Anka’s Tale
Picture: Anka parades for Anne-Marie
“Display yourself for us my dear”, he’d asked, “Show these two how lovely you are — how lucky I am.”
And, blushing a little, trembling a little, but mostly pleased, she had stood and put herself through some poses, smiling shyly at them, mostly unable to look directly at them, feeling vulnerable and naughty and grateful for the attention, for the approving comments (even if they were on the crude side).
Knowing, deep down, that he was displaying her so that she aroused desire in the visitors — a father and son whom she had taken an instant dislike to — and that this was a dangerous thing to do, that in some way she was being used, as a bargaining chip probably. Deep down, she knew that he was whoring her.
Worse, that to have an excuse to whore herself was not completely unwelcome.
For, having consented last year to be his live-in girl, she was — frankly — getting rather frustrated. Since having her ‘on tap’, as it were, he seemed increasingly interested in simply watching her and touching her; bothering less and less frequently to take one of the blue pills and actually do her. She had ended up in the escort game because she needed money, sure — but also because she liked sex for its own sake; I should just admit it — I like getting fucked hard by selfish men.
So the idea that he might not be averse to the idea of her doing it with some of his visitors — embarrassing as it might be, is not ‘off the table’ for her.
However, not in her wildest dreams would she have predicted that, within ten minutes, without any discussion, or consent having been sought, she would be face down ‘on the table’ — spread over the elegant wrought iron top of it, still wet with the cold rain from the morning, her dress now a belt of fabric at her waist, breasts being mauled by the older man, whose cock was in her throat, while his son forced himself into her rear passage, hard, hurting her. He had gripped her wrists together painfully behind her back, and uttered hateful, degrading words at her with each thrust.
Worse, she had found herself passively assisting in this shocking violation, her hips moving of their own accord, as if welcoming the aggressive and painful fucking, even as tears brimmed in her eyes, appallingly conscious of the fact that the butler was looking on.
Since then, there had been nothing. They had never spoken of it. Sometimes she cried over the memory of the violation, sometimes she masturbated, thinking of it. The butler had leered at her, openly, a couple of times; let her hear him whisper ‘slag’ as she passed him in the corridor, and she had not the nerve to complain.
And now here she was; posing again, for a different visitor, this awe-inspiring Anne-Marie, again with some deep inner knowledge that this meant something, but this time without any idea what it might be at all.
Picture: Anka posing again
Only that that a hollow, excited, terrifying, intoxicating feeling was building in her chest, that this woman’s visit meant something, presaged some change. Some change that, clearly, would not be any return to normality. Not by the nature of the few words she had overheard the day before, which she assumed could not refer to anyone but herself.
‘… keep her for three weeks or so ….’
’ …. a natural, will find it seductive and addi- ….’
‘… incipient nympho ….’
‘… - greedy for money ….’
‘… -ovide a replacement girl, — you need a bit of vari- ….’
She knew a little, rumours mostly, from girls she had known, about someone called Anne-Marie, about the mythical place called ‘The Castle’. Had always wondered whether it could really be true, in this day and age; if such a place could actually exist — a place where girls like herself could get paid a fortune in return for months — even years, she had heard — of their lives; months of total sexual subjugation, of dark abuses.
The Anne-Marie they told of was supposed to be some sort of modern-day witch, or hypnotist, capable of making even the strongest girl into a helpless, eager sex toy.
That’s what they had said, and now … now here was a real person, flesh-and-blood, introduced to her as, simply; Anne-Marie, who had mentioned to her the possibility of taking a short break from her position here, of having a stay with her – for some ‘training’, Anne-Marie called it, without further detail, at somewhere called The Castle.
Picture: Anka, posing provocatively
Anka had not dared ask any questions at all, so overawed was she by everything about the woman, so that she had no way of knowing whether this was, in fact, the place of the gossip stories. But she had nodded, and smiled politely, and looked, questioningly at her man, her employer (she never had figured out what to call him), who had made his own tight-lipped excuse for a smile, and inclined his head slowly, inscrutably, like a human tortoise. God but she hated him, she suddenly saw.
