The original version of this story was published here over a year ago. It has been doubled in length, two pictures added, and linked to the Castle series, so I’m giving it a new publication date.
A Promise
“After your initiation, you will be required to become like one of these; a cute, child-like little slut, continually nude or in cartoon sexy costumes, obsessed by the male form, hungry for sex.”
“You’ll be held at a place like this, used in common by anyone who has access to you, and you will be required to give satisfaction in any way desired of you, without limit or restraint. You will learn to become (or perfectly appear to be) eager and responsive, childishly grateful for the slightest attention, ridiculously keen to offer yourself for the entertainment of anyone at all.”
“You will be subjected to cruel and humiliating punishments on a whim, and will learn both to tolerate and accept these and to become even more desperately sensitive to opportunities for offering yourself, as a way of avoiding pain. A stupidly eager, submissive whore, nothing more; everything else will be denied you.”
Lear’s Second Chance
She was 22, from a classic WASP background (even down to the preppy name) very intelligent, rather shy, reserved — an elegant dresser, if rather conservative with it; hair long, beautifully and expensively maintained, always worn with an alice band.
He was a rich benefactor of the institute which her professor ran, and she had been invited to one of the institute fund-raisers as a star (and gorgeous) student. They’d had some very stimulating conversation about her PhD (she was doing a simultaneous Masters in Music Theory).
He’d offered her a small research grant, and she’d worked at his summerhouse for three months. He would arrive at odd times, unannounced, sometimes with a girlfriend or a male friend or colleague. She’d had an affair with one of these, behind his back (she’d somehow known he would disapprove, but was lonely and needed something else in her life apart from work and piano practice) — a very simple affair, but he was displeased. He wasn’t angry, but his disapproval was very clear; she felt that she’d ruined something, and offered to leave — an offer that he accepted. She was very sorry.
A week later, she realised just how deeply sorry she was; realised that it was him she’d wanted, not his colleague. And that she’d missed her chance.
Far too reserved and shy to ever call him, she had borne her hurt, buried herself in work and practice once more, telling herself she must forego relationships - the more so since all her choices in that department seemed to be poor ones.
Almost a year later, when the PhD was finally ready to publish, she had to ask how and whether he wanted his financial support to be acknowledged. She could have emailed his secretary, but a little surge of determination (and perhaps a little pride in her own achievement) gave her strength to call him directly.
Somehow, during the call, she had suddenly told him — told him that she had wished, so desperately wished, that she had not let him down, that she had really hoped that he … that they …
In response, there was a silence. She almost died of shame; mortified, certain that she had spoken horribly out-of-turn — that he found her unattractive — that she had blown even her chances at friendship.
When, after a wait that was hard to tolerate, his response came, it was a complete surprise;
“A relationship with me, my dear, for a girl such as you, is not what you want. But I’m aware that you will need to understand. You deserve a fuller account. Would you take dinner with me? I can send a car for you.”
And so had begun a series of dinner dates in hugely expensive, oppressively posh restaurants and hotels, over the course of which, in slow, patient steps, she learned that he had three categories of relationships with women.
He had a wife, from whom he was all but separated but not divorced, as it suited both of them to remain as a power-couple.
He had girlfriends for casual sex, friendship and shared experiences.
Neither of these two categories did he consider to be serious. She became emotional — it seemed that she was at least a candidate for the serious category. Her eager hope that she might be able to become something in his life had blossomed rapidly during their conversations. She did not dare think about how it would be if, after this, he spurned her once more.
Finally, he explained the third category, which was currently unoccupied — had been for several years.
“It requires a very special kind of woman. Relatively young — I am unapologetic about this preference; rather beautiful, of course — sexually desirable also — and possessed of a certain kind of emotional intelligence. In all of these criteria you surpass my requirements. But then comes a specific demand, one about which there is no flexibility, one which I fear would be — inappropriate — for you.”
Silence, long silence. He is looking deeply into her, with all his usual calm seriousness, while she is beginning to tremble, her need for him having only intensified since their previous meeting, until at last she bursts out with;
“Please… Please! It … it can’t be that you won’t tell me what this, this ‘requirement’ is? You could let me judge for myself whether it’s appropriate for me, surely? Can’t I at least be allowed the chance to show you that I will meet your needs? You would still be free to decide not to trust in me. I … I can’t bear not to know. Tell me, will you? Please? Tell me — please — I … I beg you!”
He looks at her steadily, his face as impassive as before, with no sign that he intends to speak, until she feels impelled to say more;
“Listen to me, please; I … I let you down. Betrayed you, somehow. I … I understand that. I regret that. I regret it bitterly. All those months I spent finishing the thesis, I was driven, driven to make it the best thing I could possibly manage, not just by my own ambition — god knows that has ebbed away — but increasingly by a desire to honour you — honour your trust in me, your support for me, your kindness — and to seek at the very least to give you something that might help you understand just … just how sorry I am.”
“These dinners, this last few weeks — spending time with you, talking so … so frankly — these have been wonderful for me. But … but they aren’t enough. Not for me. I … … What … whatever it takes. Please? Try me? Test me? I … I will do everything I can to regain your good opinion, your … your trust, even. To … to have a chance to … to be with … with you — how … however you want it. However you want me. Just so long as you do — want me. If … if you might; even, even for … even if it was just for … for a little while.”
