Timmy Pt.4

This will make more sense if you have read the previous part of Timmy’s story.

Sound of running water, wildfire tingling all over me — my fingers, my toes, my nipples, my nose … really … really, a strange, cold intensity that is at the same time, really … a burning!

I jerk, rigid, tense, cry out — and then things come into focus.

I’m in a bath — the big bath in the master bathroom; I’m naked — I can see my breasts, the scrap of pubic hair at my sex, my legs — I’m alive! I’m shivering, shaking, trembling all over — but … I’m breathing! I’m alive! I can breathe! Air will never seem the same again — never be taken for granted — not now I know what it’s like to die that way.

The bath is quite full, and actually, the water is only warm — the hot tap trickling slowly at the far end — but my extremities are still … burning! I look around, disoriented, memories, shock, fear, distress, hysteria, shame — all flooding back, overwhelming me, all at once — and then his hand is there — he’s behind me…

Desperate, I crane my neck back, to get sight of him. My certainty. My rock. My torturer. My murderer.

He’s looking at me, calm, unsmiling, paying attention, looking at me. Suddenly, despite everything, I feel my nakedness — feel so exposed, so vulnerable, so … so fearful that he will find me ugly… urgently shifting my body — terribly shy at the same time — shy, to be with the man who has murdered me — whom I have killed myself for — in front of whom I can never not be a dead girl; never, now, not know that he can have my life, have it from me — have me take it from myself for him — just because he asks for it…

It’s astonishing. Otherworldly.

Who am I, now? Not Timmy, surely? Hasn’t he killed her? But then, who? Timmy’s ghost? Her zombie?

But … but if I was … was any of those … those horror movie, gothic tale things — then surely — surely I would be sure — be certain? In the films, those — those creatures always know exactly what they want, bizarrely (considering that they are dead) full of vigour, drive, direction, purpose.

Me, though; whatever — whoever — this me is, has none of that. No idea at all what this — what I — want. It looks to him. Needs him. Waits for him to tell me.

Tell me what?

Tell me what he wants of me, of course. Because without that direction, I surely am nothing, now.

And so, slowly, very slowly; fearfully — very fearfully; shamefully — very shame-filled, I re-arrange myself, nervous, uncertain as to whether this is what he will want — for he is unmoving, watching, interested, but frighteningly disinterested. A neutral but attentive observer, analyst, judge.

Nevertheless, I make myself — arch my back for him, open my thighs — wide, very wide; lift my breasts out of the water, push my head back more, tuck my hands away, under my back, open my mouth, my tongue loose; let my hips surge, lewd, disgusting, whore-like; showing him that I know what I am for; that I know (hope I know) what he wants from me; show him that, dead or not, revenant or not, lost girl that I am, I know that my continued consciousness belongs to him. That I have given it to him today (again — will I have to do it every day?). That I owe him myself.

I’m delirious, I slowly realise — this is insane.

But nothing changes because of this realisation.

I need him; I depend upon him, and when he leans over to kiss me, open mouth on mine, when he takes a breast in his hard hand, slowly kneading it, gradually pressurising the nipple, harder and harder still, clearly intending to cause pain, making the fire burn hotter there, I arch my back up for him and softly, softly, yip my pain into his hot mouth, my hips working — not from desire, or arousal — I am far away from anything so ordinary — but from an agony of intensity, the emotions of my recent death replaying themselves through my body — offering myself to him in desperation.

But his kiss gives nothing — it’s all invasion, possession, ownership, showing me his dominion, and soon he straightens, leaving go of me, his expression as smooth and mild as before — only his eyes; seeing me, seeing my urgent, weak offering.

I begin to shake, violently, then — a wild paroxysm of emotion, tears flowing freely now, and I wail, loud, slow, deep, juddering; beseeching him, begging him with my eyes (not immediately daring to speak, not trusting my voice, not sure I can keep from screaming obscenities at him for doing this to me), desperate, needy beyond caring, twisting onto my side, now, reaching out my arms, now forced to speak; voice broken, hoarse from the desperate, airless gasping for air that had made everything else — even the ruination of my throat — meaningless, as my body had fought for life, while my own hands had acted to end it;

“Please … please … hold me?”

He smiles at last, but doesn’t move; reaches out to push a finger teasingly onto the end of my nose, pushing me back; satisfied, entertained;

“No. No, pretty, fuckable thing. You’re going to have to deal with this yourself. I don’t look after you. I do what is necessary, and only when required, to maintain you in a viable condition, I pay you well, I use you just as I please, but I don’t care for you.”

“It’s fair, after all — I don’t expect you to look after me, either; nothing is required of you; nothing whatsoever.”

“Save that, of course, if you want me to keep you around, you will need to maintain my interest, my attention — present yourself in a maximally desirable condition so as to provoke me into using you for my pleasure, my cruel entertainments; to be satisfactory in your service of my most casual desires, carefully study me so as to avoid causing me the slightest irritation.”