And here she was, displaying herself again, for a woman, this time. For Anne-Marie. Hoping, this time, that something would happen. Even if it might be as shocking, as degrading as that double fucking over the garden table had been. Even if it was more so.
I want it to be some sort of ‘more’ — I do! she thinks, eager now, for something — anything — that might break her out of the awful, suffocating stasis of this posh but creepy mansion, so far from anywhere, with only the same few faces, those of them not actively hateful to her at best indifferent.
This Anne-Marie is at least something — this Anne-Marie who comes, now, to stand very close to her, to look into her eyes, so very close to her, but not touching;
“Will you lift your leg again for me, pretty?”, she says, and; “Oh, I think you can get it a little higher than that, can’t you? Won’t you open yourself right up for me?”
Picture: Anka, Posing in the short dress
Will Anne-Marie put her strong, elegant hand up Anka’s skirt now, and discover her shameful lack of knickers, find the heavy ring he had insisted she wear in the piercing at her clit-hood, if he would consider her for this contract?
Ah.
Aaa-Ah!
Yes. Yes she would.
Without needing to be asked, Anka leans forward, to open her sex even more blatantly; offering herself up to the casual, confident invasion, blushing furiously, knowing that she was responding exactly as these two manipulative and greedy people, both more than twice her age, have expected her to.
She doesn’t care; even though she is having to control herself ruthlessly to allow this shaming (the butler has been hanging around, obviously waiting for this, the old slug) — she knows that she wants to experience whatever it is that the woman promises. Whatever it might be …
Somehow, when the question comes;
“Has she been whipped yet?”,
it is almost expected, and her only reaction is to close her eyes, and to observe the trembling at her belly, the pain in her heart, the quivering of her tongue tip as her mouth opens itself by some reflex — all as if they were happening to some other girl.
When she returns, after a month or so, naked under the short cape, collared, cuffed, chained, her soft breasts and her inner thighs carrying the already darkening marks of recent whippings as well as the purpling bruises from older assaults, she is terribly, terribly shy, but still performs very meekly; making herself sweet and pretty as all three members of the male staff are asked to welcome her home with a triple penetration fuckfest in the central atrium of the big house, after which she is chained — naked apart from collar, cuffs, corselette, transparent silk bolero and a ludicrously short, gauzy skirt that hides nothing, serving only to attract attention — chained to the massive oak newel post at the foot of the stair, where she is kept for two weeks, ignored by all apart from the gruel and water, the fuckings and the whippings. She never complains, and gives pleasure with pretty and willing servility, even for the butler, the hateful Lothbar.
Picture: Anka, chained
When Anne-Marie walks into the house, though, two weeks later, it is immediately clear that Anka is making a significant extra effort — and that this is motivated as much by eagerness as by fear of what failure to please might bring, as she presents herself elegantly, on her knees, thighs spread wide, hips straining to present her sex mound, shoulders back, breasts jutting, tongue tip lightly caught between her teeth, hands at the small of her back, buttocks up off her heels, her groin rolling and thrusting — very slightly, very slowly, but continuously — deliberately eye-catching; smiling and blinking away tears at the same time; she is trembling all over.
She is ignored, of course, as her Master arrives and escorts his guest into the Library (no longer any doubt about what to call him). But her increased responsiveness is still just as evident two hours later when the butler comes, clips a leash to her collar and leads her into the garden, where she is stripped of her lingerie, hosed down and scrubbed in freezing water, then dried with a noisy leaf-blower, often squeaking and crying out, but ever so, ever so softly; never anything but helplessly, expressively compliant.
The housekeeper does the shivering, naked girl’s hair and make-up in the kitchen, fits and tightens the corset (Anka’s yell of surprised pain as the woman yanks on the drawstrings, a foot braced against the girl’s backbone, is the only loud noise she has made since her whipping last night — she is silenced with a foul-tasting leather penis gag, both fat and long, during the early morning sessions, so as not to disturb her Master’s sleep), straps on the harness and the fearfully high-heeled sandals — just toe-straps and a loose lanyard around each ankle — and finally adds the blindfold and leash.
