of the others with whom she serves, alongside whom she is every day used and hurt, fucked and abused); to watch this girl, whom she knows to be unable to accept the idea that she can be used by more than one man at a time; to watch her, for the fourth time that day, be subjected to just such use; to see the girl so desperately, so carefully, so helplessly making herself walk the line between letting those using her see her distress (it is their enjoyment of this distress that results in the repeated forcing upon her of that which horrifies her), and controlling that distress so that she can give maximum satisfaction (thereby hoping to minimise the cruelty with which she will be used).
To know that later, at dinner, she will sit opposite this girl, look into her eyes, see her despair, her shame, her pain, and to know that at some level the girl has knowingly offered herself up to have exactly such treatment forced upon her - that this pretty girl, educated, a fine musician, a loving sister - will forever be a girl who gave herself up to become the plaything of depraved and greedy strangers - that she can never escape this knowledge.
To know that, in all the ways which matter, this description, this condition, applies to herself just as accurately. To feel her own despair. To realise, for the thousandth time, that the only way to address this despair is to lose herself in being used - to offer herself up; to invite, ever more openly, more whole-heartedly, more deeply, the very abuse that destroys her - that drags her yet further into this vortex of fascinating agony.
To have nothing to do but watch, see yet another example of the way that her own weakness, her own helpless foolishness will be greedily, casually, heartlessly exploited - to know that at another time, it is she who will be being used, in precisely the way that most effectively devastates her, most tellingly corrodes her own remaining shreds of self-respect, while another girl looks on - seeing her allow herself to be taken deeper into the abyss which she has prettily begged to be committed to. Knowing that the example of her own degrading submission will act to spur another’s even deeper entrapment.
Not many besides Anne-Marie understand how powerful a component of the regime that she has developed is this enforced witnessing - a key aspect of the regime which is unsurpassed in its ability to transform intelligent, pretty, proud and confident women into eager and submissive sex toys who can smoothly be manipulated to beg, even set out detailed arguments in favour of increasingly cruel and restrictive treatment of themselves (‘I .. I think it .. that it might be good - no .. no it would be good for me to be whipped every single day - without any reason. Just .. just whipped. Hard.’ ‘Maybe .. maybe the cure for my .. my inability to remain mute would .. would be to have me wear that iron pear permanently for .. for a few days, or, or longer ..’ ) .
A note on ‘display’: Simply ‘displaying herself’ might sound straightforward, but for a Castle girl this is a condition requiring permanent consciousness self-debasement of a high order - as she seeks at the same time to offer herself - to earnestly invite usage (sometimes desperately - needing to meet her quota) and equally not be too obvious - ‘Am I looking sexually vulnerable enough? Do I look innocent enough? Does that man staring at me want me to provoke him to hurt me? Or to caress me? Is he the sort who wants me to make eye contact, or to keep my eyes fixed on his groin? Is it time to lick my lips? Or shift so that my breasts move - make those shameful little bells tinkle?’
Failure to answer these and a hundred other possible questions correctly on a continuous basis is to risk at any moment that Anne-Marie or an attendant will tap her on the shoulder and invite her into the hallway for some painful and shaming ‘correction’, usually delivered without explanation - for once admitted to the Castle, there are few fixed rules and very little explicit ‘training’; it is up to each girl to sink or swim - to develop her own way of satisfying the basic requirement - to continuously present herself as a sufficiently interesting and entertaining toy for the membership.
This approach avoids boring uniformity, and develops a spectrum of offerings that allows rewarding choice for Members and Guests, to suit any mood or disposition.
Of course, if anything particular is required, a quiet word with the staff will result in a girl being selected and specifically briefed as to what is expected of her.
A Drive in the Countryside
Once a month or so, she is taken in the ancient grey limousine, blindfolded, to a small chateau - she guesses about an hour’s drive from The Castle.
There, she is dressed in Victorian layers, all laces and drawstrings, petticoats and broderie Anglaise, taken to a large attic room, to enact this hokey bathing ritual; a slow striptease, a minute or two in front of the mirror, stroking her breasts, her belly, her flanks; then into the bath, where she first washes, then caresses herself, with plenty of foamy bubbles.
All the time she is to ignore the creepy old man sitting in his wheelchair, breathing heavily.
Eventually, though, he will rap on the floor with his cane, and she will scramble out of the bath, then scamper over to him on her knees and service his gnarled, misshapen, wrinkly old cock - which she assumes is stiffened by viagra, so un-naturally strong it seems in contrast to the rest of him.
His manservant will, at some point, again signalled by the cane, approach and spear her sex or her arse - she is never sure how this is decided.
Her task is to somehow get both men to climax at the same moment. Needless to say that is hard to achieve, but she is not punished for failure, only gently chastised by the old man afterward, as he chuckles at her nakedness, tells her how she looked. She gets a chocolate if she succeeds.
She considered him a sweet old man at first, but gradually, from various things he has said, she has gathered that he has forced many maids and other girls in his employ to do the same over the years, that they have not always been consenting, and that he has not always been as gentle.
She is a slave-girl - an indentured whore, fucked every day by sadists, but somehow her encounters with this crumpled old man have become the experiences which most underline to her the bizarre insanity of her choice, only a year ago, to give herself over to The Castle.
Of course, regret is useless now - and, she acknowledges, they have handled her perfectly, so that she is now all but addicted to the heart-stopping mixture of shame, fear and sexual arousal she is so immersed in each day - would not choose to leave if she was permitted to.
But this house gets to her with its eerie, time-slip atmosphere and often, in the bath, washing herself, soft tears fall from her eyes as she mourns her freedom, the days when her lovely body was her own, when she had not yet learned how to smile prettily as she presented her soft, naked breasts, her trembling belly, to some stranger with a dog whip, had not yet become the kind of girl who willingly, sweetly panders to the sexual hangups of an octogenarian serial rapist and abuser.