More silence. He sits back, still looking at her with his full, inscrutable attention, while she trembles, having shocked herself (but not him, apparently) with her intensity, her emotion. When at last he speaks, his voice is soft, low, leaving space for her, despite his evident seriousness;
“To give me what I require would impose a heavy cost upon you, child. A deliberately unbearable imposition upon your deepest being. An imposition that, once accepted, would mark you, change you, irrevocably.”
She believes him — takes him seriously; if he uses such words, then she trusts him that it will be hard, hard for her — whatever it is. But the simple fact that he wants to impose something hard upon her is a joy to understand — because it means he is taking her seriously.
“But … but that’s … that’s just what I want! It’s perfect. After … after I wronged you, it … I … I need it to be like that. So that I know you’re really taking me; so that I know that you know I can never betray your trust again. So that you have me — have me utterly, for … for as long as you want me.”
“You see, I’ve thought about it; because … because I’m so … so much younger than you, it — it’s obvious that, after a while, you’ll — you’ll look for someone again, someone younger than me. I see that; I … I’ve accepted it; that you’ll be finished with me. That I’ll never be anything permanent to you. I … I’ll live with that. But I want you to be really, totally permanent — serious, as you say — serious for me — for you to know that. So … so I … it would be good — wonderful — if … if you choose to … to impose something — heavy — upon me.”
“Ask me. Ask me for something that you think will be unbearable to me — please! And then, if I say yes, well then I’ll just have to bear it, won’t I? And I will bear it, somehow, because I’ll know you require it.”
“Please? I … I’d be so very, very grateful.”
She works to convey the depth of her sincerity, her need to him, knowing that this is her only chance — that tonight will go one way or another, that there will be no other moment.
A short pause then, and he speaks;
“You are very beautiful, my dear, in your emotion. But this — this requirement I have, it is not emotional. It is cold and hard and cruel. It will break you. I do not know whether I should break you. It will be a terrible thing to do, in many ways. You are a fine creature; remarkable. To break you would be a wonderful thing, perhaps; you would make a lovely trophy, if you were not ruined completely; but still, a terrible thing to do.”
“Break … Break me?” she says, softly — frightened, now, by his intensity, not knowing at all what he can mean by this, but also yearning now, yearning so strongly to be able to be what he needs, whatever it might be — to be able to give him what he wants, to be his trophy — gladly. Proudly.
“Yes. Yes. Inevitably. It is impossible, this thing, without it breaking you, in the end. For you to give what I would require of you, it must, in the end, break you, break you absolutely.”
There is a long and heavy silence, then; frightening, almost, despite the warmly luxurious surroundings. He looks at her just as calmly, just as steadily as before; relaxed, interested, but — and it shocks her to realise this — uncaring. He genuinely does not appear to care which way this conversation might go.
While she, she is in horrible inner turmoil, and also savagely repressing it, knowing that she will lose him immediately if she cannot control herself, if she makes a scene. She is desperate, needy, demanding, hopeful — but at the same time increasingly fearful at the unknowable but threatening implications his words suggest. She keeps trying to look at him, to find something, some clue, some help in his eyes, in his face, in his body language, but cannot maintain a steady look, her eyes continually flickering away, unable to bear his gaze; equally unable not to look at him.
It takes her an age to realise what she wants to say, and another to be sure that her voice can be depended upon. Even so, it sounds strange to her when she does speak; husky, several tones lower than normal, throbbing almost with intensity of feeling;
“I … I am already broken. I … I didn’t know it for a while, but I broke myself when I betrayed your trust, and I’ve been … broken — so very broken — ever since. So … so perhaps, if … if I know that I’m yours, it won’t be as bad to be broken in … in another way?”
A smile, at last, from him — even such a sad one as this — feels to her like warm sunlight on a cold day, and her face clears, opens, hope blossoming in her, until;
“Child, you do not know what broken can mean.”
His voice is as ever, but there is a world of hard knowledge in it, and she blushes, ashamed, looks down, blinking away tears, knowing a little of the vast hurts that have attended his life, hurts which are in his biography, but which she never thinks of when she is with him, so complete and calm does he seem at all times.
She is speaking, then, before she knows what she is saying, her voice low, earnest, urgently sincere;
“You … you can hurt me, if you want to. I won’t mind. I will bear it, if … if it’s what you want. I … I deserve it.”
He reaches out and takes her hand, softly, gentle now;
“You have no idea, either, child, what pain can be.”
Then, in a different tone, decisive;
“Nevertheless, Lear, you have begged; I believe sincerely, and so you deserve to know.”
“This is how it would be; you would need to understand, to agree, to wholeheartedly accept that you would become my possession. That — for the duration of my interest in you, at least, for you have understood the shape of things well enough; for that time, I would own you. Own you like a thing, a possession; a shoe, a car. That you would become an owned thing — a chattel. You would become a thing that was mine; my thing — with every implication that entails.”
