This will make more sense if you have read the earlier parts of nOelle’s Story
The whipping has had the intended effect — a powerful dislocation in nOelle’s mind; no longer is she the bewildered girlfriend, gamely trying to follow a demanding and disturbing path set out for her by her adored and respected older lover — the shock of being thrashed, combined with the casually abusive sex she has witnessed have created a violent breakage, a tipping point too devastating for that narrative to survive.
For, however transgressive, the events of the morning before the whipping had created an unfolding pathway — each step following on from the previous one in some way — so that although nOelle, when she had awoken that morning, delighting in the knowledge of her imminent breakfast date with Thierry, could never have imagined her arrival in the mirrored room, although the requirement to strip and disempower herself on the stool had been an immense challenge, that demand — as with the others throughout the morning — had been carefully calibrated to build upon the previous ones, each a bizarre, but logical progression from the one before, so that, at the point when the door to the mirrored room had been locked on her by the chauffeur, nOelle had been brought along a journey which made a strange kind of sense.
The arrival of the two young women had been hard to judge; their behaviour, their dress so unexpected, and the way they had treated her had goaded her to react. There had been turmoil, yes, confusion, yes, but still she had been in a world where things seemed real.
The whipping, by contrast, had delivered a complete rupture — a violent derailing of the story, too extreme to be accepted as simply another challenge along the way. She doesn’t realise it, but nOelle is in psychological shock (Anne-Marie does not dictate that a new arrival will be whipped at this stage, but standing procedure is to be on the look out for any excuse to impose one, to bring on exactly this condition).
A girl in shock experiences a burst of hormones that tend to block out negative emotions (to enable continued functioning in spite of deep trauma) — so that she finds herself insisting to herself that all is fine, even though she knows, deep down, that things are not at all OK. While she is in this state the opportunity exists, if she is handled correctly, to lead a girl further into the tangle of complicity which Anne-Marie seeks to weave around each of them.
It is almost as if in a dream, then, that nOelle is walked along the wide corridor, naked, cuffed, the shameful leash insistently working its way deeper into the folds of her sex, wrists still chained to the back of her collar. Her breasts, thus lifted, sway loosely as she walks, with the blonde in front of her, the brunette behind; the obvious, eye-catching movement of her nipples impossible to restrain, no matter how much nOelle might wish to be spared the obviousness of that one shame among so many.
nOelle finds herself automatically aping the carefully sexy walk of the blonde who leads her, the words of the manservant about the importance of being pleasing at all times ringing in her ears (The impossible reality rears itself in her head again: he had really whipped her! She, nOelle — has actually been whipped, by a stranger — while naked and chained!), with her feet swinging in toward that imaginary line, toes pointing directly forwards, her steps notably short (Castle girls are trained not to take long strides, but short ones, which are at the same time a subtle marker for weakness and also an imposition of the high heels which are mostly worn — barefoot girls are encouraged to walk on tiptoe much of the time, too — all of which has the desirable effect of making hips and breasts wiggle and jiggle; eye-catching, obvious, inviting).
The three girls thus move relatively slowly, their gait seductive, nipples and buttocks switching enticingly, with much attendant clicking and clacking of heels.
The corridor, floored with hard marble tiles, is cool, and nOelle’s nipples stiffen as she struggles with the unreality of it all, feeling lost. At the same time, numbed by the shock, she can’t think about much beyond following where she is led, trying not to do anything that might bring on more punishment.
It’s not that she is unaware of the unsettling implications of this; being treated so obviously as something less than human, led like an animal, leashed and chained, through the wide hallway, where anyone moving through the large building might see her, naked, her swaying breasts drawing the eye, which then, following the line of the leash, could not fail to notice the way that the leather has worked itself deeply into the folds of her sex, see that it is dark with her juices there — all signalling and confirming her status as a creature, presented for sexual use, rather than a person; but at the same time, it is as if that is happening to another girl — a girl who is clearly being drawn deeper into a trap of complicity with the frightening rules of this strange place, while nOelle is simply a powerless onlooker.