From the feel of his hands and the smell of his sweat, she knows it is the butler again who links her wristcuffs at the small of her back, and leads her back to the stair hall.
She knows the house so well that the blindfold does not prevent her from knowing that he has led her to the Library door. He has her, backed against the wall to one side of the door, while he chokes her with one hand, pawing crudely at her sex with the other, kicking hard at her ankles to get her to open her legs more widely still (she has learned never, ever, to let her thighs touch when not in motion). Desperate to please, in the hope of distracting him from his cruelty, she manages to get herself wet for him, despite his hurting her so, despite her intense hatred of him, and he laughs, short and harsh, leans in and speaks softly in her ear, breath foul with his drinking and smoking.
“They’re going to turn you in a mindless piece of fuckmeat, girly; a helpless, desperate-for-it sex toy; they’re going to burn their mark into your sweet titty, and close to your cunt, and into your face, too, right here on your cheek. And then no-one will ever fail to know you for what you are; a filthy, lowlife, whore.”
“Now, get down on your knees. I’m going to lift up this blindfold, and you’re going to read out loud what’s on the piece of paper on the floor there, right after you have kissed my boot.”
There being nothing else to do, she obeys him, trembling, working hard, as she has been taught, to hold back the sweet, hot tears that so need to fall, the tears which might perhaps soften this awful moment just the tiniest bit, even if they could not hope to match the dread of the bigger moment she knows must be coming. But she is not allowed even this small relief, she knows, and squeezes her eyes tight shut as she sinks, as elegantly as she can, to her knees, where she bends and makes herself kiss both his shiny boots as if she means it, before scrabbling helplessly with her lips to get the scrap of paper into a position where she can read the scrawl;
“This … this dirty, shit … shit-eating … cunt … than… thanks you Sir, for … for for all your m-many … many kindnesses.”
Her face crumples, then, for a second, as he laughs in his nasty way, the cruel joke so agonisingly perfectly aimed.
But she has learned well, and recovers within a few tens of seconds, swallowing hard (hating that he is watching her as she makes herself accept his meanness, makes herself smile for him — smile the weak, shameful, mindless little girl smile which she has been trained to smile) — so that when the muffled call comes from within the room, she is able to follow the hard pull of the leash at her collar (blindfold reinstated) and present herself reasonably well as she is led in to the room where her Master and Anne-Marie have been horse-trading about her fate.
There is silence; the leash is let fall. She feels him step away from her. There’s a certainty in her mind of something awful being imminent, but the hard punch to the solar plexus still takes her completely by surprise. It’s ten or more years since she experienced anything like this (accidentally, in some adolescent rough-and-tumble), and it floors her, literally; terrifies her as it seems that she will never be able to take a breath again, writhing, kicking, the awful reality that her hands are immobilised, that her waist is so tightly confined by the abominable corset, the knowledge destroying her — that the three of them are watching her, that this horrid cruelty has been imposed on her for no other reason but for their passing entertainment; hearing complacent laughter — so that her tears are at last beyond all control.
Picture: Anka winded
Somehow, she doesn’t die, doesn’t even black out, quite, and eventually, by some miracle, becomes able once more to do what had seemed a forgotten skill — take a small breath — and then, desperately grateful, struggling through the awful, uncontrollable hiccupping of her sobbing — another … and then another …
After a little more of this, they have had enough, and;
“Pull her up Lothbar, will you? Get her up on the desk; up at this end — face down, ass up, please — offering her cunt to her Master. “
She is still wheezing as she strives to adopt the position, to open herself for her Master’s hand, coming from behind her to paw at her opened and still shamefully slippy sex. At least he is not quite as crude as the butler. She has finally managed to rein in the tears when he speaks;
“That’ll be all for now Lothbar — but have the champagne ready, will you?”
Then Anne-Marie’s strong, cool fingers are at her head, and the blindfold is removed.