She stares at him, eyes wide. She believes him totally — that he is saying exactly what he means, but she cannot believe the meaning of the words — it’s too strange. At the same time, that part of her that only interprets words as feelings is responding — responding powerfully; her body is saying Yes!; more, it is saying Yes, please, that. That’s what I want, and I want it now. To be His. His, absolutely. That’s what I want. Now, please. Yes. Why haven’t I said ‘yes’ yet?
The thinking part of her — the sensible part of her — knows that she cannot simply say ‘yes’ to something so strange, so unheard of, so all encompassing, though; that it sounds wrong — like … like slavery, like coercive control, like all sorts of things that aren’t OK.
She’s breathing heavily, now; something — something significant is happening, she knows. And she wants it; wants to give herself, wants to accept this — this ‘possession’ — whatever it is that he means, but knowing she can’t, can’t say it, can’t accept it without … without more. But more what?
She is searching his face for more — needing more to put these words into some context that will enable her to understand better what they mean.
But he’s giving nothing away, his face as calm, certain, untroubled as always, while she is trembling, really shaking; knowing that his hand must feel it, that he must know just how it is with her. She can’t look him in the eye any longer, and her head drops; her heart is hammering. Her belly is hot, pulsing. Sex is in the air. She doesn’t really understand sex. This feeling is new, different from any before — not an interest, but a desire, not a kindling, but a fire; her chest rises and falls, fast now, as her body demands more oxygen, her pulse accelerating.
“You don’t need to speak, pretty; I know. Don’t worry. I know.”
She can feel his pulse now, to her joy and delight; it is steady and strong, but not slow — despite his ever-present calm, he is excited by her! Called her pretty! She flushes, feeling the strongest stirring of her blood, at her sex, at the points of her breasts, that she can recall ever having experienced (even that unreal encounter with Alison at school when they had been 15…).
Why can’t he see? Why can’t he just take her somewhere, now? She is ready — so ready!
But she can feel him watching her, still not decided, holding her in stasis until she is ready to scream — until, seeming almost to have read her mind;
“I don’t expect you to understand, Lear, you simply cannot; I will try with some other words, although it will make little difference; what I would require is to possess you utterly. In some important senses, you would simply cease to exist.”
A flash of real fear now, heart fluttering. Is he trying to put her off? Isn’t this going to happen? She can’t, she can’t lose him now — not after these exchanges! It doesn’t matter what he says, now; she doesn’t care — she’s so close, so close to being with him, being his — I want to be his, don’t I? So where’s the problem?
“What? No … No, I don’t understand, I don’t; but … please … can’t you make me? Make me understand? I want to! Can’t you see I want to, so much? Please — don’t frighten me.”
She looks at him again, gripping his hand with both hers, now.
He smiles at her; a sad smile again, but with pleasure in it now, despite a hardening in his eyes, until his manner changes — he has decided something; man of action that he is, there is no pause; he simply makes it happen. As solicitous of her comfort as ever, he nevertheless becomes firmly controlling (to which she responds with grateful, eager, unquestioning obedience), and minutes later they are in his car, the chauffeur having been directed towards the Lower East Side.
Neither of them speak — she because she cannot, grasping his hand tightly, holding on for dear life, unable to imagine what the rest of this night will bring, doing what she can to ready herself for some heavy demand, reassured by his calm strength, his certainty, his decision.
He, because he has no need to.
I’m his already. It’s happening. I’m not asking, I don’t even want to ask. I’m just happy to be told when he wants me to do something, and to hold his hand until then. When will he touch me? Why doesn’t he touch me? I want him — I need him to touch me. More — I want him to make love to me. No! I … I want him to … to fuck me! I do! Please, please don’t let me do anything to ruin this!
The Castle — New York style
An anonymous dark street, shabby warehouses, a door that was out of place in its air of quality and solidity. A couple of powerfully built doormen within, eager to please, but at the same time faintly menacing in the way they smile at her. Up the stairs, a side table on the landing, two seats, where he indicates they should sit for a little.
“This place is The Castle. The New York Castle, to be specific. What you are about to experience will be a dream, a hallucination. A powerful and strange one; it will be deeply disturbing. You will, however, manage your response very carefully. You will observe, but be moderate in your reactions, no matter what your feelings.”
“Afterward, you will meditate on its meaning, on what I tell you tonight, and only then you will decide. You will take great care over your choice, for your decision will be final; irrevocable — you will understand why that must be so. Do not go further than here with me unless you accept these stipulations; even though you cannot understand what they mean, still, you must make this commitment, if we are to proceed.”
She looks at him, trembling, suddenly sure that this is not just weird and frightening, but genuinely dangerous, although she cannot at all see what could be dangerous here, in surroundings of such expensive, solid luxury and taste.
He is waiting; there is no doubt in her mind as to her eventual answer, but the fear is real, and she has so many questions. Soon enough, though, she can see that to ask even one would break the spell. It is time — time to choose.
Some impulse has her out of her chair, on one knee in front of him, clasping his hand;
“Yes, yes, of course; I … I commit. I . I am … committed.”
