*You will want to have read the earlier parts of Moving Her On before reading this. Trust me.*
There is something in my mouth, in my dream, something hard, slick, pushing, waggling …
… then I’m awake, and recoiling; jerking backwards.
For there is— has been— something— something foreign— in my mouth.
A light, blinding, in my eyes, from above … am I on the floor?
It’s hard enough to be the floor…
I’m cold …
… and then it all rushes back to me, and I wail, despairing.
It can’t be. Can’t … all a dream? No, impossible … I’m shaking my head, my body, huddled, in physical and mental denial of everything, moaning …
A voice;
“Stop”
And everything crashes into bleak, hard reality.
The voice is Norah’s. It’s black dark, apart from the bright light in my eyes— maybe her ‘phone’s torch. I’m in the little dress, on the floor— seemingly where I’d been when— when he’d had his hand in my … when I’d …
It was too hard… too much … wave after wave of recollection … one thing layering onto another, onto another, the whole thing impossible, disconnected from reality. Twenty four hours of obscenity, of outrage, of humiliation, of shameful cooperation with it all…
I’m beginning to hyperventilate, moaning brokenly, losing it.
This time, her voice is accompanied by a small but vicious kick from a pointed shoe, into my thigh;
“When I say stop, cunt, you stop.”
There’s no anger or stress in her tone— she’s just explaining stuff to me, and her calm, and the pain, flip me out of the hysteria, and into a protective, frozen huddling.
Norah; I remember more, then; kneeling, having her tell me how it will be.
Accepting …
Somewhere the realisation comes, linking the feel of her toe on my thigh with before. It had been her shoe— the toe of her shoe, in my mouth. The observation is odd, perhaps, but raises no special interest.
Accepting …
And then a sensation as of an intense, white heat of shock passes through me, bringing its own short, hard, cry, immediately suppressed.
The mode changes again; I’ve been reconfigured.
Acceptance.
Had … had I?
Yes.
I’d accepted. Accepted.
Accepted some enormous, impossibly heavy offers. Accepted things that change entirely who I am, what I might expect from life, who I can be.
I had. I have.
I am.
I had accepted. Accepted many, many insane suggestions, in full understanding of the implications, accepted them willingly— done the work myself. On myself. To myself. For myself, even?
Whatever; I had accepted.
And now. Now?
Cold, aching, hungry (sooo hungry, and now, urgently, thirsty, too), with Norah treating me like some stray dog, can I— will I— live … live with that acceptance?
It seems clear that I cannot— it’s absurd! My mind rebels— how can twenty four hours of abuse be just cause for condemning myself to a lifetime of worse abuse still? When there is no need for it, no need at all?
Lying there, though, this certainty having passed through my mind— this unassailable argument, this clarity that such an injustice makes no sense, that there is nothing— nothing, which could justify those crazy thoughts, that looney-tunes chain of illogic.
Nothing.
I am still, these thoughts intense, of immense importance to me, hurtling through my mind.
But nothing seems to change; sensibly, it is obvious that I will accept this reasoning, that I will take notice of it— act upon it, without delay. I must stand up, right now, tell Norah that the show is over, make her call a taxi while I get myself some clothes, a drink and some warm food before I leave. It’s obvious.
All that is abundantly clear.
Except that I’m not doing it. Somehow, that isn’t me anymore. I am no longer a sensible person. I am, instead, a body. A body that is not standing up; is not telling anyone anything, has no intention of leaving here.
What my body is doing— slowly, unsurely, stiffly at first, then, remarkably quickly, with an urgency that comes from my core, my gut, as if driven— what I am doing is getting myself up on my knees, wrapping my fingers around the opposite elbows, behind my back, pulling in my tummy and tucking my shoulders back, opening my thighs.
Only then can I stop thinking about it all, about the shame, the pain, the grief.
Rape dolly doesn’t worry about any of that. She worries about being sexually inviting, about presenting herself well, about having Norah pleased with her.