Picture: Anka, naked, on the table
And there, in front of her, is a neat stack of cream-laid high quality stationery, many pages; headed in large letters with; ‘INDENTURE FOR SEXUAL SERVITUDE’. Dense, complex paragraphs, numbered sub paragraphs, latin words; lower down the page, she sees her full birth name, and winces at the knowledge that this was the name she had borne as an innocent baby, as a smiling young girl with hopes and dreams, a name that she has allowed to be so degraded, hopes and dreams now buried in shame. Again, it takes extreme efforts to keep back the tears.
Anne-Marie, in one of those seemingly tender, caressing gestures of hers which Anka has learned to fear as much as yearn for, gently tucks a stray lock of hair back from Anka’s eyes, softly smooths a tear from her cheek;
“There you are now, Anka — as you ought to be — in bondage, sweetly offering your pussy up for use; being useful, and being used. And do you know? Do you know that you are just so, so pretty like that? That it suits you? Such a pretty little sweetie — I just thought I should tell you.”
“You should know, too, that it was very amusing, just now — you on the floor, hurting so badly — so frightened; the way you were writhing, fighting to get a breath, utterly unable to; tits all over the place, your legs kicking quite ridiculously — giving us lovely views of your cunt. Maybe we’ll get to do that to you again — I don’t know. I can think of a few of the younger ones who’d probably stick their cocks in you while you were suffering like that, too. It would intensify the terror quite significantly, I would think — imagine that! One day soon, perhaps.”
“But now … now, we must get to business!”
Smoothly, but without pausing, Anne-Marie flips over the pages, one-by-one, so quickly that there is no chance at reading anything — as if Anka would have understood any of it in any case. Soon, they reach the last page, where she sees her birth name again, and a line, a space for the date — already filled in (Anka realises that she has completely lost track of time — looks at the date as if it is something from another life — not being able to connect it to her own). Below that is Anne-Marie’s name and signature “for, and on behalf of, the Great Table of the Castle”, and the same date.
A pen is ready, but Anne-Marie waits. Her master tugs at her clit ring, forcing from Anka soft, pained noises, flexings of her hips as he hurts her; he laughs, softly, enjoying himself. Anka has realised, since spending time with Anne-Marie, that he is a buffoon, this man she once looked up to; and amateur, too, by comparison with the predatory sharpness of this dominatrix of The Castle; the woman who has so effortlessly, so terrifyingly, so thoroughly enslaved her. Nevertheless, she is utterly sincere in her attempts to move as she thinks he wishes her to, in dedication to his pleasure. It is at once a torture and a blessing to be so closely observed by Anne-Marie as she flexes her body for him — for it to be so obvious how completely she has absorbed the training; how helplessly servile she has become.
Anka’s heart thuds, she trembles at the immensity of the pressure of the moment she knows is coming, but tries to recoup some small strength, wondering, praying that she might manage to do the right thing in the next few minutes, nerves drawn to breaking point by this calculated pause.
“Now, pretty Anka, this is the moment we talked about. The moment when, having had your little holiday here, away from all the harsh things we did to you at the Castle, you get to make a choice. We were really rather cruel to you, pretty, weren’t we? We usually go a little slower on a new girl — especially one who is really only a guest — but you must see that it was all your fault; you responded so gorgeously to nastiness, right from that first day, that, well, we just couldn’t keep from playing with you.”
“Really — I know it’s hard, to see, perhaps, but you should take all that cruelty as a compliment. You really are the most fun for the gentlemen to abuse — so sweet about it, so pretty, and so desperately, desperately sad about the way your body opens itself up, just asking for it. Really, it’s too darling — you can’t blame them for being so rough with you, sweetie, you really can’t. In any case, we can all see that it’s exactly what you were made for, can’t we?”
This softly delivered, but deeply savage little speech is met in Anka’s heart by an urgent, passionate rejection which wells up from deep within her being — a burning refusal to accept the idea that she was made to be treated so harshly, that there can be anything right about the way she has been so relentlessly degraded and humiliated. She knows that some strong protest is needed, right away, that it needs to be voiced, to be shouted, to be heard.