He looks, hard, into her eyes, until she cannot bear it and looks down, overwhelmed by some emotion that is at once unrecognisable and powerful, which she cannot sit with, and is thus impelled to action so that she stands abruptly, pulling at his hand a little, like an impatient young girl, faking a light-heartedness she does not feel;
“So, come on, then — please? I … I need to have this experience. So … so that I can … can be yours. Be your … your possession.”
Her voice softens as she says the last of these words, but gains in urgent, husky intensity. Unaccountably, there are tears in her eyes now, and she laughs a little at herself, to cover up.
His possession. Only now has the word taken on its full meaning, and it is at once glorious and dread as its import floods her body, so that she feels it with her whole being; trembling, exhilarated and fearful — desperate to be propelled forward, suddenly, in case she should falter, and lose her chance with him, wishing now that she had pulled at his hand with her full force, not daring, though, to take such liberties with him again; almost horrified that she just had.
Oh my lord I’m on the edge! And he’s looking at me! He must see just how I’m trembling for him, looking — he’s looking right at my breasts. Why didn’t I wear the open fronted one? Oh God he’s going to be touching me there; between my legs, too! It’s actually going to happen! How can I be so tingly?
He stands then, and she surprises herself by stepping toward him, offering her mouth up to be kissed, offering herself, her body; pulling his arm behind her, inviting him to hold her, to touch her, to feel her.
The kiss is soft, but full of promise on her side; cool but effortlessly controlling on his, and her heart goes crazy as real lust ignites in her for the first time in her young life. When he steps back, grinning at her a little, as calm as ever, she is panting, weakly laughing at herself again, terribly shy, looking at him only for a second or so, before her lashes come down again, This time her voice is very definitely shaky, but she makes her words clear;
“I’m saying ‘yes’ now. Yes. To … to whatever.”
His smile deepens a little, but his eyes are serious;
“I do not accept, pretty — although it is lovely to hear you say those words so freely. As I said, you are required to meditate, once you leave this place, and make your decision in calmer surroundings. But, by all means, let us go in.”
The Debauch
Once she has realised; been forced to accept the reality of the performance, of the ensuing orgy — the depravity of it, the outrageous transgressiveness, the cruelty, the degradation, the intense erotic charge of it; things she has never even imagined, let alone considered she might see; still less be part of — then, he had leaned toward her and delivered the promise of her future to her, his voice as calm and matter-of-fact as always.
“After your initiation, you will be required to become like one of these; a cute, child-like little slut, continually nude or in cartoon sexy costumes, obsessed by the male form, hungry for sex.”
“You’ll be held at a place like this, used in common by anyone who has access to you, and you will be required to give satisfaction in any way desired of you, without limit or restraint. You will learn to become (or perfectly appear to be) eager and responsive, childishly grateful for the slightest attention, ridiculously keen to offer yourself for the entertainment of anyone at all.”
“You will be subjected to cruel and humiliating punishments on a whim, and will learn both to tolerate and accept these and to become even more desperately sensitive to opportunities for offering yourself, as a way of avoiding pain. A stupidly eager, submissive whore, nothing more; everything else will be denied you.”
Shell-shocked by this, but bound to silence, both by her commitment and frank terror, she clings to him all evening, clings to him for dear life; clings to him during the scenes that appal, astonish and undo her, clings to him during the casual conversations with other men, who talk about what they have seen, what they have done, what they intend to do with which girl, all with relaxed and grinning appreciation of the obscenities, the vileness, the cruelties, the humiliation — sights that have left Lear trembling, weak, radically destabilised, unable to look anyone in the eye.
In any case, no-one speaks to her; no-one asks her name, even, although they do talk about her — asking him very directly about her, commenting on her appearance in terms both approving and shockingly direct (they discuss her breasts, her legs, her mouth, her buttocks, all with great freedom, making her desperately self conscious, knowing they are all undressing her with their eyes, that they are considering what it would be like to put their cocks into her, to have her as available to their greedy perversions as the naked, submissive Castle girls). He tells them, quite simply, that she is his guest.
When they ask more, he says that it will be up to her if she is to join the ‘stable’; that she has just been introduced to the idea of herself as a possession, that she is still ‘processing’. This generates much laughter, and more appreciative compliments, too, about her demeanour this time — ‘natural submissive’, ‘expresses her subordinate status nicely’. She wishes she could shrivel up and die, shrinks against him like an embarrassed little girl, gripping his hand tightly, while at the same time blushing hotly, aware that her desperate hope that approval from these awful, leering strangers counts for something with Him is a step onto a very slippery slope indeed.
The implication in their comments, that they might be fucking her, doing other things to her, if she does do whatever it is that they assume she will do, is very clear — and He says nothing at all to contradict them. Her belly is in turmoil, her mind is on fire, but she experiences no impetus to do anything at all about any of this — finds herself completely passive, dependent entirely upon him.
When they talk to a woman called Berenice, it gets even more direct; Berenice lifts her face with a gentle but irresistible finger under her chin, pronounces her ‘Quite lovely’, with ‘cute tits’. Lear can do nothing but tremble, and look down. She is desperately glad of his hand holding hers.