She sees that other nOelle making her careful efforts to walk prettily, feels her desperate need not to be considered ugly or clumsy, despite fearing that she is probably both (the fleeting self-approval from the mirror room long evaporated by shock heaped upon shame). She feels that part of the girl which is both hopelessly unsure of herself and at the same time retains some pride, some vanity — a part that needs and hopes to be judged more desirable than these girls accompanying her, not to suffer the shame of being found unattractive — not in this place where everything is so clearly about her sexual desirability; a place where to be unattractive would be to be worthless. Doing what she can to meet that standard is something that she can cling to; something, at least, that she can have some small control over.
She is so weak, so helpless, so frightened, so disoriented, that, unconsciously, the weight of the place, of its expectations, bear in on her, strongly suggesting compliance, obedience, make her fearful of being judged.
And so nOelle walks as sexily as she can manage, and when a well-dressed, middle aged couple pass the little procession, the picture of bourgeois rectitude, rather than cringe, try to hide her nakedness, her shame, she looks demurely down, hiding eyes that are full of fear and suppressed panic, but at the same time pulls her shoulders back a little further, making her breasts stand out all the more. When the girl leading her jerks on the leash a little, maliciously, making her cry out and do a little jump step, she does not scream and kick (as she earnestly wishes to), but carefully keeps her utterance soft, passive, masking a despairing whimper.
Nervously, she concentrates on recovering her poise, her rhythm, swallowing her shame. The couple walk past; she is unsure whether they even notice her, but the impact is staggering (how could they ignore a naked girl, on a leash — and such a leash! — being led by another girl, herself near naked?).
There is nothing to do, though, but live with it, live with the bland acceptance of the couple, who pass them in conversation, without comment, their glances expressive of no more than mild interest and general approval; clearly, to be presented with such a sight is more normal than it is shocking to the habitués of this strange place, this Castle. nOelle sees herself being brought into acceptance of the outrageous by degrees, sees it for what it is — but nevertheless, she can find no resources within herself to feel anger, or develop the will to question this insanity, let alone actually do anything to challenge it.
Worse still, she is beginning to find the remorseless logic working on her — being naked, restrained, brought again and again to the understanding of herself as a primarily a sex object, all emphasis placed on her attractiveness and submissiveness, her vulnerability repeatedly impressed upon her — unable to deny the obviously habitual, unquestioning, apparently willing compliance of the other girls, or the weight of money and privilege implied by this large and well appointed house, the many staff, the way that everyone she has encountered since leaving the cafe seems to take her subjugation for granted — unremarkable, inevitable, normal; and she cannot hide from the knowledge that she is becoming ever more passive — finds herself deeply impacted by the smoothly assured power of it all, unable to marshal any resistance — watching herself, appalled at her total lack of willpower as she feels herself becoming enmeshed, by degrees, into this bizarre, self-contained world of remorseless, callous, sexual degradation and control.
It is as if she is being eaten alive, but can find nothing more constructive to do than work at becoming a tastier morsel to swallow.
nOelle cannot help wondering about the lovely blonde in front of her, walking so seductively in her high heels, the orbs of her buttocks moving deliciously under the gauzy dress, the tightly constricted waist above, about how sweetly, how deeply, she had taken the man-servant’s cock into her soft mouth, prettily offered him her pierced nipples despite his casual cruelty; remembering how quickly, how apparently easily she had recovered her serenity after his abuses, her complicit giggles with her friend.
nOelle is certain that the girl must know that she is playing a part in pulling nOelle — an obvious innocent — further into the grip of this cruel and abusive madness; that she must know what a terrible thing is being done to nOelle, how destructive the experience is, how crushing, how overwhelming. For nOelle, the implications of this understanding — that a girl who has been used by this place will carefully work to bring other girls into the same condition as herself, knowing exactly what it means — this realisation is horrible, adding to nOelle’s increasing doubt that she has the capacity to escape whatever Thierry and that Anne-Marie intend for her in this dread castle — that she will find herself, whether she likes it or not, accepting the shameful, sadistic insanity of it as her new normality.
She is friendless, naked, chained; compromised by her own consent, having asked for her time to be extended, shocked by her own compliance — abject complicity, even — in playing the part that is being thrust upon her; the part of the willing submissive, the complaisant tart, the helpless victim, the sex object.
In the midst of these dark thoughts, nOelle surprises herself by thinking that she is glad of the leash, the restraints on her arms, the heels which would make it impossible to run, but which make it easy to let her hips switch as she walks — glad of these things because they make it easier.