“There will be no comfort, none; save what you can generate for yourself through pleasing me. No kindness either, save that which is coincidental to my enjoyment of you. No mercy, should my enjoyment entail your suffering. And you must know that I am beguiled by your agonies — you do suffer in the most heart-breakingly entertaining manner — at the same time completely undone by the awfulness of it, and half in love with the pain and the fear; it’s really quite arousing. I may not tire of it for some while.”

“And, as you’ve learned, this will be rather dangerous for you. It will be hard. Impossible maybe — certainly the hardest thing you have ever done in your small life. You will be required to disappear; to become nothing but service. A service body. And yet you must animate that body — give it just those characteristics of a real woman that will make using and abusing you satisfying — just those, and nothing else.”

“Interesting, don’t you think? An interesting challenge. And, very honestly, a challenge not one young lady in ten thousand would be capable of meeting. Meaning, of course, that there are thousands more like you, in a world teeming with delicious young women; but still, a rarity, you may tell yourself, if it helps, in the small hours; alone, hurting, cold, without love, disconnected from everything; alive only through your service to me. A terrible thing to do to a person, don’t you agree?”

“Remember, always, please; you are free to leave at any moment; I am not doing this to you — you are going to do it to yourself. This is not a prison — unless of your own making; you are not a slave — unless by your own choosing. You are, simply, a guest — unless and until I ask you to go.”

The bizarre cruelty of the words, coupled with his pleasant and intimate delivery, taken with the fact that my mind is half disordered still from the horror of the morning, all mean that I only half follow this speech, grasping at meanings, implications, not hearing, not understanding, not being able to bear thinking about the meaning of those parts I do understand; knowing that it doesn’t matter, really, since whatever it is will happen, now that I am lost, helpless in his hands; broken — his creature, to do as he wills with.

But still, what I do grasp hurts more than the cold; it’s more awful than asphyxiating myself, this cool, cruel exposition of my position; this destruction of all hope, this grinding me into dust. This clinical characterisation of my desolation, in which the only light — the only warmth, is the idea that he will take pleasure from my service, from my giving of myself to him.

I look at him, appalled; and he looks back, looks into me, for the longest time, it seems. If he had wavered, then, for even an instant; made the smallest apologetic muscle twitch, shown me the slightest warmth or human interest, I believe that things would have gone differently. Some nights, I even half convince myself that, had I tried something else, something to get him to shift from his coldness even a little, that we might have become lovers, partners — equals even. Sometimes I even manage to believe this for minutes at a time, before the stupid fantasy shatters, and reality washes back over me, bringing tears to my eyes; forbidden tears, so that I force myself to smile, insist of myself that I dry my eyes; that I commit, immediately, to the humiliation of getting my sex wet for him; just in case; just to stop thinking, stop thinking about anything other than his hard fingers invading my pussy, of him finding me eager and ready for him, my mouth open, my tongue tip flickering softly, offering myself for whatever he might wish of me, without limit.

There is no change in him at all; just that cool, open, patient interest in what happens next, uncaring what it might be, just looking for it — for whatever will come next.

And what happens next is this; abruptly, I gather myself together, ignoring the many complaints from all over my body at such demands when their recovery from shocking insult has hardly begun, let alone been fulfilled, and I stand, preventing myself from the modesty preserving moves that instinct urges me to, then step from the bath, facing him, looking now at his feet, not his face, and lower myself to my knees, open my thighs, lay my hands, palm up, splayed in front of me, kiss the floor in front of him, and wait; bow my head, and wait.

It seems a long while, but he speaks at last;

“Good girl. Good pretty. That is good. Knees wider — split the cunt, always — your ass higher — make it very obvious that you are pushing it up as far as you can, offering it; nipples swinging free, touching the floor, just; hands a little more expressively helpless, perhaps. Better. Yes. Practice this. It will work on that glass coffee table in the big room, I think. Easy access for fucking and hurting you, I think, there. We will see.”

There is a pause, then, during which I wait — there being nothing else to do; nothing except hold my position in the new, exaggerated version he has demanded of me — that must, of course now become normal for me; nothing but feel the impact of being spoken to like that, accepting being spoken to like that, of so obviously and immediately committing to his requirements. To working to give him easy access to me, so that he can fuck me and hurt me.

Nothing else to do but wait until he has an idea what happens next, for I have none.

“Listen carefully now, to some advice. While you are with me, pretty girl, you will need to do things in two modes. There will be things you know I want — orders, requests, certain recurring patterns — which you will seek to recognise as fast as possible — like this pose, for instance; in these conditions you will act with speed, with precision, with elegance and of course, maximal sexual invitation and openness.”

“When you are not sure what is wanted of you, though — it is then that you should be slow; careful, thoughtful, as you consider how it is that you can put yourself most completely, most usefully into the service of my satisfaction — particularly, of course, of my sexual satisfaction — most importantly, of getting my cock hard, and making your soft holes inviting to fuck with it. Your greatest risk in these conditions, of course, is to draw attention to yourself in some way that annoys me. You never, ever, want to displease me — I don’t need to explain why, I’m certain.”