But when no more than a small tightening at her jaw, a tilt of her head as Anka readies herself to speak brings a raised eyebrow and an all-but-imperceptible, sour turn to Anne-Marie’s smile, the pretty girl finds herself unable to do anything other than swallow hard and ruthlessly suppress her soul’s demands, finds herself instead desperate to make it clear that she has crushed her response — to show, by her silence, that she accepts Anne-Marie’s right to say such awful things about her.
Even though she knows she is dying inside. Even though she knows that this silence will be taken as yet more evidence of the awful truth; that Anne-Marie is correct — that she, Anka, is indeed made for a life of degraded sexual servitude.
Anne-Marie waits, reinforcing the significance of this moment between them, and then allows herself a small, self-satisfied smile;
“That’s right. What a sensible little girl! You really, really don’t want to speak now. Not unless you want my cigarette stubbed out on your clever little tongue, you don’t.”
Picture: Anka accepts
From the repeated accumulation of such small defeats, crushings of feelings, acceptances of the unacceptable achieved through menace — from these, Anne-Marie knows, is the iron habit of automatic deference instilled, even the imagined possibility of resistance erased, in the psyche of a Castle Toy.
The woman waits while this latest imposition of despair is absorbed, watching Anka’s eyes close as she internalises another dose of self-disgust, waits until they open again — full of sadness now, but with no hint of either defiance or anger — before continuing;
“So; now it’s time, just as I explained to you before you were brought back here — oh; I quite forgot to ask! Have you enjoyed your stay? I’m sure you have — back with all the comforts of home — the centre of attention, naked, with those cute adornments, right in the middle of the house, with your chain and your little doggy bowl — so pretty and so meek — and Lothbar keeping your lovely tits and your taut little bum so nicely striped, too. Not to mention all the fuckings you’ve been enjoying! Yes, pretty, I’ve seen those video clips of you coming, so very, very expressively— and making such unladylike noises, too — from that tall young man hammering your cunt while Lothbar is stretching your tight little asshole out. You just can’t help yourself, can you? Cock-hungry little slut that you are.”
“But as I said, now that you’ve rested, it’s time to make a decision. Either we’re done with you, and you leave here, tonight, with your promised cheque from your master — and one from The Castle, too, in grateful recognition of the pleasure which using you so freely has afforded our members — and then we never meet again.”
“Or, and this is really a terrible, terrible idea, but we have to give you the choice — or, you sign this piece of paper, and we own you for three years. Own you like I own this fan.”
Anne-Marie almost always has a fan about her, and the one she produces now is a pretty, hand-painted, Japanese one, of the kind she especially favours — she has a collection of rather valuable antique examples in a large glass case in her room, and this looks to be one of those.
Only now she has opened it with one hand, and begun snapping its spokes with the other; careful, elegant, quite deliberately breaking them, twisting them, ripping the beautifully decorated paper, mangling the thing beyond repair, observing the destruction with cool interest, without evident emotion, like a small boy stamping on beetles — without malice or any real intent; just for something to do. Just for fun.
Only, of course, this is not just fun.
Anne-Marie stops; looks at the wreckage of the fan for a moment, then up at Anka (whose eyes are permanently lowered, but who has learned, as all Castle girls must, through necessity, to discover as much as possible about what Anne-Marie is doing without directly looking), then down again;
“Oh. Dear. Look what I’ve done. I’ve broken it. Completely ruined it. Nothing but wreckage.”
The silence is long, then, broken only by a soft cry of distress from Anka as her Master decides that this is the moment to push two fat fingers, hard, right into her sex, uncaring that she has tightened in reaction to Anne-Marie’s pointedly cruel psychological manipulations. The skin and nails on those fingers — dry, cracked and hardened as they are by cigar smoke and old age — hurt Anka’s tender sex and deeply shame her, too, just as the meaning of this little demonstration hits her.
Anka sees, suddenly, that she is supposed to see that the fan is a girl. A Castle girl. A girl that could be her, Anka. Even more, perhaps — a direct promise or threat as to what will become of her should she sign this dreadful document.