She is always very quiet and soft afterwards, and the driver, not a member of staff with automatic rights over the girls, has taken to stopping in some woods, a little off the road, and raping her, aggressively, as if angry with her, over a rough concrete picnic bench.
Not that she puts up any resistance, allowing him to french kiss her, cuddling him; responding, at his insistence, as if she were his true lover, then afterwards crying into the blindfold in the back seat until she senses their arrival back at the Castle, and hurries to present herself as best she can.
Responds to Cruelty
“Anne-Marie says that you are very entertaining when treated cruelly - slapped about, fucked harshly. That if you come during such treatment, it has a powerful effect on you - quite devastating, it says. “
“What have you to say to that?”
The girl manages to hold her pose, though she shakes and quivers visibly, her lashes blinking, her lips trembling. The nipples jiggle enticingly - really, the tits are magnificent - he thinks, a little smile twisting his lips as he imagines how they will react to the riding crop, how they will show the marks afterwards.
Apparently she’d been a rather successful interior designer before coming to The Castle. Now, though, she is in thrall, a full-time sex-toy, and seemingly in a state of permanent surprise at how willing her body is to offer itself up.
Her eyes flicker from him to his companion - a business associate he barely knows, with whom he hopes to ink a deal later, once they have shared her.
Her belly flutters, and a tremor runs across her body. There are tears in her eyes now, but she gamely lifts her elbows a little;
“Sir .. “- her voice is a throaty whisper, but clear enough - she seems as well trained as promised; “Sir, I .. I will .. will do my best to be .. entertaining for you, and .. and yes, it is … it is true that orgasms from cruel sex do .. do have .. have a strong .. impact..” - her voice trails off as unshed tears make her eyes shine.
“Good, good; that’s excellent - my friend here likes hurting pretty whores. You know what to say, don’t you girly?”
Here eyes are soft and sad, and it takes her quite a while to be able to form the required words;
“Please .. please sirs, I .. I beg you to be c..cruel with me.”
The next morning, serving him coffee in bed, she is all shy, eager smiles in her skimpy maid’s uniform, cutely blushing as, at a flick of his finger, she shows him her soft breasts, so cruelly marked the previous evening, and apparently sincerely grateful to be permitted to kneel and worship his cock, then soft and sweetly submissive, hands locked behind her back, as he finishes by roughly fucking her throat.
Later, in the lounge, the girl, standing waiting to serve, blushes deeply when Anne-Marie says;
“Helene, here, seems to have a little crush on you, Charles .. quite the little crush.”
From her eyes it is clear that she has no idea how this calamity has come to engulf her life, that she has no means of resistance left, that she is in awe of what she has become, terrified of her own vulnerability, lost; but her smile is cute, shy, and the blush is real.
“What can I say? I’m flattered, pretty. I like you too. It was fun hurting you last night.”
He almost hadn’t said it, so mean did it seem, but he’s glad he did; firstly, this Anne-Marie - rather an intimidating woman, turns to give him a most encouraging little smile (rather like being approved of by a teacher in school, came the thought), and secondly, the girl’s eyes become rather large and round, full of sadness and shame as she bobs a cute little curtsy in gratitude, and her blush intensifies.
Christ, he’s hard again.
“Oh, nicely done!”, says Anne-Marie; “I have a suggestion. It’s always fun to exploit a girl when she fancies she’s in love, or some such nonsense - use it to degrade her a little. I wonder - if you can spare the time - whether you’d stay another night; on the house, of course - in return for training her in ashtray duties? I see you’re a smoker - so many of the younger members aren’t, so really, we’d be very grateful. You’d have exclusive use of her during your stay - although of course you’re welcome to share her around.”
The poor girl is quivering now, her blush gone, face now pale, with almost a greenish tinge.
Anne-Marie looks at her, sharply. Her voice is mild, but evidently strikes terror into the girl.
“My dear, I do hope you realise that any feelings you might have about becoming an ashtray are of no interest at all to us? We really don’t want to be bothered by them, now do we? Run off to the bar, now pretty, and come back with a couple of packs, some matches, and a couple of lighters, too; maybe some of those cigarillos they keep. Oh, and ask for Anastasia - she can demonstrate so that Mr Purple here can see what standard of performance we’re aiming for.”
He had opted for the incognito option, as a one-off guest, passing through - his ‘home’ Castle membership is with the New Orleans establishment. He’s been very impressed. Although the prices here are eye-watering (even with his affiliate member discount), the standards are all-round much higher than he is used to at home, where it’s more like a Country Club with ‘easy’ waitresses / live-in whores. This strong focus on psychological domination, which makes it so immensely satisfying to play with these creatures, is missing. He must have a word with the Great Table men there when he gets back home. Maybe arrange a study visit next fall, see what they can learn, with a view to making improvements.
As the girl trots off to the bar, breasts bouncing as she trots in the high heels, desperately blinking away tears, Anne-Marie tells him that it doesn’t really matter what he achieves in the way of training; that the point is to ensure she suffers, psychologically in particular, for making her feelings about him evident. His job is simply to enjoy himself with her. For her introduction to being teased with burning things and being degraded as an ashtray to be at the hands and will of a man she has feelings for should be amusingly destabilising.
“We expect girls here to keep whatever shreds of personality they have left very deeply buried, you see; crushed, you might say - you could perhaps think of yourself as a crusher, if you find that stimulating…”
“I do hope you’ll stay - be doing us a favour. You will? Excellent. I’ll inform the house staff. Have fun!”
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