“Choices you make will be judged; judged harshly, coldly. I am easily bored, so past approval will count for little. Poor choices — failure to please, failure to entertain, failure to satisfy — these will bring negative experiences — often cruel ones; ultimately, rejection. You must understand that you are completely irrelevant to anything that matters — an incidental entertainment, nothing more. The moment you cease to be entertaining, you will be disposed of. If you wish to be kept, commit yourself to my satisfaction, with your whole being. I am relentlessly greedy. There will be no room for anything else but dedication to my pleasure in your existence. My smallest whim must rule you absolutely. Go over this advice in your head, commit it to memory; repeat it to yourself, for I will not rehearse or explain it for you. Let it become your creed; live by it.”

He stands, then — I hear him;

“Now, Timmy, you will go to your room and wrap up well; sleep, do what you can to recover from my cruelty. I will wake you later and we will eat and talk. Today, it is I who will cook for you — and you will see what I can do!”

He laughs; a simple, happy laugh, as if we have spent the morning doing something clean and fun together; rather than with him grinding my face in the most degrading and terrifying way into the rock-face of my inability to conceive of myself as having any meaning at all that would justify my existence independent of Karsh.

Then he is gone, leaving me, nose, knees and nipples on the wet floor, pushing my ass high in the air, thighs lewdly spread; my thoughts a confused, directionless mush, the sole point of clarity being what he wants me to do next, all the extremities of my body burning with that terrible cold fire which I realise must be the price of recovery from the first touch of frostbite.

None of this is allowed to distract me from obeying, though; obeying without question; straight to my room, drying myself, hair in a turban, falling almost immediately asleep in thermal underwear, under two duvets. Still shivering, I repeat his frightening advice like a crazy mantra — not sure if I am accepting his strictures or hoping that their harshness will spark in me some desire to save myself — as I fade out of consciousness …

“I am completely irrelevant to anything important — a fanciful entertainment, nothing more.“

“The moment I cease to be entertaining, I will be disposed of.“

“If I wish to be kept, I will commit myself to His satisfaction, with my whole being.“

“There will be no room for anything else but dedication to His pleasure in my existence.“

I awake to an insistent ringing — the house intercom; bleary, not fully conscious, hot and sweaty, now.

I reach out, fumble the button and hear Karsh.

Everything rushes back. It hits me like a train, and I sag, limp like a rag doll, undone. I hear his voice, small and tinny from the handset that I have dropped. But he has my attention; my whole body certain that I need to hear;

“Time to wake up, little Timmy. You have half an hour. There are clothes on the side — wear everything you see; wear nothing else. Come to the kitchen.”

It takes only seconds after this, the surging despair notwithstanding, for it to become impossible for me not to act, to stand, to begin. To obey. I am warm, now — the shivering finally stopped. In fact, I am sweaty — but still the knowledge of the depth of cold is still alive in me, in my bones; a dull ache, a psychological burden, a persistent feeling that I am in fact, dead — that this is some limbo condition.

But again, it cannot be allowed to matter. There is no time. I march to Karsh’ timings, and I dare not fail him, so that the urgent claims on my attention from my own body must be ignored; suppressed. It will have to repair itself as best it can.

The clothes …

Gorgeous silk underwear, severe but luxurious; no knickers, only a corselette/suspender belt that looks very constricting, a half cup brassiere; stockings, a choker; silly little gauzy half mittens that button at the wrist, a stretchy piece of lace that I finally realise is to go over my eyes — for decorative effect, I assume, since it is gauze, too, and completely see-through.

And then, a dress.

An incredible dress — gorgeous, over-the top, surely madly expensive — a crazy dress — a sort of ballgown, almost, though light and lacy and frilly, but with a bold cutaway front, so that the skirts there will show the stocking tops. Low cut on the chest, too — a ballgown for a slut.

I wash, quickly do my make-up, do what I can with my hair, and get dressed.

There is a pretty but heavy choker with matching wristcuffs, too — all with steel rings that look functional rather than decorative. Tall high heels with ankle straps complete the ensemble.

I almost lose it when I look at myself in the mirror; have to clamp down, hard, on hysterical laughter (or would it have been sobbing?).

It is perfect, mad, delicious, heartbreaking, shaming. To appear before him, after all that he has done to me, after the still unprocessed terror of only a few hours before — to present myself for him in this dress — in such slutty, elegant finery, all provided by him, will tear at my soul: how can he he take such care, make the effort to dress me so gorgeously, so wonderfully, and at the same time treat me so destructively? I’m in love with this Timmy, and heartbroken too. But there is no time, no time, and I head downstairs after one last check.

Walking in this dress, without panties, the feel of the underskirts grazing against flesh that is normally covered is strange; liberating, and at the same time, tinglingly reminds me of my vulnerability — my complete vulnerability, so recently demonstrated. Nipples, too, are hypersensitive — still prickling with the aftermath of nearly being frozen solid. I am in the strangest emotional and psychological state as I descend the stairs, having to actively hold myself together, unable to rely upon any learned composure any more — all of that having been radically destabilised, undercut, taken from me, exposed as a comforting fraud. The world — at least this new world of mine — is one without safety, without certainty, without assurances, full of promises of harsh usage and unbearable intensity.

But at least it is not empty.