Easier for what, though? Easier to accept? Easier to submit? Easier to obey? Yes, that’s it — all of these. So then, does she want to accept? Accept this? Does she, really, want to submit? She heaves a gusty sigh, suppressing urgent tears, hysterical feelings. It’s not that tears, hysteria, even strong reactions, aren’t justified — not in the least — it is just that she has learned that losing control leads to worse things. (I have been whipped! In chains! Naked; whipped by a stranger! And I hardly resisted! Did not threaten retribution, did not complain, even …).
However much she understands that making herself comply, the creeping normalisation in her mind it makes of the insanity of this place, is playing into the hands of those who want to suborn her, she is now too frightened to lose control, not to hold herself tightly — too frightened not to do her best to behave, to act as she hopes will meet with approval.
And so, despite this tumult of thoughts in her head, she walks, all but naked; leashed, restrained, collared — and walks carefully, too; sexily, hips switching, shoulders back, breasts swaying, face composed, even as she feels the leather leash working against her clitoris (so betrayingly sensitive) in a way which sets her belly fluttering.
There are tears of shame brimming in her eyes, at the same time as she experiences a little unwanted thrill of satisfaction from knowing that she has just managed a turn that will have made her breasts sway in a manner she thinks would be alluring, if Thierry had been watching; or Natalie … or that Anne-Marie …
And then another shock, instantly terrifying; masculine shouts from behind — youngish voices, sounding drunk (but it is early still, surely?).
“Ho! Cunts! Pretty cu-unts, whores for fucking. Stop! I SAID; STOP! YOU. DIRTY. FUCKING. WHORES!”
Hysterical laughter — they ARE drunk. And they’re speaking English — with American accents.
The shouting was entirely performative, unnecessary — the blonde has immediately stopped dead, fallen to her knees.
nOelle feels fear ramping up, adrenalin, panic threatening; behind her, a swishing of fabric tells her that the brunette has also knelt, and a tug on the leash suggests that nOelle, too, should go down. She can’t, though — won’t — some primitive self-protection instinct telling her that to kneel is to be in a weaker position.
There are three of them, emerged from a wider hallway, leaning against each other, laughing together, hugging, grinning like fools, leering at the three women fearfully awaiting their pleasure. nOelle, although she has not knelt, is transfixed by fear, by dread at what this can mean.
They look like students — albeit rich, posh ones, with expensive haircuts, slick designer casual wear — full of privileged assurance, but slightly nervous, too, having to work together to hype each other up to behave this badly — there is a real aura of danger about them, so wound up do they seem.
“Fuck! This place is AMAZING! Just … just … fucking … CUNT! Everywhere! Delicious, gorgeous, half naked, willing, helpless CUNT! I don’t fucking care if I’ve rubbed my dick raw, I’m going to have that blondie … do her in her fucking gorgeous fucking mouth, rape her FUCKING throat as hard as I fucking can!”
With this, the black one staggers free (he’s so tall!), and lurches up to the blonde girl, who astonishes nOelle by not defending herself, not protesting, not doing anything at all to fend off this crude threat of violation, this assault by a drunken, offensive youth, but rather co-operates, very obviously; almost eagerly offering her head into the large, outstretched hands, not struggling as her face is immediately jammed into the boy’s groin, meekly accepting as, despite his trousers still confining his cock, he makes as if he is pushing his member into her mouth, laughing in triumph at this easy conquest of the softly willing girl, on her knees in front of him, her breasts moving in the gauzy fabric of the scanty dress, her hands submissively clasped at the small of her back.
nOelle knows, from the expression that had flashed across the blonde’s face, before being suppressed, replaced by a flaccid smile, that she, too, is terrified, shocked, not at all desirous of sex with this drunken loudmouth. Which means that any sexual act now will, of a certainty, be a rape. It is forced upon nOelle that she is about to witness a rape — a drunken, rough, and very physical rape of a powerless victim. She feels sick, helpless, and utterly terrified.
