Paused
He often introduced random pauses in the middle of a beating.
He would stop for a cigarette, or pour himself a drink, never taking his eyes off her. If there were guests present, he would sometimes point out the way her nipples stiffened, how she couldn’t keep her mouth closed.
The intensity of her existence, at these moments - the sensation that every cell of her body was electrified, energised - was unique and (she couldn’t avoid the knowledge) wonderful.
He would extend these pauses arbitrarily, watching her, clearly seeing just how it was with her, since he never missed the right moment to come back at her - just when, hope against hope, her body had dared to believe that it might be over for today - or, that her shameful, urgent offerings of the use of her body (specifically, of her ‘holes’, as he insisted she call her mouth, her sex - and recently, her asshole, too) had encouraged him to enjoy her in a different way.
If he chose to, when she was in this state of heightened expectation, of intense sensitivity, alertness, vulnerability, he could bring her to orgasm very quickly, using the end of the crop alone.
If they were alone, she hoped for this, devastating as it was to come in such circumstances, to be undone by sexual pleasure in the context of sexual cruelty.
If there were guests, she felt she would rather die than have her weakness so brutally demonstrated - since it was impossible for her to hide the intensity of her climaxes at these times.
Either way, when he resumed beating her after a forced orgasm like this, her cries were pitiful, heartrending, broken.
Afterwards, unable to resist him, she would nevertheless melt into his touch more sweetly than ever, opening herself eagerly, breathing; “Thank you! thank you!”
Again, if this was in front of guests her abject, eager submission burned into her psyche, but was impossible to hold back. Indeed, perversely, her awareness of her wish to hide her (crazy) gratitude would drive her to overcome that wish by being even more demonstrative than usual, deliberately shaming herself; punishing herself for wanting to deny him his due.
She knew, in her quiet moments, when she forced herself to consider the realities of what was going on between them, that this was dangerous; that she should stop it, ar at least demand of him that he pull back.
But truthfully, it was often her that took the chance of some minor incident to provoke him, to tease him - in effect, to ask him to punish her.
It had taken a great deal of heart-searching for her to admit to herself that this was true. That, no matter how much she hated the whip (and there was no internal pretence going on there - she was genuinely terrorised by the experience - even though, as he had proved to her, he wasn’t even really hitting her - one example of a hard strike had proved that).
Once she had accepted this about herself, of course, it became harder and harder to stop herself from pushing him.
Of course, he’d noticed.
That was a thing about him; ‘feminine mystique’ did not seem to trouble him - he always knew what was going on with her - it was what had snared her in the first place; that he knew her almost better than she knew herself.
He’d talked to her about it, and told her, very clearly, that she could entice, and tease, and provoke as much as she liked, but that he would whip her as and when he chose to. Then had begun the practice of him saying things like, ‘three more’ to her, when she was being silly.
And she would have to add three to the number she was remembering. The number of extra strokes she would take on top of whatever it was that he had decided to inflict on her the next time he told her to fetch the whip for him.
In front of guests, to be made to recall the number of blows she had earned for herself through deliberately provoking him was a particularly humiliating experience. He would often ask her to explain just what it was that she had done, and to be clear what she had expected to result from it.
None of which meant she had stopped wanting to tease him, or even that she had managed to control that desire.
It was ridiculous; she kept telling herself she was not this weak, foolish, sex-obsessed child; that she was a grown woman with a decent job and prospects. She was sounding increasingly uncertain of this, even to herself.
He had told her recently that, soon, he would lend her to one of his friends - Anne-Marie - and that the woman would certainly whip her - harder than he had so far done.
She feared terribly that she would respond in just the same way to Anne-Marie as to her lover, was certain that she would not be able to help herself, and the knowledge was heartbreaking, as well as heart-stopping.
Between them, her lover and Anne-Marie were going to expose as a pathetic fiction the notion that her extraordinary response to sexual subjugation was anything to do with love, make it clear that it had everything to do with her wanton-ness, her weakness, her depravity.
And consequently, since she kept getting weaker, that there was to be no end to this.
Considerations
She was not, exactly, used to being penetrated in front of other people; it was still, to her, a shocking, intensely degrading imposition - but at least she was usually face down, or blindfolded, and she had been used like this many, many times now in the astonishing weeks since she had been brought here.
But this particular guest had decided, in the last week, to prove his prowess at bringing girls to orgasm. Since she had the reputation of never climaxing when being used by Club Members, she had become, of course, a prime target. Frankly, it had got out of hand - a sweepstake was under way, stopwatches were set if a member announced he was going to see if he could bring her off. She was mortified beyond expression to realise this.