My heart is full as I cross the hall, the high heels clicking on the hard marble floor, chest heaving with a wild tangle of emotions, my sex tingling, hearing him humming, deeply, against the complex, atonal classical music that is playing softly. I am in agony, I am in ecstasy, I am in pain, I am glorious as I walk into the family room, walk towards the kitchen end, slowly, knowing that he deserves every ounce of value from this lovely, terrible dress; but when he looks at me, it is nevertheless all I can do not to scream my rage at him, such is the conflict within me.

For seeing him brings everything back — the awful feeling of imminent, certain death, the cold, the desperation, the terror, the humiliation of knowing that I have killed myself for him without a word, without a murmur of dissent; the awfulness of being choked by his cock in the freezing snow, of his amusement at my agonies, the cruelty of his explanation of my situation, the knowledge that, nonetheless, I have dressed myself for him with as much care as I would have for the love of my life.

The terror, the desire, the despair, the gratitude, the terrible, fascinated weakness…

I want to scream my fury and shame and pain and fear and desperation at him, make him realise just what unspeakable damage he has done to me, what torments he has inflicted upon me.

At the same time I want to fall to my knees and beg him, beg him to be merciful in his ownership of me, in his dominion, to abjectly offer him my deep, total devotion, my eager, dedicated servitude if he will only be just a little kind to me, his helpless slave, his pathetic, unwanted possession.

But I can’t do any of these things. I can’t even speak. I have no right to inflict my emotions on him, none. For Karsh is not the reason I am here. That responsibility is mine, mine alone, and I clamp my teeth onto my tongue. This is my pain to bear.

I’m overwhelmed; my knees falter, and I almost fall, my desperately weak, hopeless little smile crumpling, vision clouding, forgetting to breathe.

He is magically at my side then, hands at my elbows, my arms held, effortlessly keeping me upright, and at the same time clearly imprisoned by his strength, as he flexes my shoulders back a little, making my breasts in the push-up bra swell from the low cut bodice, as I inhale, noisily. I am captured.

His. I am his. And it is right, it is his right to have me; I feel it inside me — a physical fact, unarguable — even though I know that he is going to destroy me.

And I want him. Whatever he does to me, I want him, and I hear myself saying, my voice a hoarse whisper, what I wanted, then, above all things;

“Fuck me. Please? Fuck me; use me. Hard. Please.”

Letting him take my weight, letting him have me, giving myself to him, putting my tongue out to lick my bottom lip, shameless, whoring myself, making my hips surge for him, needing the resolution of all the conflict that only him fucking me can deliver, wanting it so much, willing to accept all the terror, all the pain, all the shame, all the degradation if he would only just fuck me, fuck me so hard it will hurt; use me as he wishes and turn my brain off.

But it seems he has other plans, as he laughs at me — gently enough, but still, shaming, then murmurs, deep;

“Not yet, pretty girl, not yet. Believe me, hard fuckings will not be lacking, but tonight, tonight is different. I want to enjoy your loveliness in this so inviting dress for just a little while longer, at the least.”

He manoeuvres me to a chair and lowers me into it, carefully and skilfully arranging the long rear skirts to one side — resulting in my naked bottom cheeks directly encountering the hard, cool leather of the seat, and exposing a good deal of naked thigh, too. He makes no sign that this is anything other than perfectly normal. Ludicrously, I find myself wondering how it can be that he is so competent at everything, so intensely practical, makes everything seem so easy.

He is back at the stove, then; calm, busy — the richness of the smells registering at last, and I discover that I am ravenous — feel as if I could eat anything; everything — a delayed reaction to the near hypothermia, perhaps; a deep, bodily demand for energy.

This ordinary feeling; hunger, the simplicity of it, helps me back to some semblance of normality, and I grasp at it like a lifebelt, work at it, regulating my breathing, refusing to think about terrible things, sitting carefully, looking around me, seeing that the table has been carefully set as if for a lovers’ dinner, flowers (where had he got those?), candles, elegant crystal glasses — champagne! — I am not sure if I want anything cold to drink ever again, but my thirst and desire for a little alcoholic fuzz overcomes that and I first sip, then, impulsively, gulp at my glass, bringing a laugh from him;

“Steady now — we have talking to do, you and I, and I don’t want you passing out on me. The day is not at all over yet, little Timmy.”

He arrives with bread — clearly fresh-baked — black olive tapenade, a rich pâté, sharp salad greens, normandy butter, and everything tastes as if I am eating for the first time, all the flavours at once intense and richly smooth, the feeling of sustenance flooding my body as I eat, increasingly greedily, ashamed, a little, but too caught up in the rawness of the flavours to dissemble properly (French middle class woman are expected to appreciate food with great discernment, but are not ever expected to be excited by it).

My plate clean, my glass empty, I look shyly up at him, to find him grinning openly, lounging back, offering me his last piece of bread, daubed with pâté. To get it, I will have to lean forward — he is clearly not going to reach out.

It’s clear, suddenly, that this is to be symbolic; having calmed me down, got me into the normal mode of eating, allowed me to attend to my own body, my own needs, my own sensations for a moment, he is offering me the chance to reaffirm his ownership, his dominion — in the gentlest of ways, perhaps, but with a certainty, too.