It isn’t that I have become simple minded, it is that this is what I want. What my body wants, at least; what it demands; what feels right. What feels safe. Not that I feel calm, or relaxed— just that this makes it all manageable. The whole acceptance argument replays itself in an instant in my mind, calming me.
I accept. I just … accept.
I am trying to remember just what it is that I had told myself that I’d accepted— the extent to which I had chosen to shut off whole areas of possibility in the interests of getting things in this new existence simple enough to manage without going crazy— but Norah, of course, is in charge;
“Not too bad. But not good enough. In future, I want to have you accept my foot between your teeth when you wake; open up to it; be grateful for it, let it in— let my shoe fuck you in the mouth; then when I’m satisfied, I’ll let you get into position. Understand, pretty?”
And here it comes; here is how it will be— nasty, demeaning demands like this will have to be accepted— accepted fully, accepted deeply; be accepted as welcome offers— offers that may not be spurned, however shameful …
“Yes … Yes …”— it doesn’t make it easy— doesn’t mean I don’t feel the shame of being a person who will accept this, but it is what I will do— “Yes, Mistress.”
But it does, stupidly, make everything make sense. Being rape dolly, here, on my knees, pushing my breasts out; head up, eyes down (even in the dark)— and yes, opening my legs.
Norah has the collar and cuffs set with the chains which she had used earlier (can this still the day when I got fucked by a car? It is as if years have passed since then).
I accept them, make it easy for her to put them onto me, help her; let her pull me up with the leash, open my legs when she puts her hand to my sex, let her play with me, not really sexual— just letting me know, reminding me that she can— that we both know that I will open myself to her, that she can make me moan.
Which she does then laughs quietly; “Such an easy little cunt.”
And it’s true; I have worked with her to become sexually aroused, shamefully doing what is necessary, until my moan is a real, helpless one of sexual need.
Humiliation having been imposed, she abandons my sex, briefly pushing her sticky fingers into my mouth so I can clean them for her (which I do willingly, carefully, even though my mind revolts against such abject servility).
She links the cuffs behind my back, then leads me, on the leash— me savagely repressing my despair at allowing this to be done to me all over again (when would this internal war cease? It was pointless— I’d been offered so many opportunities to leave; I’d taken none of them, this was what I deserved. Only, such thinking seemed as lacking in traction as the ‘reasons why I need to leave’ ones did).
Acceptance helped me avoid meltdowns, but did not resolve any contradictions, and required constant work. There was to be no peace.
She leads me, then, to the spa room, as before, when she’d prepared me for Him earlier.
She strips me of my dress— taking more care of it than of me— then has me pee in front of her, naked, fighting myself non-stop.
She’s found a sturdy low table, with wheels, which she pushes toward the WC, invites me to kneel on it, get onto all fours, like an animal.
It’s the enema table; the wheels allow her to move me around to make things easy for her, ignoring my horrible shame— taking it for granted. It’s not just shaming, but sore, burning with pain. I really have been ripped back there. She has told me I will be treated that way again— that He will do it to me; rip me there again, if it serves His pleasure. I’m crying softly. But I’m holding myself just as she has asked me to, moving when she wants me to.
Accepting.
She showers me then— rapid, businesslike, thorough, scrubbing at me, making no concessions for my comfort— hot, scalding water, then freezing, making me squeal, seemingly uninterested.
She leads me, shivering, naked, cuffs still linked behind my back, into the kitchen.
“Kneel. Open wide.”
She takes a big forcing bag— the sort of thing they use to squirt whipped cream onto a cake with, shoves it into my mouth and squeezes. I have no idea what to expect, but the thick, grainy goop that is both bland and faintly rank-tasting has me gagging. She stops, pulls the bag from my mouth, then slaps me, hard;
“No trouble, now girly. This is what you eat, from now on; unless He feeds you tidbits from His hands as a treat. It’s a complete food— everything you need. One more problem with you and you don’t eat ‘til morning. Open up, now, if you want it.”
Heaven help me, I’m so hungry I make myself accept.