“Ah, well, I have many more at home. And it was mine. I don’t have to say sorry to anyone if I break something that I already own, do I? Anyway, it’s totally worthless now; useless to even think about it any more. I’ll get myself a new one tomorrow when I go into town. I was a little tired of that one to be honest — I do like an excuse to get a new one every now and then.”
Folding the broken thing as best she can, she flips it, accurately, into the fire, where it crackles rapidly, then burns, brightly — strange and lovely colours flaring from the inks; soon consumed, crumbling into barely discernible ash, its original beauty hard even to remember, once it is gone.
Another heavy pause; Anka helplessly breaking the silence again with a strangled, moaning gasp as her Master manages — by mistake — to do something that is, briefly, mind-bendingly glorious at her sex, and her hips surge as she arches her neck, unable to hide her arousal.
Anne-Marie laughs, entertained;
“My dear, you are quite the helpless little sex-addict now, aren’t you — I mean, we hardly had time to corrupt you, now, did we? I think someone was a dirty eager whore long before we met, eh?”
“I think all we had to do was nudge you, ever such a little bit, over the edge. With you making those big soft eyes at us the whole time, begging us to destroy you. So that now you’re lost.”
“And so here’s the question. Are you lost enough so that you’re going to sign your life away? Yes, your life, pretty — because once we’ve had you for three years there will be very little left of sweet, lovely Anka. Very little indeed. There will only be what the boys so nastily call Castle Meat, suitable only for a lowlife, hard-scrabble whorehouse — somewhere in Lagos, perhaps, or El Salvador. And I am certain, lovely, that there is nothing in you that wants to end up like that, now, is there?”
“So now I’m going to ask you to speak, but you’ll keep it very brief, and very, very polite, won’t you? Of course you will — you remember about the cigarette, don’t you?”
Without waiting for an answer, Anne-Marie continues;
“Very good; now, I want you to tell me, lovely, which you’d like to do, what you really want; to take the money and your freedom, and our love and thanks, too, for offering your lovely self up so sweetly to our cruel games.”
“Or, that you want to sign yourself over to The Castle. So that we can use you up - take everything from you.”
“That’s OK, pretty, you can look up; yes — yes, you can, look me in the eye, see that I’m genuine. That this is a genuine choice. That we really do think you’d be insane not to take the money. Look, there’s the envelope, with the cheques on top — over €300,000, all yours.”
The silence stretches. Everyone in the room knows the shape of things, everyone in the room knows that her Master is still playing with her wet and opened sex, that she is moving, little movements, all the time, to make that easy for him, fun for him. Everyone can see the way that movement sets her lovely breasts moving — can see that Anka is making sure that the way they sway is obvious, enticing, entertaining. Everyone can see Anka’s jaw working, tightening, can see the stress in her.
They give her as long as she can bear, until the pressure of the silence forces her to speak — and to manage to say what she needs to say — to rescue herself. Even though a great part of her does not want to be rescued, she finds the strength from somewhere to say it;
“Please, Mistress, Master, I’d … I’d like to … to take the money… Please. And … and to … to thank you, very … very sincerely … for … for …” her voice breaks, but she makes herself complete her sentence; “… for everything … everything you have done for me. But … But I … I would like … like my life back. Please.”
A short pause. Anka dares a quick look at Anne-Marie. The woman’s smile is genuine, encouraging, confident, cheerful — approving, even; she reaches out softly to caress Anka’s shoulder, in an uncharacteristically sisterly way;
“Oh that’s good! Brave girl, you made the right choice. The choice I think is right for you — and I know that your Master thinks so too. We quite agree. It would be such a shame for a girl as pretty, with so much opportunity in front of her, to give herself up to nothing but cruelty, degradation and despair. A real shame. So, well done you!”
And then she stops, and Anka’s heart stops, too, sensing something terrible is about to happen.
Nothing does happen though. Instead, Anne-Marie simply waits, so that time seems almost to stop; Anne-Marie simply watching her, not speaking, but with a look; a strange look, a questioning, encouraging, urging look. It’s unnerving; such an odd feeling, horribly uncomfortable, is coming over Anka. And still, still Anne-Marie does not speak, while at the same time making it very clear indeed that there is something she hopes for from Anka, something she believes Anka must understand, something that she doesn’t want to ask for, but nevertheless certainly wants.