And I? I blush, I falter, I let out a little, soft, weak bleat of acceptance. I make myself smile for him, acknowledging his mastery, welcoming it, making clear my absolute submission, my acceptance, my heartbreaking, stupid willingness to receive such subtle invitations to make my debasement overt.

Weak, but determined, I lean forward, stretching as far as I can, pulling my shoulders open just a little, just enough to present him with a swelling at my cleavage; I open my mouth, and let my tongue extend, and do everything I can to let him see that I understand, and still he keeps me waiting, refusing to move the little that would bring the bread to my mouth, grinning a little at me, playing with me. I close my eyes, accept the wave of humiliation, make myself accept it, make myself welcome it, make myself smile, as best I can, flushed pink with embarrassment at all this being so obvious, and make myself wait, docile, turning the shame into pleasure at my ability to serve him, so willing to show him my acceptance of this little demand of me, of my submission.

Degrading myself again. Just a little, just a little; a silly little game — but in the light of what he had said to me in the bathroom, heavy with significance; my acceptance a clear ‘yes’ to the deeper, crueler implications of what we both knew he required of me.

I know again that I have given myself to to someone who will play me like a musical instrument, who will never let me forget, for one moment, that I am his thing, dependent, a creature of his smallest whim, a pathetic excuse for a real person. I have given myself to someone who can be what I need him to be — however terrifying that might be. I smile, bittersweet, as he speaks;

“I’m going to give you this bread now, pretty; push it into your mouth, but you are not to bite. I will push it all the way in — in and in — until it makes you gag. Then, you will close; softly, softly, and sit back, and you will hold, just hold — no chewing, keep the bread where it is, in silence — let it soften; you are simply to sit, keep still, stay pretty, while I prepare the crudités.”

And so, commanded, I obey, I accept, I suffer, I sit, the hard crust at the back of my mouth constantly threatening to have me erupt in choking coughs, constantly working to control myself, to use the muscles at the top of my throat to massage at it, trying to direct my saliva there, and all while maintaining a controlled and elegant position and a serene expression, blinking back tears, trying to smile when he looks over at me, loving him and hating him for being so clever, so coolly controlling, so sweetly, so intimately cruel, to turn a morsel of food into a powerful metaphor for my willingness to take his cock into my mouth, take him deep, holding him, conspire with him to override the urgent needs of my body. My belly is warming, now, my breathing slow, deep, in thrall to him.

He comes back, with fresh, thin sliced, crisp vegetables, the lightest of dressings — I can smell the olive oil, the lemon juice, and I almost choke.

“You can swallow it now, whole — elegantly, please, no chewing; slow and steady; let me see you managing yourself, controlling yourself, pretty. For me — for my entertainment. Manage your suffering for me.”

“Put your hands behind your back, pretty; grasp your elbows, push your lovely tits out, make them obvious. Don’t wait to be told, another time.”

His voice soft and mild, almost kind, nevertheless leaves no ambiguity as to what his demand is, and I am pathetically obedient, pushing my breasts up even more as I tighten the grip on my arms behind me.

It takes perhaps a minute, but feels like ten, as I risk some choking convulsion which could cause me to spray the now sticky mass all over the tabletop, managing only gradually to force the crusty slice, the rich, heavy pâté, down my gullet, him watching, relaxed, smiling lightly, all the while.

He waits, watching, until I am done — he can tell because I make a small, half-choked little sound, full of stress and humiliation and weak relief — it has been so hard to remain composed during this, requiring intense effort, and knowing that he can see just how carefully I am obeying his demeaning wishes is intensely humiliating. He leans over, then, lifts my glass and gives me a few sips of champagne.

I very much want to release my arms, but this makes it clear that I should not — that he is going to take over, feed me, and indeed he does — alternating between eating himself — perfectly normally — and then leaning forward to pick morsels from the bowl of crudités with his fingers, and lift them to my lips, so that I am eating from his hand, like a well trained dog or monkey; licking his fingers for the drips of dressing as he offers them to me.

It is hard to accept being infantilised so, but given everything else I have accepted, it seems ridiculous to complain, and I do my best to work with him, to remain elegant, not to get dribbles of dressing on my chin. It is a relief to swallow some cool, clean vegetables down my throat after the ordeal with the sticky bread and pâté mixture, and after I while I take a hint from him and begin to make a sexual game of having his fingers at my lips, being expected to lick his fingers, and soon I am taking his fingers — two, three at a time — into my mouth, gently tonguing them, accepting that they will be there until he chooses to pull away, even if all the food is long swallowed.

He decides to push, to go deep, to trigger my gag reflex again, but he does it slowly, lazily, giving me time to take control of myself, and open my jaws, and accept him, let him do this to me, put all my energy into remaining open to him, closing my eyes against the tears that gather, letting my throat convulse, somehow preventing myself from jerking wildly, or choking him out of me.