Accept that I am to be fed as if I were some factory-farmed creature. Already seeing how pathetically sweet and eager I will become around Him while He eats, how desperate for something with savour, with bite, how ruthlessly I will have to police myself so as not to become irritating in my neediness, how pathetic I will become.
I make myself swallow it, even as Norah— seemingly in a hurry, pushes the last third of it into me in a single hard squeeze, making me gag, so that I must struggle to show her that I am making no trouble, my belly urgently needing the food, making myself welcome it, trying to smile at her; dying inside as I realise my lips and chin are covered in brown gloopy spatters of the stuff.
It is almost obvious that she gives me water in a bowl on the floor, almost welcome, and I apply myself to learning to suck and lap it up, desperately grateful to address my towering thirst.
She wipes my face, and the dribbles which spattered my breasts, first with her fingers, pushing them into my mouth, and then with a cold, damp rag; I am docile; humbled; defeated; naked, cuffed, sore, tired, sad.
So, so sad. I haven’t just lost the best man I ever thought I had a chance with, He’s turned me into a degraded, beaten whore, and I’ve accepted my new status almost without a struggle.
Pulled upright with the lead again, she takes me back to the hall; my bags, and the envelope, as they were. The big old clock reads 2:10 am. I had slept on the floor for hours.
Bleak despair invades me as Norah explains;
“Unless you’re invited, furniture— including beds— is off limits for you now; the same applies to most rooms, too, and the entire upstairs. So you will need to find somewhere to sleep in the hall or the corridors. The guest WC is available to you— no messes on the floor. You’ll drink from the WC bowl if you need to.”
“I’ll wake you when I decide to— remember about my shoe. If you wake before you’re needed, keep quiet, small, and still.”
With that, she turns and walks back toward her room, leaving me in helpless, agonising tears, curling on on myself, inching towards the nearest corner, without even realising what I’m doing— a wounded animal, nothing more.
It lasts only a few minutes— somehow, I had expected to cry myself to sleep, but instead it seems that my being is bored with misery, that it needs something else.
“I’m a naked whore, now. A rape dolly. And I’m His rape dolly.”
I said that to myself, out loud, slowly, softly, many times, pausing often, letting it sink in, needing to make it real.
It didn’t become real— just more absurd with each repetition, until I was giggling, then on the verge of hysteria again, panicking, biting the inside of my cheek, hard, to make myself stop. The fear that arose in me at the idea that I might make so much noise that I woke Him, or Norah from their sleep was visceral, awful, and I quieted quickly.
Clearly a mantra was not going to help.
Slowly, in my mind, I began to go through what it meant; what I had accepted; what this naked whore had accepted would be her lot. Going back through the vivid, surreal, technicolour minutes of the day, cataloguing the steps of my downfall, my stations of degradation. Whispering each new recollection to myself, out loud, letting myself, letting my body, feel their meaning.
Banging my head on the brick wall of my own capitulation, to keep the pain at bay.
It takes a long time; it gets very strange, and interesting. I’m getting turned on. It’s insane, but it’s true. By the end I am saying the terrible things to myself in tones of awe and wonder— still horrified, but at the same time fascinated; entranced— carried away by the terrible and madly glorious vision of myself as nothing more than a vehicle for His cruel pleasures. Of myself as the satisfaction of every perverse whim of His.
I accept.
I am His cunt.
I will take any demands of His as offers— offers of ways to become more fully His cunt. I will accept those offers without resistance, and I will always honour them.
I accept that this will be the end of me— that in the end I what I will accept will be too extreme; that something will break. I … I sort of look forward to that happening— because after that I won’t have to accept— I won’t have anything left but acceptance. I’ll be destroyed by this.
I will do what I can to encourage Him to fuck me— fuck me any way He likes.
When I am aroused, I will beg Him to rape me.
Norah can speak to me as she pleases.
I will be spoken to in general without politeness or kindness.
I will be called rape dolly— and worse.