She knows she will not be able to stop watching as the horror unfolds, but has not reckoned with the awful squeal that comes from behind her which demands her instant attention — her head swivelling, her body automatically, defensively, backing against the wall — the dropped leash limp now — only to see the brunette’s head being violently jerked from side to side by the sandy-haired boy, who has a fist in her hair, and is slurring and laughing as he chants;
“Eeny, meeny, miny, moe,“
“Catch a SLUT-WHORE by her hair.“
“If SHE asks nicely, fuck her CUNT,“
“But if she SCREAMS, then fuck her REAR!“
The brunette can’t stop squealing, it seems, such is the pain he is inflicting on her, although nOelle can see that her mouth is working — she’s trying through her pain to ask him to fuck her cunt.
nOelle’s heart is breaking — finding it impossible to believe that this is happening, that this can be real, that right now, in front of her; that this lovely, pretty girl can be about to be subjected to a brutal, unwanted assault by a strange boy, who it is clear feels completely confident that it is his right to do just as he pleases with her — a boy who is laughing nastily at the girl now; knowing that she, nOelle, cannot find it in herself to even voice a protest; that she will therefore be complicit — a party, in her own eyes at least, to two rapes.
“Sorry, cunt, you’re not speaking clearly enough — all I can hear is screaming — which is fine — you’ll get it in the ass. Truth is, I was always gonna do you that way, so who the fuck cares?”
He pulls harder than ever, lifts the poor girl off her knees by her hair, so that she squeals, piteously, her hands flapping helplessly — clearly wanting to attack the hand in her hair, and just as clearly restraining herself from doing so — pathetic in her despair and weakness. He half pushes, half throws her over, hard, clearly uncaring that she might be hurt; nOelle is astonished, then, to see the girl struggling immediately to present herself for sex, lifting her buttocks, pulling up the gauzy skirts of her dress, spreading her legs, putting her face to the floor, her arms spread wide, limp, palms up; actively demonstrating her submission, advertising her helplessness, deliberately, enticingly, offering clear access to her sex and rear passage, despite her hiccupy sobbing, despite her tears.
All this takes only seconds, until nOelle’s attention is abruptly, shockingly claimed by a hand which snakes behind her neck and clasps the back of her head — gently enough, but with a clear threat of force — and a warm, humid sensation at her cheek as a mouth is placed very close and a cool, collected, less drunk-sounding voice talks soft and clear, right into her ear;
“And you, my naked lovely, will get it in the pussy. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll make it very, very nice for me, because I have had a rough night of it, and I want to be looked after, my pretty — I want you to get me off inside you, I want you to work me like you clever bitches do, and I want you to make me very, very happy, or there is going to be pain, real pain — horrible, unbearable torment — in your near future. Do you understand me?”
She can’t speak. She can’t bear it. This can’t be going to happen … Thierry, Thierry can’t have, can’t have…
Her heart breaks as she suddenly sees, with complete certainty and clarity, what she has been refusing to confront for hours, as she realises that, whether or not Thierry has planned this particular incident, this kind of thing is exactly what happens here, that it is the essence of this place, and that thus Thierry must … must intend that she … that this … this devastation, this violation — that she will suffer this kind of despoliation, this awful, crude ruination — and not just once, but … but perhaps every day for … for the next thirty days, now …
She wails; loud, uninhibited, broken and agonised, her voice full of inchoate fear and despair as the boy’s hand now moves from her head to tuck itself under her ass, lifting her easily off the ground, his body between her thighs, forcing her legs apart, her feet kicking uselessly, while his other hand makes itself insistently, vigorously busy at her sex, her cuffed wrists wildly struggling behind her to no effect at all, save the laceration of the skin at her wrists, as his fingers push into her, at the rear and the front, where he finds her partially lubricated — not because she is in the slightest sexually aroused, but that there has not been time for her earlier moisture to have been reabsorbed.
Outraged, her body jerks, rejecting him - at least trying to; he is far too strong for her, while she is far too frightened to fully commit to fighting him.
“This is not what I asked for, WHORE.”
He breathes into her ear, terrifying her, though his voice still calm, and tinged now with amused cruelty.
“I’ve just realised why, too. You’re the new girl, aren’t you? The one they’re looking forward to initiating. Well, it looks like I’ve fucked up, and someone’s going to be pissed at me, but really, we were told that any bitch here was fair game, and I’m pretty wound up right now, so I don’t … fucken … CARE!”