When Berenice places a hand on the inner face of her thigh, just below the hem of her skirt, lifts her chin more, and says;
“May I?” — clearly asking permission to slide her hand up Lear’s leg — he moves behind her, taking hold of her arms, just above the elbows, gently enough, but firmly, too; immobilising her — and supporting her, too, for her knees are shaky. It is the first time he has really held her, and it is to offer her up to a stranger.
She cannot speak, but also does nothing to resist as, assuming consent without really waiting for it, the woman slides her hand calmly and smoothly up Lear’s leg (had she even been asking Lear? Perhaps her question had been directed at Marcus?), then continues, directly, without hesitation, to run two hard-boned fingers along the crease of Lear’s sex, pressing hard, Lear stunned at the forced realisation that her body, at least, is as ready for sex as she has ever been.
Then, the woman’s other hand suddenly at the back of her head, Lear is being deeply kissed — a kiss not of desire, but of domination and inquiry; a long, lacquered thumbnail is grazing her clitoris, and she’s moaning helplessly, weakly, into Berenice’s mouth; frightened and aroused, ashamed and exalted in equal measure —
— only for the woman to step back, smiling serenely;
“Hot, wet and open down there — moving helplessly, too; I think she might very well do, Marcus. I approve.”
She speaks directly to Lear, then;
“I look forward to receiving you, pretty. I promise we’ll be entirely merciless with you. I predict you’ll be almost too easy to train — you don’t know it, but you’re halfway there before we’ve even started; you’re a helpless little wanton, and all we’ll have to do is make it impossible for you to deny it to yourself.”
The Rules
Nothing is said between them as the car glides along through the city — empty and cold in the small-hours. Nothing is said when they get to her street and the car stops.
She is kneeling on the floor, in a state of complete mental disarray.
Clinging to his hand still, she had sat very close to him when they got in, taking strength from his warmth and solidity, but he had disengaged, softly enough, and said to her;
“It would be better if you were kneeling on the floor, girly; you are nothing to me, now.”
And she had had to live with that for the whole journey — unable to speak. He was fully absorbed with his ‘phone; a late night conversation about London stock prices which was incomprehensible and uninteresting to her. Nothing is of interest to her anymore, in any case, for, one way or another, it feels as if her life is over.
Now, the car still, she kneels, also still, waiting for him to ordain her future; wanting to cry but not daring to, refusing to think about anything, knowing that madness lies just a hair’s breadth away.
She can’t move, either; I am already his slave, she thinks; already dependent upon him to move or speak.
“I wasn’t being mean, before — just factual”, He says;
“You are, precisely, nothing to me now. If you wish to be my possession, you will be ready for Scanlon to pick you up, right here, in one week, at 8pm. He will keep you waiting, and you will wait, and wait patiently — happily; wait as long as you have to. Your time will have become mine, to waste as I please.”
“You will be wearing a thin, very short lingerie slip, and your highest heels. You will have nothing else — no purse, no jewellery, no underwear, nothing but your doorkey, which you will give to Scanlon. Then your life will be over, and you will perhaps come to mean something to me again — as a possession.”
“You have understood, I am sure, that although you will belong directly and only to me, I do not intend to keep you to myself, but to have you trained and whored out at The Castle. That’s all I want you to know. There is already a substantial sum in your bank, which should help you resettle if you should decide — as you probably should — to decline this change. Do not attempt to speak to me. I am telling you for this week, but in fact it applies from this moment on, for the rest of your life, whichever option you choose.”
“There is one more thing, actually — something to concentrate your mind, perhaps, during your meditations. Should Scanlon decide, next week, that he wants to fuck you, use you, in any way he chooses, you may fight him if you wish, of course, but he will have my permission - my encouragement, in fact, to force you, and to hurt you, if he chooses, in order to obtain whatever compliance and service he desires from you. That will be the way of it, for you, from that moment — not just with Scanlon — but with anyone at all.”
She looks at him then, begging, pleading, with her eyes, desperate to say something, to communicate with him, to let him know that, although he has indeed broken her again, made her realise just how small, how weak, how foolish she has been to think she could ever be with him, but that still, still, she still hopes …
He cuts her off, his face calm, almost gentle, but at the same time crushingly certain;
“No, do not speak, little Lear; I have already told you; initiating of contact between us from you is over now. Everything is over, for you. Everything.”
It takes a long moment, but in the end she knows what she must do — and does it; bites her lip, hard, to stop herself crying out in anguish, lowers her eyes, bends her neck, and climbs out of the car without looking at him, blinking back the hot tears, her skin crawling as Scanlon, in his smart uniform, holds the door for her, just as he has done before, perfectly proper in his manner, except that now he is grinning at her openly, his eyes gleaming.
The Interregnum
What Marcus had said was true. Immediately, factually, experientially true.
For Lear, from that moment, everything was gone.
Oh, she tried.
All week, she tried, fought with herself in a thousand ways, to find the reason, the hope, the desire that might give her some momentary peace, even, from which to try to salvage something, to save herself.