After a little of this, the tears overflow, although I do manage to suppress all but soft signs of my distress, and suddenly he seems satisfied — perhaps bored — who knows? At any event, he wipes his hand on a napkin, moves his chair back, and the mood changes;

“We have about fifteen minutes until the main course will be perfectly ready. Let’s talk. Mostly, from now, there will not be talking between us. What is inside your head will not be relevant to your usefulness, and you will not be encouraged to be anything more than a body that serves and suffers and is fucked. This will be your world.”

“But you need a little guidance, and, tonight, too, I am interested, a little, to learn more about this Timmy whom I intend to silence, to make irrelevant.”

“So, please, Timmy, release your arms, make yourself a little more comfortable, and tell me — tell me about Timmy.”

This request surprises me almost as violently as being abandoned in the snow had — it is entirely unexpected, a jarring shift of focus that I find impossible to follow, for some time.

He doesn’t hurry me, though — indeed he is completely relaxed, softly attentive, not pressuring me as I first try to rediscover my voice.

Gradually, very gradually, as I realise that he is serious, that he really wants to know, that he is really listening, I open up, tell him — tell him more. Tell him everything, really — everything that matters. I find myself striving to to tell him the most important things about me in the most revealing terms — about how I come to be here, about what affects me most deeply; telling him things I have never told anyone, telling him things I have told parts of to different people, but never the whole to any.

I give myself. Give my most intimate self-insights, my most vulnerable, revealing moments, give it all to him; finding in him the most perfect listener I could imagine. It is impossible not to feel that a warmth of understanding is building between us, his questions are so softly perfect, so incisive, so void of judgement, and I am so, so needy for this understanding that I relax into his listening, giving him my psyche as freely, as helplessly, as foolishly as I have given him my body until, abruptly, he breaks the spell — lifts a finger, stopping me in mid-flow;

“This has been interesting, little Timmy. I regret not finding you when you were 18 — understanding you as I do now, I can see that it would have been easy to take you then — to have had you as an innocent — shaped you entirely. We will talk again, another time, perhaps, but now, the meat; it will be perfect.”

I shut my mouth, feeling utterly ridiculous. My deepest, most heartfelt unburdening, put on hold because he has heard enough, because the food is ready. His careful, thoughtful questions designed to get me to reveal that which he believes he can use against me. Hysteria rises in me, raw, angry, desperate, wild.

And I suppress it, ruthlessly, clamping down on myself with a grip like iron, simply to avoid causing him discomfort. I am screaming inside, my breath coming in tight, hard, panicky little sips, teeth gritted, eyes closed, then open, staring, fixated, then closed again — neither condition bearable.

This goes on for some time — a time out of time, a fit, internally devastating, agonising, wrenching at me, while externally I struggle, desperately, to mask all signs of distress, while he does things at the stove, plates clinking softly, humming again. Either unaware or uncaring — it makes no difference.

I make no difference. I never will. I have to eat this truth. I mean nothing. Not even to him. Especially not to him, this monster who has reduced me to this …

No. This … this perfect being before whom I have realised the futility of any further attempt to be someone. The context within which I can safely not be anyone — because I am his.

This distinction too, is meaningless.

I am here. I am his. I will be, until I am no longer entertaining. The description of him, the description of me will not change that. All I can do is live it, or leave and face myself alone, or — perhaps — one day be killed by this. Released. Of these three, the only option that offers anything, any hope at meaning, is to continue to be of interest to him, whatever the cost.

When he comes back to the table with a perfectly presented plate, slices of tender meat, a dark, silky sauce, crunchy fine green beans redolent of butter and garlic, I can’t at first imagine managing a mouthful, so much has it taken from my already overstretched psyche to hold myself together through the fit.

But I force myself, for his benefit, and quickly the meaty power of the sauce, the texture of the beef awaken the hunger in me and once again the act of eating occupies me. It is as if Karsh’ ownership of me has awakened my body, put it in charge of me, with its desires, its needs, its sensations all more immediate, more extreme, more urgent than I have been used to, surprising me.

He brings more, laughing, and I eat that, too, greedy, praising his skill, in embarrassingly fulsome language, shy, laughing with him as he laughs at me, now, revelling in the intensity of the experience of eating. Exactly as if I was a happy lover, released by joy — conquered by the driving life-force of the man; moved on — always, moved on to where he wants me. A dessert follows, sweet and tart and rich, intense fruit flavours balanced by suave cream, nuanced by complex, almost bitter dark chocolate, all against a softly crumbling, buttery biscuit.

It cannot last, this release, this simple physical pleasure. The moment comes to a close, the food is finished. There is a tangible pause; again, everything shifts.

Silence, full, waiting to be filled. I look up to find him watching me; sex is suddenly in the air, and all at once I become horribly shy — as if I was a virgin all over again; my smile becoming nervous, feeling tentative, vulnerable, ashamed, inadequate, ridiculous.