This shout is matched by another horrified, despairing screech from nOelle, as he forces his cock deep into her sex with a single thrust, making up in brute determination what he lacks in accuracy, hurting her as he drives himself inside that part of her which she has been taught, from her girlhood, to consider most tender, most sacred, most deeply private and personal, devastating her, while he is brutishly uncaring, ignoring her yells of pain and wild distress, letting her drop suddenly, so that her own weight impales her onto his stiffness, and now — right now; here, for real — she — nOelle — the good girl, the sensible girl, the nice girl, the well brought-up girl — nOelle is being raped, hurtfully, deliberately raped.
Powerfully, aggressively raped, too — the boy has pushed her buttocks against the wall (she feels a sting and knows that the flesh there is still smarting from the whip), and lifts her right up again, leaning in to her, putting his considerable weight and the evident athletic strength of his legs into pile-driving his big cock into her with the urgent vigour of the young, making her squeal with each thrust, her cry becoming a moaning wail as he pulls out, as she feels his stiffness move inside her; impossible, but undeniable, unacceptable but horribly real; devastating in the intimacy of the violence being done to her, the shame so callously inflicted, the wrecking of yet another myth about herself.
Raped. Not special, pretty nOelle, any more. Just another degraded, foolish slut …
She is being raped, and not only is there nothing she can do about it, there is nothing that she will do about it, she sees. She is going to accept it, bear it, let him do this to her … and the next … and the next … unable, now, to imagine that she could ever bring herself to fight against what she has repeatedly consented to (for, in hindsight, it is impossible not to see that this sort of treatment was implied from the start). She moans again, but this time there is more dismay than horror, more despair than complaint, more shame than anger.
nOelle can hear as well, now, the cries of the other two — sticky, gagging gasps for air from her left, despairing groans and high-pitched shrieks of distress from the right, the sounds adding to the horror of her own experience as the boy fucking her finds a way to shift his arms to behind her knees, bringing more of her weight into action, so that each penetration now is a violent upthrust that has her whole body sliding right up the wall, his cock going deeply into her, her clit grinding against his groin — the effect devastating as, despite feeling nothing of desire, she knows that in other circumstances this action would be driving her wild with lust, the knowledge making it utterly impossible to ignore the horrible truth that she is being powerfully and very physically fucked, by a stranger, against her will. In a place which exists to make it possible for him to do this to her without fear, a place which she has consented to serve, without conditions, for a month of her life.
She has read, in books, of women being raped managing to ‘go away’ into their heads, and tries to see if she can try to achieve this … but;
“Aaaiieee!” there is another pounding, up-driving thrust and her whole body is driven to shriek her anguish, to spasm against him, yet again — and she knows that she is going to remember, in awful detail, every second of this. Going to have to live with herself as the girl who consented to this. The girl who will be unable to say no to more of this, not to anything, for weeks to come …
He is speeding up, now; the long, deep upthrusts replaced by an impossibly fast jerking motion, still with long strokes, the length of his cock sawing in and out of her, the sensation intense, impossible to ignore, and he is grunting; rapid, urgent groans announcing what she feels inside her, that he is spurting into her belly, and she moans, brokenly, tears coursing down her face as he begins to laugh, softly, happily — joyfully even — her obvious trauma, turmoil, deep despair nothing more than a source of amusement to him;
“Guys! Guys, we — I — fucked up a bit, I guess — I just raped their new girl, before they fucking initiated her!”
He’s laughing — clearly not really worried about what retribution might come his way, the others joining in; the black one having finished, leaning against the wall while the blonde girl — apparently lovingly — licks his cock clean, the other boy still going at the brunette like a dog, his buttocks clenching as he finishes in her backside, yelping with wild abandon in the throes of his orgasm.
Tears are coursing down nOelle’s face, although she is now silent, not even sobbing — still off the ground, pinned between the boy and the wall, feet weakly twitching, dangling from her knees, held up so high; feeling him soften inside her, his jism seeping from her pussy, knowing her life is over; that she has failed — failed at life, failed at love, failed at being an adult even — devastated, despairing, empty of hope for anything, not even release by this tall young athlete — his body gorgeous, his young face so handsome, his actions clearly justifiable through her pathetic, stupid, blind acceptance of all the little stages of the morning; revealing her as — what she has possibly; no, probably, always has been to Thierry — a wanton, a tart; a foolish, worthless slut.
A whore.
A whore that has been fucked, raped, will be raped again, will be used as these two girls are clearly used to being used — as receptacles for the greedy lust of random men — random apart from whatever it is that gets them access to this madhouse, this terrible den of cruel vice.