For she knew, knew in her gut that Berenice had seen her, seen into her, felt inside her, in her mouth, in her sex, the weakness which Lear now felt — the desire which lived inside her to be taken, to be absolved, to be freed, to be made into a creature, to be debauched and degraded, to be fucked and whipped and buggered and fucked again, like those gorgeous, delicate, pathetic, ravishing fallen angels she had seen so selfishly used by ugly, cruel boors, by effete and cruel sadists, by elegant society ladies with stone hard eyes and fingernails filed to points, by overexcited, overprivileged frat boys with endless stamina.
Knew that, if she once was in that woman’s hands, she was lost, lost forever to decency, to normality — that she would become as the lowest of those little sluts she had seen abused, so terribly, beautifully degraded, so softly, helplessly willing to participate in their own ruination, their own suffering.
And she knew, too, from deep in her sex, from the hard lump in her throat, that the idea of being used like that, transformed like that was alive in her, was needy in her, kept her replaying those terrible scenes, over and over, in her head; worse, imagining scenes like them where it is she, Lear, who is subjected to such treatment — and always, always, with Marcus looking on, smiling calmly, approving of her torment, her violators, her despair, her orgasms.
Worse, she found herself, too often, touching herself while imagining these scenes — more and more excited, until she was unable to stop herself actively masturbating to imagined scenes of her own degradation, bringing herself to crying, jagged, shaming orgasms that gave her no pleasure, only sensation, followed by further shame and the sucking knowledge that she was already thinking about doing it again.
When she wasn’t masturbating, she was crying, and when she wasn’t crying, she was hysterical, and when she wasn’t hysterical, she was, at last, calm, and that was the worst — because, even in those periods of calm, all capacity for intense emotion washed from her, she still wanted to say yes. To give herself to him, to be used in that way.
Because everything else was gone, if he was gone. And because he had ordained what would be her future, if she was his, there were, simply, no other options. Nothing else in a life without him, a life without that which she had seen at the Castle would ever have any colour, any meaning, any intensity, she knew — not for her. Not any more.
The craziest times were when it all made sense. When, to her disordered mind — destabilised by days of not sleeping, of living on ice-cream and microwave mac’n’cheese, of having these thoughts, of frenzied masturbations, this despair on endless repeat, of fearing that she will lose him, needing him to want her so much it was a physical agony — she would suddenly see that being one of those mindless fuck-bunnies was a logical solution.
That kneeling, all but naked at his side, serving strange men to whom he gives her, so that she can be used in the most abject and perverse ways, serving them eagerly, smiling at them sweetly as they violate her — seems to her to be what she was born for, that she will be fulfilled by it, all her fucked up neuroses resolved by the simplicity, the certainty, the cruel limitations on her choices. Cruelty that seems almost like kindness, so convinced is she at these moments, of her utter inability to live like a real person.
The week was torment.
She had the phone in her hand a hundred times, to call Marcus, tell him she could bear it no longer, that he must send Scanlon, this instant, to take her there, that she could not wait another second, or she must go insane. The agony of knowing she could never speak to him again, the certainty that he had meant what he had said, would stay her hand.
Too, she had had herself taken to the Lower East Side, had walked the streets, looking for that town-house, that front door, not knowing what she would do if she could find it — knock on the door and offer herself? Call the police? Set fire to the place? Strip naked and kneel on the steps, waiting to be claimed? She had no idea which if these or a hundred other insane fantasies she might have enacted — or just turned and run home.
In any case, she never did find it.
Also, she had checked her bank, seen a shockingly large line of zeroes, researched and applied for a number of jobs in Vienna, bought a ticket to take her there the following Saturday, bought cardboard boxes and packed away all her things, renewed her passport. When she asked herself, though; Why not get on a plane today — why did I book it for after the deadline?, she knew, but could not admit to herself the answer.
Waiting for Scanlon is agony, too, but she can at least feel it, building inside her all the time — the knowledge that soon, soon, she can give up, give herself over, become someone else’s problem — someone who won’t have any problem at all about doing whatever the hell they want to do to her …
Someone who can at least give her something; the chance that she might mean something to Marcus — to become his possession.
Compliance, Personified
Her anticipation of her inability to resist notwithstanding, it is still a constant source of wonder to Lear how perfectly, after the frightening, savage and unrelenting psychological assault of the first phase of the initiation, the cruel, highly physical enforcement of perfection in the second phase, and the subtle, heartless ‘finishing school’ training of the third (during which she had to learn how to be cute and seductive in this new context of total sexual servitude) — each of these devastating for her in its own way — how perfectly his prediction had come true.
She had indeed become — without, it seemed, much effort on Mistress Berenice’s part, even — a stupidly eager, submissive whore, nothing more.
How easily she had been naturalised to this new life; how strangely comforting she found it — yes, that was the word, strange as it seemed, even to her — she was comforted by the certainty here, by the total lack of choice, by the communion of other sweetly ruined girls (you couldn’t call it companionship, since the opportunities for interaction with the others are almost completely confined to times when they are required to service members together), by the rigorous and all-encompassing demands upon her to serve the desires of others to perfection, to dedicate herself to that, to suppress almost completely her own personality.
That this came alongside frequent emotional, physical and psychological intensity of the most devastating kind only made it easier to accept — the devastation less painful (though more destructive of her self image), the less of a person she tries to be, the comfort of being utterly controlled ever more needed, ever more welcome, in the face of each successive and deeper degradation.