The nakedness of my buttocks on the chair suddenly brings itself to my attention. I have no panties on. I’m his whore. He’s going to fuck me, push his cock into my throat, rape my ass, bite my tits, hurt me. And I’m going to let him — offer myself for this — because it is why I am here. Why I exist. He is playing with me with these little distractions, I realise, softening me up so that his use of me cannot be prepared for, defended against, so that it will always hit me, raw, that I have been turned into a whore…

And there is no getting away from the reality; that I want it; I want to be fucked, then — want it and fear it, too — fear how vulnerable he can make me. Tears are in my eyes even as my belly begins to flutter and yearn. To be so unable to control my feelings, my expression, my future — for the maximum feeling of vulnerability to be centred on my sex, my poor breasts, my mouth, my ass — for all this to be so clearly written on my face, in my body language — it’s the exact opposite of everything I have been brought up to be, everything that has been expected of me, everything I have assumed about myself, and I’m lost. Lost.

I had been halfway through a description of a moment of immense emotional significance to me, and he had stopped me, dead — simply because the food was ready, and now, now something hard and physical was going to start. He had heard enough. He had enough to understand me, I realised, and would not ask again. I had opened myself up to him, and he would use it as information, nothing else. I had been emotionally raped, as well as physically; and this, too, I would bear. Since there was no choice. Swallow this, too. Respect him for his effectiveness, his ruthlessness, his ability to have me as he wants me. Understand that I have been taken.

The silence is long. Increasingly, I feel as if I must kneel for him, take off the dress, offer myself to him. But I dared not. What was that he had said about two modes?

Either, commanded, seek to obey beautifully, or, not commanded, seek to discover what might please him, encourage him to … to use me.

I can think of nothing, nothing I dare do; nothing but try and hold myself well, under his cool and transfixing gaze, and hope that my small, submissive smile will be acceptable.

But as the silence stretches, emotionally overextended as I am, taken far beyond my endurance by the impositions of the last few hours, I can’t cope with the tension, and begin to blurt something out, my whole body announcing my imminent outburst …

… which I suppress at the last minute, possessed by a certainty — perhaps from a flicker of his eyes, that this would be wrong — that I have to wait, however hard — that it is him, always him who moves things along; always me who follows, who accepts, who obeys.

Quivering. Humiliated, panting now, helplessly, I try to compose myself; to be so obviously in desperate straits, under his gaze, pinned like a dying moth by his cool, interested gaze; possessed by tension, trembling anticipation of some unknown but certain excess about to be unleashed, unable to act, dependent on his whim, his timing, his choice.

Powerless, knowing he is enjoying seeing me powerless, I cannot manage it, cannot but let the many signs of my fearful vulnerability show. Trying to let the knowledge that this is enjoyable for him be enough. My psyche once again ravaged by being made to experience, to be forced to acknowledge my pathetic, shameful weakness before him.

Lessened, once again, in my own, already low estimation; accepting the treatment — being forced to wait, in an agony of apprehension, simply await his pleasure, accept this treatment which we both know intentionally diminishes me. Let my acceptance be visible to him, as it mounts in intensity, second by second, as I control my desperation, trembling, trapped until he may choose to command me, letting it be clear between us that I am allowing him to do this to me, that I have no resistance, that I have no capacity for resistance, no will to resist, even. Knowing that this is a one-way street.

When at last he does speak, I jerk, impelled, and cry out, voice husky; a foolish, silly noise, as at a jump scare in a horror movie — my vulnerability made clear, humiliating, and a tear escapes my furious blinking and rolls down my cheek to splash, cool on the naked swell of my outthrust breast. His smile inflects — just a little; he’s calmly amused, while I’m on the very edge of wild hysteria.

“I think it is time, pretty, to have you out of that lovely dress. Will you step to the middle of the room, please, and take it off for me?”

The idea that I will reveal the fact that I have no panties on by taking off the dress takes on enormous significance, ridiculously — it crushes me, this thought — but of course, this is my life now — to be repeatedly, casually, shamefully crushed, and there is nothing to do but stand, smile, move carefully to the spot he indicated, walk well, turn — trying to be just a little bit cute, failing miserably, working for him; working hard, reaching behind me to pull down the zipper.

The dress falls down; easily, so terribly easily, and I step out of it, immediately naked but for skimpy lingerie that is designed to reveal and emphasise my sex, my breasts, the collar and cuffs to emphasize my subordination, and I stop breathing, posing for him; half shy, half brazen, heart pounding, belly flip-flopping.

I know I must, and then I do, lift my right foot, deliberately, lift it, out to the side, feeling my pussy open out — offering myself to him, hands behind my back as I have learned he likes; breasts pushed forward, my tongue tip out, soft; moving slowly, helplessly, melting now, softening, my whole body dreaming of the fucking that must, surely be coming; wanting it, fearful of the violence of him, transfixed by the idea of being taken by the strength of him, the careless, abusive greed of him, breath and heart both rapid, light, trembling …

“Good. Good whore — show me how much you need it — this is inviting. You will remember how you do this, yes — work to invite sexual usage, to incite sexual violence.”

I glow with both pleasure and shame, and feel a rush of need grab me in the belly. If he would only fuck me now, he could do as he wanted with me, and I would respond with the utmost softness, I know — I want it, no matter how hard, how brutal, I do. If he asked me now, I would walk out into the snow again, lay myself down, open my legs and beg him for it.

But he is not so simple;

“On the counter, there; in the corner. Look.”

“You see the tool? Les pinces — the pliers?”