Defeated, humbled, unable really to function for herself in the face of this catastrophe, nOelle gives no trouble at all as — once the boys have laughingly pulled up their trousers, high fived each other, crowed about the number of girls, the number of fucks they have clocked up during what has clearly been a full night of debauchery, and finally have staggered off, resuming their original search for the sauna, once the other girls have pulled themselves together, once the blonde has led the way to a small alcove where — as it becomes clear — they are to clean themselves up a little.
Clean themselves up for what? Not for self-respect, certainly. No, they are to clean themselves up, so that they can attract, entice, other abusers. In order to invite others to rape them.
In the alcove, there is a simple spigot set into a dished floor with a drain, where cold water is all they have to clean themselves with; and clean helpless nOelle, too, her wrists now screaming agony behind her neck.
The blonde and the brunette both have tear-streaked faces, and are subdued, but they do not dally as they strip themselves, placing their shoes and flimsy clothing into alcoves high in the wall either side of the door.
The spigot is arranged like a drinking fountain, a slender column rising to about mid-thigh height, and the two girls lean over it and swill out their mouths.
It becomes apparent, though, that this arrangement is specifically designed so that it can be used as a douche, as the girls manhandle nOelle, gently enough, but without allowing her any choice, until she is directly straddling the column and then, her knees pushed forward from behind so that her legs bend involuntarily, finds herself squatting down onto it, at which point blonde girl presses an iron lever at the base with her foot, and a surprisingly powerful jet of cold water spurts directly into nOelle’s sex, making her squeal and instinctively try to straighten up, get away from it.
But she is tightly held, and in short order, the slimy mingling of the boy’s semen and her own shaming, unwished for juices are jetted away (had she really lubricated so easily for a rapist?).
Pulled upright and away, she stands while the brunette arranges herself to clean her rear passage, juddering herself at the cold force of the jet (nOelle will learn, soon enough, that the etiquette, if multiple girls are using the douche, is mouths first, pussies second, assholes last. In point of fact, the flow of water is such that this is an unnecessary arrangement — and indeed, the brunette, as a matter of course, had offered her mouth to the sandy haired boy who had just used her backside like a hole in a wall, and carefully licked him clean, just as if he had been a favoured lover. In any case, all girls are evacuated by enema twice daily, each administering to another. This system allows for intentionally cruel allocations, so that a girl can repeatedly be subjected to the ministrations of another with a grudge against her, to be tormented and humiliated, should this be desired as punishment, entertainment, or both. Generally, though, allocations are random, to minimise opportunities for relationships to form between girls in the context of the intimate vulnerability the process imposes.)
Under cover of the noise from the spigot (faces are washed last, with a gentler flow, after the douche itself has been wiped), the two talk carefully to each other, in undertones, lips strangely immobile, ignoring nOelle.
The blonde says;
“Eighteen, for me now; that’s safe, most weeks. And your one looked at my mouth, too. If he’s here tonight, he’ll want to do my throat, I think. Perhaps he’s not as mean as he acts; maybe I can make him like me, a little.”
The brunette;
“You may be safe, but I’m far off; I want that black one’s big dick in my pussy; he’s so strong! Did he pound you fast, you little whore?”
And they manage to smile at each other; the soft, knowing, forgiving looks belying the harsh words; there is sadness, too, in their eyes.
After a moment, the brunette says;
“I need something; if I don’t get my average over twenty in the next month, she says I won’t get asked to extend, and then … then I’ll be back on civvy street. I … I just don’t know what I’d do with myself …”
“I’ll help you. I’ll tell the main one you like three at once. That’s a great way to get your count up — and you know I’m right. You just have to stop being so silly about it.”
A little silence, then;
“I … I … of course you are. Only … only …”
“Only you think you’ll like it too much, you dirty bitch,” giggles the blonde.
The brunette begins to cry again then, softly, at which the blonde tuts in a motherly but no nonsense manner and wipes her face;
“You know that’s what she wants of you, and you know you can’t resist her, and you know you’ll come hard for them and lose yourself when you give in. Where’s the sense in fighting her, fighting it? You know it will only cause you pain. In the end, if she wants you, you’ll become an eager dirty whore, like me, who asks to be done two and three at a time and lets them see how hot it gets her.”