As it becomes terribly clear, all of a sudden, what this something is, Anka’s whole body recoils - she cringes, visibly, shrinks into herself, rejecting the possibility that this can be happening to her, that she has no refuge, that her last strength has been for nothing.
It takes a little while longer, after this, for Anka’s heart to break, but it does. She has realised; she knows — she understands, and she cannot see how she can possibly bear it.
Abruptly, awkwardly, wrists still locked together, she wrenches herself desperately off the desk, away from her master’s foraging hand — and runs, or rather trots, since that is all that is possible in the terrible heels — trots to the door, breasts swinging wildly, to lean against the wall beside it, hyperventilating, knees sagging, until, agony flooding her as she realises that she cannot hope even to operate the doorknob with her hands cuffed as they are, drowning in a surge of hopelessness, she slides off to the side, into the corner and, with an awful, heart-rending, groaning wail of despair and distress, collapses into a foetal ball.
There is no reaction. None at all.
Hearing herself, Anka is doubly despairing. For there is nothing, nothing in the sounds forcing themselves from her throat which would suggest that the girl making them has the strength to fight, the toughness needed to continue to struggle against the impossible demands being made of her.
It is, instead, the wrenching sound of a girl who knows she has lost, but who cannot yet — not quite — cannot quite yet bear to accept that she has lost. Who knows she cannot win through, but yet cannot accept the reality, the inevitability, the terrible cost of total defeat, or the shame, either, of knowing just how weak she has become, how pathetic, how lost.
A girl who sees, all too clearly, how she has led herself to this place; who knows, in advance, just how terrible will be the shame of this self-betrayal, this complicity in her own downfall — but for whom even this foreseen agony is insufficient to deliver to her the will to resist.
A girl who then does not deserve freedom, does not, perhaps, deserve even a chance at happiness. A girl who will have no choice but to learn to base what shreds of self worth she can muster on nothing more than her ability to provide momentary gratification of the baser desires of sexual sadists, strangers to her even as they abuse her so intimately.
A girl who will be walled up in herself, permitted almost no human interaction with others, almost no society, almost no secrets, almost no private life, no possessions, no control over her time or her body. A girl whose emotional life, even, will be heavily constrained, invaded, policed, manipulated.
A girl who will learn to become the pathetically smiling, helplessly compliant, sweetly willing creature of the will of any stranger who cares to command her, or, failing that, a girl who will be cut loose, rejected out of hand, broken, fit for nothing.
There is silence, then; just the crackling of the fire, and the sound of Anka’s strangling, wrenching sobs of anguish, gulping and snorting, uncontrollable, tearing her apart; a girl in torment.
Picture: Anka, crouching in the corner
The searing, wrenching intensity cannot last, even though Anka works hard to fuel it, terrified of letting it die away, so unable is she to face the reality of what she already knows she is going to do, to allow reason back into her mind, from which it has been temporarily banished by the maelstrom of emotion, but still, at last, there comes a time when the silences are more plentiful than the sobs, and then, a little later, the time when there are no more sobs.
And still there is nothing, nothing at all from the two others in the room.
Anka begins to feel paranoid, then, and increasingly fearful, curled up in herself, unseeing — needing to know that they are there, that they have not left her, that they are not, perhaps, standing over her, whip in hand …
Hating the need to do it, but unable to resist, she raises her head, looks around. It is the first surrender. All present know that it prefigures inevitable and complete defeat for the lovely girl lying crumpled on the floor, tearstained, naked, wrists cruelly bound, but that her full and complete capitulation will take a little while yet.
A most enjoyable while; for the older two, it is like savouring the first sip of a rare and complex wine — an experience that is all the better taken slowly. Even Anne-Marie, who has done this many times, knows that she will experience this only eight or ten times a year.