This man, though physically unimpressive, was in fact incredibly skilful and subtle, read her body language very well, and her determination to resist had only resulted in longer sessions with more devastating, unstoppable, noisily obvious orgasms at the end.
Somehow these shameful, spasming, jerking public orgasms, forced upon her four or five times over the last days, had utterly devastated her, oversetting what little self-possession she had retained.
She was becoming infatuated with him, she knew - even as she knew full well that this was a sure road to destruction for any girl at the Castle - it was, too, painfully obvious that he was not particularly interested in her, except as a challenge - he always chose other girls for sex, or to fondle.
Her despair and turmoil increased by the day. Anne-Marie saw it, of course, and exploited it, making sure that members who particularly enjoyed psychological games were made aware of her vulnerability.
She could be brought to tears with a few silly jokes - and since tears were not permitted without pain, she had then to be thrashed.
She was being broken, she knew it - and knew, helpless, despairing, fascinated, that she was not going to be able to prevent it.
She no longer even knew if she wanted to prevent it.
Already her three months was up, and for some reason she had not raised the issue of her release with Anne-Marie. At the weekly meeting where girls were permitted to speak of such things, she had answered the ritual question;
“What considerations, girl?”
with;
“Please Madam, do whatever you think fitting to render me a more perfect servant of the Castle.”
And she couldn’t, even in her mind, imagine getting any other response out of her mouth.
All girls, no matter what, spent a half-hour each week with Anne-Marie, in small groups, during which each was required to be as honest as she could be about how it was for her to be a Castle girl.
Entrapped
The sex wasn’t really a problem - she’d always liked sex, and what he’d shown her had encouraged her craving, until he had found it easy to pervert her.
She was prettily ashamed of her sluttyness, but in the end, all her inhibitions stripped from her, abraded away, denied her, she had begun to find it found it easy - even delicious, to open her legs, her lips, even her arse for them.
The nakedness in front of them, and the dirty, humiliating names she had learned to live with; these had in fact begun to feed into her sexual responses, bringing obvious responses, shaming though that was.
But the beatings. The beatings were going to break her, she knew. And yet she had no defences.
He had whipped her, yes, before bringing her here - it had been part of what had made it possible for her to say she would please him by agreeing to a trial internment.
But now - this - this savage cruelty - making it clear how honest he had been when he had told her that his beatings were really more about performance than real pain.
If one of them, smiling, told her to fetch the dog-whip because he wanted to hurt her pussy, she had somehow to smile and walk sexily over to the cupboard, retrieve the whip with her mouth - no girl might touch a punishment tool with her hands - and deliver it with a smile, then smoothly lie back on the low table and spread her legs.
She found it impossible, though, to manage this without her distress becoming evident - without shaking, without tears; couldn’t understand how other girls managed even to smile at their tormenters.
They found her highly entertaining, of course, and laughed at her distress; she tried - she did - to smile, to shimmy, to offer them her mouth, her ass, her pussy. Sometimes they took advantage of these offers, sometimes not. But these days, they always beat her anyway, until she was a quivering, shaking wreck.
Then they made her thank them - usually with a long, deep blowjob, but they also wanted to hear her say that she understood that she needed to be beaten, that it was doing her good, that she was grateful.
Anne Marie had tricked her - asked her what she would do to avoid, or even lessen the beatings, and she had said; anything.
“What? Anything? Do you really mean such a thing, I wonder? Would you, for instance, give yourself over for a three year indenture? Which of course would mean accepting a brand-marking”, Anne-Marie had challenged her.
The next week, begging once more to be spared the whip, shaking, she had at last nodded her head.
Only that wasn’t good enough; she was expected to say it clearly; ask for it - just exactly as Anne-Marie wanted it said, and eventually she had managed it clearly enough to satisfy;
“I .. I beg to .. to be granted a .. a three year indenture of total servitude, and .. and specifically request that I should be branded, tattooed and pierced at the management’s discretion.. No .. no further consents to ..to be asked .. of .. of me.”
This recording had been played to the committee - with her in attendance, gagged. No mention had been made of the cessation of whippings. She had squealed into the gag, but several blows with a cane across her breasts had silenced her.
The indenture had been signed, and whippings had continued, without any notable lessening - if anything they were more frequent, and more intense.
Anne-Marie, in a weekly session, when she had finally got up the nerve to make the most hesitant of complaints about this, had laughed at her; laughed outright, genuinely amused;
“Oh you poor silly; you can’t actually imagine such a thing ever being true, can you? A Castle Toy who is never whipped? Surely, even a brainless little cum-bunny like you knows that that’s an impossibility?”
The other girls said rumour had it she would be branded this coming weekend - including one on her face.
Concentrate on staying pretty … concentrate on staying pretty …