They stop talking then, as they are done with the water, which they naively believe makes it impossible for the hidden microphones to pick up their words.
There is only one small, damp and very scratchy towel between them with which to remove most of the water, and then they are finished, their spartan ablutions completed; naked, shivering a little, in a doorless alcove off a main corridor, watched by very obvious cameras.
Often, there is a ‘live’ audience for such scenes — guests, particularly, are excited by the idea of watching naked girls washing themselves in such a manner. At these times, as is required of them, the girls will try their best to encourage further usage — no matter that they have just come from a recent fucking. Thus a girl may easily find herself, squatting on the spigot, a man’s foot on the pedal, cold water jetting into her tender sex, his cock stuffed into her rear, his hands gripping her breasts (unless they are the target of the attentions of a second man using a belt or riding crop), moaning and panting her distress — or her pleasure; as it takes her. Such couplings are for some reason considered especially humiliating by the girls (on top of the horrible discomfort).
The two girls dress in their see-through outfits, tutting over damage wrought by the rough handling dealt out by the boys, making the best of it, and their little caravan reassembles itself; the leash is again carefully positioned so that it will slice into nOelle’s now burning sex, the sensation of violation still strong upon her, and they resume their journey, clicking and clacking as before, hips and breasts just as alluring in their movement, but smothered, now, by a deep pall of shared shame, each girl bearing her own hard thoughts, her own judgement of herself as in some way a voluntary slave to the callous and random cruelties of this place; each nevertheless carefully managing herself, her expression, her body, her feelings even, in service of appearing as those who have subjugated them require; each attempting to maintain a pretty, vague, submissive smile as their swaying walk continues.
If she had been feeling dissociated before, nOelle is now very firmly back in her body — feeling its myriad new pains with great urgency and intimacy, going over and over in her mind the horror, the unforgettable sensation, of an aggressive and greedy stranger’s cock having been forced, again and again, deep into her helplessly spread sex, that he had come inside her, that her body had been responding, unwanted; the knowledge that she, nOelle, the sweet girl, the innocent girl, the careful one, has been led to this — to this consenting of herself, voluntarily, for use as a slut, at the request of the man she had thought she loved (for she is no longer sure that she ever loved Thierry, seeing instead how much of her infatuation had been about the sex, the flattery of his attention, about the casual confidence of his mastery of her, of the simplicity of being his girl, as long as she asked no questions, cozened by his easy largesse), to have given herself to this place, where it now seems certain that she will be be raped at will by many strangers. That she will not be able to challenge their power to use her as they please, without regard for her wishes or wellbeing, still less her pleasure.
She had stopped crying before they splashed her face with the cold water; somehow, it seems pointless to cry. She has done this to herself. She lacks the willpower, the strength, the resolve to attempt to break away, and so, as terribly sad as it is, she must learn to live with herself, to get through this.
Neither has she slumped; following the example of the blonde, nOelle still finds herself walking in the intentionally sensual manner that is clearly expected of her — but the spirit, now, is totally different. Gone is any pride or residual vanity, replaced by certain knowledge, now, that the man-servant’s smiling warning — that she is to keep herself up to the mark at all times, or face punishment — that his warning had been real, not a cruel tease, and knowing, deep in herself, that, whatever this place might bring in the way of shaming, hateful fuckings, she is willing to do a great deal to avoid being whipped again.
nOelle follows, her desperate need for some scrap of agency forcing her to be as alluring, as sexually attractive as she can manage, with no idea as to where she is being led, certain only that more outrage awaits. Inside her, she suddenly understands the brunette’s fear; that at some point she will find herself helplessly working herself towards a shameful orgasm while some cruel stranger ruts himself ino her opened sex.
The wonder arises in her, then, with dawning horror, as to whether she will find herself, as the blonde has apparently done, giving way to the madness — ceasing to maintain even a mental place of resistance — whether she, nOelle, will be able to resist becoming ‘an eager, dirty whore’ — wonders if she might not be brought to the point where she, too, begs for degrading sexual usage, unable to hide from her abusers her lustful response to being violated …
Her belly flips, tears threaten once more, and she bites her lip, hard, needing control, shutting down her thoughts, refocusing on walking; walking well, walking sexually, trying to contain the surge of conflicting emotions that threaten to overwhelm her.