She finds herself, despite her capacity for thinking, despite her memory of her old self, her knowledge of the many possibilities the world has to offer for such as she, finds herself fully and completely absorbed by the business of what she has been taught to call ‘being cunt’; endlessly filled with a paradoxical mix of hungry fascination and self-feeding shame which drive her to work for Him constantly; to serve Marcus, by becoming ever more desperately sensitive to opportunities for offering herself.
Her complete capitulation was no secret, of course — she was permitted no secrets; whenever asked, she was able to explain, wonderingly willing to acknowledge to Marcus — to anyone at The Castle, her new home — acknowledge how completely she had embraced the idea that she meant nothing beyond her usefulness as a fuck-bunny dedicated to their pleasure, how deeply embedded in her was the need, the hunger for sexual usage, to have their cocks pushed into her; how earnest and sincere were her efforts to entice members to find her worthy of use and abuse, how despairingly convinced she was that, hate them though she might, cruel punishments were a necessary — and thus, ultimately, welcome — part of the regime, here.
“The … the part of me most sensitive to the whip, Sirs? My … breasts — my nipples, in particular.”
“Yes — yes I get hysterical when I am thrashed there. Thank you, Sirs for your interest.”
“Should … should I be restrained, if you are going to whip my breasts? It … it’s a matter of choice, Sirs. I … I find being restrained terribly hard — the … the helplessness really gets to me — so you can increase my suffering that way — and, too, the whip will find its target more accurately if I am bound.”
“On … on the other hand, sir, if I am not bound, I am still required to hold myself well for punishment. When you hit me hard enough, enough times, then eventually I’ll be unable to control myself — I’ll cower and try to protect my breasts. And that gives you the excuse — if … if you like it that way — to really go wild with me — punish me for not taking my punishment — to … to destroy me if it pleases you.”
“You … you want to me to suggest, Sirs? Thank you, Sirs.”
“Sirs, the … the way I hope you will enjoy this most might be to … to use both approaches. Whip me while I’m restrained first, then, when I’m already wild with despair, free me and require me to hold myself open for more. You … you should see me completely broken then, sirs.”
“No. no, Sirs, there are no limits on what may be done to me. Any … any restraint or mercy shown in your use of me will … will be a failure on my part, Sirs, and my humblest wish is to serve you well.”
The hardest times — and consequently, the most intensely experienced ones — were those when Marcus brought someone to the club someone she had known before — usually a man — a business acquaintance of her daddy’s, or a former teacher or colleague.
They were always astonished to discover that it really was her: despite Marcus’ reputation, it had been impossible for them to believe it possible that Lear, demure, quiet, serious Lear — always so studious and modest — could have been brought to this.
Although his face was always relaxed and calm, she knew that Marcus enjoyed these sessions greatly, and knew that it was important for his enjoyment that she display, very clearly, just how thoroughly she had been transformed, just how genuine was her desire to be used, to be abused, to give pleasure.
“Lear! Is it … can it … really … be you?”
“Sir, that … that Lear is … is gone. This … this is a desperate little fuckbunny Lear, who … who really, really wants to please you, Sir, any way you like — the … the harder the better, Sir.”
Normally, she was to avert her eyes, not be bold enough to look into a man’s face, but to concentrate on his cock, or his shoes, but Berenice had let her know that, with these men (and occasionally women, too), she was to look at them, let them see into her newly remade soul — the soul of a helpless, needy slut, let them understand how truly she had been transformed; how completely she had become this new thing.
Some of them could hardly bring themselves to touch her, but most, after a little while, became rather savage and brutal.
With Marcus watching, she found it both necessary, and frighteningly easy to welcome their abuses, to subtly encourage them to go further with her than they had ever gone with even a Castle girl — to remain soft and vulnerable, letting them see her weak despair, inspiring increasing cruelty thereby.
Afterwards, to her delight and confusion, Marcus would take her, often for a whole night, and once stayed with her for two days, alternately talking to her about what he had done to her, and then using her, brutishly fucking her ass with a Viagra stiffened cock, or having Scanlon or one of the other pretties whip her at her breasts, concentrating, at his instruction, on her nipples, and between her legs.
Of these, the talking was the more hard to bear, as he insisted on explaining just how conflicted he felt about having taken from her career, her music, her family, her delight in the beauty of art, and wanted to hear from her exactly what emotions this had inflicted upon her. Eventually, this had brought her — just as he had intended — to a pitch of hysterical anguish that broke through everything, and she had attempted to attack him, screaming out the suppressed horror that lurked, still, it seemed, deep in some part of her that she had thought finally buried after Berenice’s training.
Her flailing had been weak, pathetic, ridiculous, and he had restrained her without effort - and with harshness, too, so that her wrists bore black and purple bruises for a week. Worse than the pain, though, was the terror that engulfed her afterward, at the knowledge of what such a dreadful lapse from the standards required of her would bring down upon her.
She had discovered, though, that her terror had been insufficient.
Being put through the training again, from a starting point of being already broken, with Berenice barely disguising her cold fury at having been let down, every aspect imposed upon Lear with redoubled intensity, almost destroyed her. At various points she had forgotten who she was, prayed for death, begged for it.