Disposable as a Castle Toy is considered to be once she has submitted — and Anne-Marie is utterly ruthless and dispassionate in this regard, happy to see even girls who have been newly acquired, girls who, for one reason or another, have been hard to snare — happy to see such girls utterly ruined if it might satisfy the smallest whim of a member — these moments of enslavement (for, whatever the wording on the contract, that is what this is) — these moments of capitulation are special, unique; impossible fully to capture on camera — and are therefore to be savoured — experienced as fully as practically possible.
There they are, over by the desk; her Master sitting where he had been all along, sipping at his whiskey. Anne-Marie, perched elegantly on the desk, legs sexily crossed; gorgeous and self-contained as ever. Both watching her.
It takes a while, and breaks Anka’s heart all over again, but it is inevitable, impossible to resist; like gravity, it gets her in the end, until she cannot help but stand, shake out her limbs, and walk — walk carefully, walk prettily, walk elegantly, as she has learned (as she has been ruthlessly taught), back to the desk, back to her captors, horribly aware of her nakedness in a way she has not been for weeks now, as if she was once again the relative innocent who went happily with Anne-Marie to The Castle, such a short — such a long — time ago.
Once there, awfully, horribly unsure of herself, she falters, before, ever so slowly, going down onto her knees, assuming the position — opening herself, opening her sex, presenting her breasts, putting out her tongue tip, letting it flicker over her salt and snot-stained lips (again, feeling it as she has not done for a long time now, the humiliation of it, the abject wanton-ness of it). It takes a little while longer before her voice comes — very quiet, very soft, very husky, very frightened; the sound of defeat — a defeat, moreover, that is relentless in its demand for a display of apparent happiness at having been crushed; of eagerness to be annihilated, of pleasure in the anticipation of being degraded;
“Please … please, Mistress, I … … I … it … it occurs to me to … to ask you which … which choice you … you would like me to make? I … I …”
She sobs a little, brokenly, before she recovers herself, clearly making an enormous effort;
“I … am most terribly sorry, Mistress, that … that I omitted to … to check with you — where … where your preference li-lies … before … before answering for myself. That … that…”
Sobs threaten again, but are suppressed;
“… that was … was inexcusable, and … and I … I beg to be whipped for … for my lapse. And … and for my … my terrible behaviour just now, when … when I ran from my Master and … and denied him his use of me. That … that too, is inexcusable and … and will require a … a heavy punishment.”
Another long silence; Anka’s breathing is noisy, irregular, and she has several times to take herself resolutely in hand to keep her position, to keep quiet. She knows she is failing utterly to look desirable, to invite sexual usage as she should, but that is simply beyond her at this point. And anyway, she thinks, numbly, she’ll have three years, now, to perfect that skill.
The waiting is awful. She would happily sign for four years, if Anne-Marie would just end this cruel suspense.
Eventually, her Mistress relents;
“That childish little display, pretty Anka, was indeed completely unacceptable, and you will certainly suffer terribly for it — you’ll wish you were dead, I imagine, at several points during the proceedings. But we won’t permit you to die, of course, and I know for a fact that we’ll have you smiling prettily and begging for cock again within days — or weeks, at least.”
“Now, here’s the pen, waiting for you. Hurry up, now, and then you can go and fetch Lothbar, and ask him to bring you back here and start taking the skin off your back. You’ve earned a rare and special kind of attention, pretty — something I do rather rarely these days. I’m going to pierce your nipples for you — and your tongue-tip, too. I’m going to use my favourite bodkins — I brought them with me, specially for you.”
Picture: bodkins
“I’ll do it when Lothbar needs a rest. I’ll get them red-hot, so that you squeal nicely. I’ll leave them in you and and get a fun picture of you with all three of them in place.”
Picture: Anka, whipped and pierced
“They make nice big holes, so we can put heavy rings into you. If we have time, I’ll do your labia too, four on each side, so we can put grommets in them and lace you up with a pretty ribbon, or a slinky chain and lock, to encourage the members to split your tight little bottom more often.”
Picture: Corset-laced labia
“Hurry up now! And tell him I want you to carry the blowtorch, so he’ll need to lock your cuffs in front.”
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