Just as she has begun to find some peace in the simple repetition of steps, begun to calm these awful thoughts, the blonde stops beside a door. Making an odd little move, she lifts the foot nearest the door a little, and then, swivelling her ankle, knocks at the door with the side of her foot.
At the time, nOelle is too preoccupied with the enormity of what is happening to her to be more than mildly confused by this, but very soon, she will learn that a Castle girl may not touch, with her hand, without direct instruction, anything that pertains to freedom of movement — to ingress or egress — this stricture applying to doors and windows just as much as to chains and collars, ropes and ties, even clothes.
Although technically, a foot could be used on a door lever, or to push open a door with no latch, the rule is well established to mean that no girl may, of her own accord, change the ‘open’ or ‘closed’ status of anything that constrains her freedom. This extends even to simpler things — girls do not remove or replace lids, open or seal packets, even unwrap sweet morsels — do not touch keys or remote control devices without having been directly required to. Neither do girls, without instruction, dress or undress themselves.
Thus, at the Castle, all it takes is a shut door — no matter how flimsy — to hold a girl. Thus the blonde has used the accepted technique of knocking with her foot, which has the added bonus of making a rather distinct sound, so that it is easy to tell whether it is a Castle Toy at the door, or a real person (it is an article of faith, at The Castle that, while in residence at least, a Castle girl is less than fully a human being; an explicit renunciation of human rights is included in every contract, no matter that this makes no legal sense (there is more about Castle contracts in the last story of the Castle Shorts 5 post; ‘To be Fucked like This’). The distinction matters practically, as well as socially, for of course, the girl who has knocked may not open it herself without a direct command.
This simple rule (acting together with the prohibition on unprompted speech) is surprisingly intrusive, so that it is rare for even a few hours to go by in a girl’s life without her finding herself unable to proceed without transgressing, forcing her either to simply wait, or, by use of body language, communicate her need to some nearby person who might either assist her or order her to assist herself. This regular, persistent and cumulative disempowerment and humiliation, even in small things, builds strongly in a girl’s mind the understanding of herself as incapable, useless, weak, ridiculous. It is this kind of conditioning, perhaps even more than the regular and uninhibited sexual usage, the crude violence of the whip, which leads girls like the brunette, coming up to the end of an agreed term of indenture, to wonder if she can any longer manage in the real world, which leads her to contemplate voluntarily deepening her sexual degradation — losing herself further in helpless perversity — in hope of being considered interesting enough to be offered extended servitude.
For every girl who spends more than a few weeks at The Castle, these rules mean, too, that there will have been ridiculous, shaming events whereby the casual closing of a door results in a girl spending hours, trapped, entirely unintentionally, by some interaction of the rule about doors and the rule of silence. Every few months comes a new tale of a girl reduced to using a pot plant, vase or even the floor as a toilet.
Transgressions are few, though, because it is well known that punishments in such cases are cold, brutal and ugly. Girls early hear the old story — whether apocryphal or deliberately spread, no-one but Anne-Marie knows — of the girl who, shut into a small summer-house by the wind, allowed herself to fall into a diabetic coma rather than break the rules. Discovered and revived in good time, she was nevertheless harshly punished — for ignoring another injunction; that a girl is supposed to break other rules as necessary in order to prevent serious damage to Castle property (the girls — even those with ‘guest’ status — are counted, of course, as property).
Thus it is that, rather than open the door herself on hearing an assenting voice — unmistakably Anne-Marie’s — the blonde waits, passive, until the door is opened for her.
The reality rushes in on nOelle, then, that Anne-Marie must shortly learn that she, nOelle, has been raped — that she had not fought her rapist, not even said the word ‘no’; not even that.
This is somehow unbearable to nOelle — ridiculous, of course, since Anne-Marie, of anyone, must know exactly what happens to girls here, having brought nOelle here to suffer just such usage — but reason makes no difference to the excruciating prospect of having to stand before that imperious and superior woman and have it known between them that nOelle has proved herself just the weak, easily suborned slut that she has been judged to be.
Unbearable — and yet inescapable, since she cannot imagine anything not requiring divine intervention that can save her now from following the tug on the leash that cuts into her tenderised sex and pulls her in to the room that glows so pleasantly; softly pink with the early afternoon sunlight.
A little of nOelle dies inside her.