I will curtsey for Him when I see Him— lift my skirts high, hold them that way, open myself noticeably, offer myself.
Consent means nothing in my case any more.
I offer myself in the hope of being violated— useful cunt is what I aspire to be.
I will be wet between the legs for Him when I present myself, but it’s not for my pleasure. If I do get aroused, I should be hurt to destroy that pleasure.
I am nothing more than a thing that gets fucked.
I can be hit and fucked at will.
I will not let Him down.
I will strive never to have Him consider that I have failed Him.
I don’t matter, except as cunt— as holes to fuck— beyond that, I’m meaningless.
No-one cares about me I’m doing all of this for me, not for Him. He doesn’t care. He can have another woman do this for Him very easily. I’m not special. What’s special is that I’m allowed to be His cunt for now.
Everything about my life that I thought was important is meaningless now.
Something in me wants this. All of it— I chose it. Willingly, with foreknowledge.
I will be whipped and hurt in degrading ways.
I will be raped— even though the term means nothing in respect of me, now.
I will be demeaned.
I will be made to whore myself to anyone He chooses. In this case, presumably, I will be curtseying for them, will be encouraging them to fuck me, asking them to rape me, will be making sure I am wet for them, too.
I will remember the ‘give yourself / offer yourself’ routine, and do it for anyone, whenever He asks.
I don’t look proper people in the eye any more. Not ever, unless they make me.
I’m a Rape Doll— a doll made for raping. A model of a girl intended to be fucked as an act of violence.
I’m going to be taken down a little more each day.
Nothing will protect me now.
Norah’s’ word is law for me.
I will suppress my own emotions— they no longer matter.
I will maintain a smooth and vague expression of pleasant willingness.
There is nothing left of our previous relationship; I have been moved on.
I will, though, show Him fear and uncertainty in my eyes, He likes to see that.
I will not allow any feelings to delay obedience or acceptance.
He will not comfort me— or only rarely.
He offers me continual doubt, fear, uncertainty.
He will be capricious— impose cruel and arbitrary requirements.
I will present myself as sexually enticing at all times.
He may find it entertaining to destroy some bubble of comfort I have developed, just to see hurt and despair in my eyes.
I AM THE ONLY ONE WHO KNOWS WHY I ACCEPT THIS.
I will always be marked — my body to bear witness to suffering— so that anyone who sees me will know that I am a girl who can be hit, hurt at will, My holes used by anyone who chooses to force me.
I have accepted the truth of this.
I have given in to a future of cruelty and subjugation.
I need to be usable cunt— wet and ready for use at all times— or suffer the consequences— which will be cruel.
I will thank Him for pain, for cruelty, for hitting and hurting me.
I will let Him hurt me— hold myself open— even at my sex, at my nipples— my most sensitive places.
I will seek to disempower myself, make it obvious that I am doing so.
I will remain aware that I am disposable, replaceable, and will use this to encourage me to make myself interesting to him, not to become unwanted cunt.
I’m quivering by the end of it— cold and hot at the same time, lost in the weirdness of it, the cruel beauty of the trap He has prepared for me, spring on me; the savage intensity that presents itself as my future.
Where I am— wedged into a corner of the hall— no longer seems appropriate. I knee-walk over to the large rug near the foot of the stairs (I could stand, but it seems inadvisable; better to stay down). I lie down on my side, then roll onto my back, open my legs so that, should He come downstairs, He will see my pussy, open for Him (it feels so dirty to do this; despite everything that has been done to me, I’m still an innocent, still full of deeply ingrained modest impulses).
My hands under my back are rapidly unbearable. I will learn that there is no way to sleep comfortably with wrists cuffed behind you. I sleep in fits and starts, unable to maintain any particular position for long.
My first night as an owned whore. As a rape dolly.
My dreams are full of violence and horror.
When I wake I send myself back to sleep reciting terrible acceptances, willing myself to imagine them being enacted upon my soft body, my weak mind. The crying doesn’t come back. The sick fascination grows.
Read the next part of Moving Her On.