At the end, though, presented to Marcus, naked except for her collar and the marks of her suffering, she had knelt as elegantly as she knew how; kissed and lovingly licked clean the soles of his shoes, then thanked him from the bottom of her heart for his kindness in helping her to become what she had become.
The gangbang after that had lasted six full hours; she had been forced to more than 12 orgasms, taken at least 30 ‘doses’ of semen, and, once again, forgotten her own name.
Lear, Remade
They took her name from her, then. Of course, as with all Castle girls, she had long since been trained to assume that the word ‘cunt’, ‘slut’, whore’ applied to her, and to respond to such degrading identifiers with the same weak smile and girlish little bounce as she did when her name was used.
But now her name was never used. In time, of course, the needs of the staff to distinguish between girls demanded some unique label, and, without anyone having chosen the name, over time, she became Ellie. Never mind that she hated the name. Leah was the past, and this cunt, as she had been instructed to use when talking about herself (and, horribly, had begin to use in her thoughts as well), this cunt had to bounce and smile when the name Ellie was used.
And Ellie gained a reputation, for the time of her prime, at least, as the most helplessly, urgently eager girl of the New York Castle; the one who leaned in, without any hesitation at all, to the most sordid and cruel abuses; the girl who smiled the most sweetly when told what terrors she was to be subjected to; the one who most nakedly solicited use and abuse at every opportunity, as if she sought obliteration.
She applies herself to the constant refinement of her service with the same dedication she used to give to her daily hours of piano practice, which of course had stopped on the day she had allowed Scanlon to deliver her to The Castle (she had been crying, roughly gagged, half hysterical, half stunned, hands tied behind her — her expensive slip torn, ruined, a mix of blood and Scanlon’s come oozing from her newly deflowered rear passage, her cheek puffy with the beginnings of what became a spectacular black eye, knees and elbows grazed from the rough concrete — utterly distraught).
Berenice, the Mistress of the New York Castle, had ordered, right then, that thread be woven densely around and between her fingers, so that it is as if she is constantly wearing mittens. A little gold ring put into the nail of each thumb had a light chain attached, which was used to pull her thumbs into her palms, the chain then passed round the backs of her fingers and linked to a ring on her first finger, holding the thumb tightly in place. In this way her hands were rendered prettily useless — other girls had to attend to her for many necessaries; cleaning herself (for even intimate needs), make-up, feeding herself.
These restraints were only released at night.
Berenice had told her that this treatment had been an express request from her owner.
From little experiments, she knew that her hands had already lost much of the strength and dexterity it had taken her years to acquire.
It was a terrible temptation to her that she might exercise her hands at night — though she knew that she must not — felt genuine shame at this disrespect for her owner’s wishes, but the loss of her most defining accomplishment — her extraordinary skill on the piano — hurt her most deeply (whereas the humiliation and degradation attendant on the loss of all control over her sexual usage was counterbalanced by the astonishing liberation of desire and capacity for sexual intensity this had brought).
She had explained this situation to Berenice, tearfully admitting her temptation to go against her new code of existence, where all personal desire that did not directly support her service was to be carefully suppressed. She had asked whether the restraints might be kept in place 24 / 7, but Berenice had said no — that serious damage could be done to her hands that way.
Berenice had then, gently, told her that she must be severely punished for having allowed these temptations so much headspace, that her pussy would be whipped raw at the next Saturday event, and she had gone to her knees and mumbled her deep apologies, and her gratitude, while fighting to keep the trembling from getting so out of hand that she might topple over.
A fortnight later, while she was still healing from the awful aftermath of that event, Berenice had come to her with her laptop, showing the site of a Brazilian body modification surgeon, with examples of girls who had asked for their thumbs to be removed, and the fingers surgically rendered a single unit — fused together. He was clearly an artist; the hands — reduced to mere flippers (it seemed as if perhaps the two smaller fingers had also been shortened, it was hard to be sure) — were svelte and elegant, delicate and clearly all but useless.
Her eyes had filled with tears. Berenice had not spoken, but had stroked her cheek softly, and kissed her slow, deep and long, while the long, bony fingers of her other hand teased at the tender, newly healed membranes of her sex lips with knowing cruelty, relentless, until at last Ellie/Lear was driven to an intense orgasm, horridly unwelcome, destructively filled with pain and despair, but to which she gave herself fully, knowing she must, her thighs spread wide, offering herself.
The next time her Master came, she knew she was going to ask him if he would ask Berenice to arrange for her to be transformed in that way — if he allowed her to speak, that is. It would break her heart. She knew that he would probably also want to have her breasts enlarged, and that, too would be terrible for her — she loved her tight, firm little mounds, while his preference was for full, round, heavy tits. Her body would truly no longer be hers, after that.
These days, her only power is to offer herself up to have her heart broken.
It is both terrible and wonderful to her that her broken heart overflows with gratitude, every single day, to be kept, to have no choices, to have his possession of her constantly evidenced and reinforced through the unfettered use and abuse of her body and mind by an endless round of heartless and greedy strangers.