“Good. Now, take them, please, and make them bite your clitoris. Not hard — don’t hurt yourself — but firm, so that you feel those sharp ridges. Show me. Show me your eyes, now.”

Tears are running. This could not be! The tool is heavy, cold and brutish, the metal teeth ridged, sharp, cruel. The idea that I will put this to my own body, to my tender, precious clitoris is impossible — nightmarish.

I find that I cannot defy him, though — even in this, and so I step forward, pick the pliers up, feel their heft, smell the harsh mineral oil tang of them, the tool-steel sheen, and I sob, turn to look at him, pleading in my eyes, shoulders wanting to hunch, knees flexing to fold my body in around my sex, instinctively trying to curl, to protect myself.

He’s unmoved — relaxed, just watching; watching the show — and I understand that he doesn’t care — I can comply or not, quickly or slowly. I’m just the entertainment — remember? Whatever I do will be what I’ll do. If I’m entertaining, I may get to stay, if not, well that will be the end of me as part of Karsh’s life.

If I want to stay, I will do this thing, this terrible thing, and I will try to do it as he wants it, so that he might keep me around a little longer.

That’s it — that’s all it ever is, now, and, without knowing quite how, I’m turning, perching my bum on the edge of the counter, opening my body out again, spreading my thighs, shaking a little, but possessed by a drive to do this terrible thing beautifully, and open the metal jaws, one handle in each of my palms, and slowly, trembling, bring them closer, closer, to the soft folds of my sex, making a little, helpless moan with each out-breath, but moving steadily, slowly, teasing the little nub — half stiffened from the wave of desire that had engulfed me just a minute before, teasing it out from its hood with the hard, angular metal, then, slowly, oh so slowly, taking both handles into my right hand, and squeezing, squeezing, until, making me cry out, I feel it. I’ve done this — clamped my own clitoris between the ridged jaws of heavy industrial pliers.

It can’t be real — except that it is — that I am holding the handles of a pair of heavy steel pliers, the sharp, cold teeth of them snugly gripping my stiff clitoris, aroused as it had just been by the thought of sex with him.

My chest is heaving; I’m terrified of accidentally squeezing harder or dropping the pliers, having their weight drag the jaws from me; appalled but at the same time weirdly glowing — I’ve done it. Done it for him. I’m still alive. I’m still here; I have my clit in the jaws of a monster pliers, and I’m holding myself as sexily as I can for the man who asked me to do it — showing him, letting him see how deeply I am his. In that moment, there is an insane bliss. I melt for him, give myself to him all over again, the man who can make me into something.

So that when he says;

“Hurt yourself, now, pretty — just a little — squeeze, let your body know what it would mean to be ruined like that, just a little bit, frighten yourself,” I just do it for him, right away …

… and nearly scream at the instantly terrifying pain that just a small movement has produced, my whole body flinching in a reflexive jerk, my moan long and agonised, breaking up into sobbing panting as — my hands having relaxed their grip instantly — the pain recedes a little.

He hasn’t reacted — seems just as he had been beforehand — smiling mildly, watching as always.

“Good. There will be pain like that in the future, certainly, for you — worse. Think about it sometimes; learn to understand the depth of your vulnerability, your helplessness, your inability to protect yourself from my cruel games, my refusal to admit any boundaries to limit the satisfaction of my desires.”

He stands then, walks toward me;

“Come to me now; keep the grip in place, put the pliers in my hand. Let me hold you.”

As if in a dream, I obey, and then we are standing, close — me all but naked — displayed in my expensive, slutty lingerie, he, softly holding the heavy pliers that grip my tender and now throbbing little rosebud.

Looking into my eyes, he softly, gently, slowly, turn the grips to one side — just a little, then the other; lifts them a little, then lowers them, showing me how he can control me like this, how urgently I am forced to comply with his every movement, seeking to protect myself from pain, from devastation.

He’s grinning now, and I? I am doing my best to smile at him, to make it sexy, even in my shaking, my little panting cries of fear and distress — trying to make them seem like laughter, as if all this is fun, spending all my energy not to grab at his hand, not to fight him off me, but to accept, accept, respond, follow him, let him have me like this, too. It’s suddenly a fucked-up sort of perfect; the two of us joined, so intimately — his manipulative whims directly implemented at my most vulnerable flesh, my whole being focused on his enjoyment of this cruelty.

He lets me see that he is going to turn, start walking, and, helplessly, I follow, the movement of walking inevitably delivering little pinches at me that have me squeaking fearfully, walking as carefully as I can to match his movements. He takes it slowly, very slowly, but nevertheless in just the short journey to the main living space, I am crying frightened tears, gulping little sobs, appalled at the terror I feel, the helplessness, just as he had said, of my abject condition.

He hasn’t hurt me — not really — but he has impressed upon me deeply — once again — just how dangerous it is to have let him have me. Just how relentless, how utterly without restraint he is. He releases the grips, places them on the glass table, and suggests, with a gesture, that I should go to my knees — for which I am immensely grateful, so shaky are my legs.

He gets himself a brandy, settles into an easy chair.

“Very well; now the evening begins.”