You will want to have read the other parts of this story before reading this. Trust me.
She drifts out of deep sleep, vaguely aware of noises in another room. Still sleepy, nothing immediately requiring her attention, she attempts to turn a little, curl back into sleep, into the warmth of her body (the air is cool on her naked flesh— there are no covers)— almost immediately, the cuffs at her wrists pull, hurting, and it all crashes back in on her; where she is, how it is that she is chained, naked, hurting.
She experiences a surge of distress, of refusal to accept that her memories can be true, but there is no energy in it. It’s hard, but it’s real; her acceptance is no longer only conscious, a matter of thought and reasoning— somehow the message has got through to her unconscious, to her body. That this is what it will be like— the soreness, the discomfort, the shame …
The relentless, savage pitilessness of it.
It is not that she has become used to it— just that she knows she cannot waste energy in trying to fight it; energy that must be conserved to help her through the traumas of this new life.
And the only way to do this is to accept. Somehow … somehow learn to value the trauma, to find whatever it is, whatever need it is in her that keeps her here, somehow find what meets that need in the trauma.
And so, deliberately, slowly, letting herself feel it all, she relives the violent assault on her throat, the crude invasion, the forced distortion of her body, the full weight of Him on her face, the desperation of feeling herself run out of air, run out of life, of having everything go dim, her mouth full of His cock, her nose full of come and mucus, arms trapped, knees screaming, chest heaving uselessly, no breath coming, deliberately not fighting Him off …
… and somehow, lying there, still half asleep, it’s all dreamlike, as things often are in that state, and it comes to her that it had been glorious, too, as well as terrible. To have been so thoroughly, utterly invaded; to have permitted it— asked for it— not fought it, not fought Him; to be the girl He knows He can do that to … and now what comes to her is what she had not been able to pay attention to at the time— full of the feeling of her body, trying so urgently to live, while she fought its desire to defend itself— what comes to her is what she had heard, but not processed; His sounds, His voice …
He had been groaning, fierce, husky, deep in His throat— that was good, yes, the noise He made when the sex was especially intense for Him— a sound she loved to hear— but there was more, too— He had begun cursing, low voiced, urgent, in time with His thrusts; Fu-u-ck… Shii-ii-iit … Fuu-uu-uck … Shii-ii-iit!.
She had never heard Him say words during sex— not like that, not as if they were being forced from Him. Never heard Him at the limits of His self-control.
It doesn’t lessen the trauma of having been used that way. But it does weigh in the balance— give it some meaning. This new her, this Rape Dolly, this slutty piece of cunt, can serve to get Him to somewhere He has not been getting to before. He isn’t only being cruel for fun; He has needs, too. Terrible, cruel needs, yes; ones that He must not act on. Except … except with her— it is she who has given Him license to get what He needs from her, without limit (she brushes away the knowledge that this is only her privilege for now).
It is very dreamlike, then, and they are married, and she is chained and naked, and He is telling her He loves her while He fucks her with a cock that is somehow also a gun and then He is groaning and cursing in that low, urgent voice and she feels her pussy warm and sweet, all mixed in with the fear of the gun and it gets more intense until her body is shivering and sweating and … the spasm takes her, shakes her, then it is done, her body relaxed— more deeply relaxed that she can remember having felt for a long, long time, and … and sleep claims her again, softly, like a warm blanket.
Awareness crashes in on her, as her body reacts, in defensive mode— confusion, something pushing at lips— at both sets of lips; warm, slippy … something wrong about it … unthinking revulsion, writhing away, hands restrained, fear escalates…
A voice— a known voice— Norah;
“Don’t you dare fight me, pretty. Open yourself, now, like a good girl. Rape Dolly’s holes are free to use, anytime, anywhere, anyhow; she must welcome and encourage it. Get used to it.”
For a second, she freezes even more rigidly, but there is nothing, nothing she can think of that makes any sense but to try … try to comply, try to accept.
The lingering warmth of the dream is ripped from her, and she opens herself, as instructed. Opens her mouth, her throat, as the obscenely slippery, squishy, unknown thing pushes itself past her gag point, making her chest spasm, even as the other thing, large, stretches her sex lips, hurting, having to exert a savage lock down of her instinctive reactions, despair and shame burgeoning.
What makes it so much worse is that she can’t see what these things are, doesn’t know what is being forced into her, until she catches a flash of green through Norah’s fingers, and other things add up, too, and she understands that the thing in her mouth must be … must be a cucumber— must have been peeled, so slippery it is, and— heated, too. However weird, this knowing makes everything easier and she is able to relax a little, let Norah have her, let her body be Rape Dolly, be fucked.
It is new, this experience of consciously allowing a violation, deliberately opening herself to it, and very disturbing; Norah making it harder by starting to push and pull, now, thrusting into her, mouth and sex, the thing in her mouth beginning to fall apart, forcing her to swallow chunks of its flesh to keep from choking, ruthlessly, desperately quelling revulsion, tears spurting from her eyes.
It’s over quite quickly, at least, as Norah starts laughing at her;
“The horror on your face when you woke up, not knowing! Priceless, pretty, priceless. Just a cucumber and a big courgette, nothing to be frightened of; even warmed them up in the microwave for you. One day it will be cocks, though, real ones, and Rape Dolly needs to be ready to please. So whether it’s my shoe, or a vegetable, or anything else that comes to hand, that’s mostly how you’re going to be waking up for a while, pussy.”
Chloe is still panting, but the panic is ebbing away; now she feels terribly naked, vulnerable, wanting to hide; it’s hard, very hard, but she resists the need in her to close her thighs, to turn away, hide her breasts; sets her teeth to hold back the tears, stops herself from looking up at Norah, even though the need to have some idea what might be coming next, to seek this in the woman’s face, is strong in her.
Accept … accept.
The next minutes are all hard, all consumed by the struggle with herself not to resist, not to cry out at the sick creepiness of the business of being made to drink from the toilet bowl, of being made to pee, naked, while Norah watches, of being roughly manhandled as Norah first strips her, then uses the shower hose and a rough cloth on her, washing her as if she were a car, not a person; to obey, to be meek, to co-operate, to accept fingers in her pussy, caresses at her buttocks, her flanks, her breasts with complaisance, softly leaning in to these, not shying away as she most urgently wishes to, making herself smile a little whenever she can, not letting the tears start; fighting, fighting herself non-stop. Knowing from Norah’s few words, from sideways glances at her that she understands just how awful this is for Chloe, that Norah is entertained by her suffering, by her struggle to be Rape Dolly, to make herself accept.
“That’s good, pretty. That’s it. School yourself, break yourself in for Him, like the weak little slut that you are.”
And she has to accept this too, try and smile, let the words hang in the air, unchallenged, accepted; defining.
It comes to her then, that it is only being fucked that can bring catharsis from this suffering— and recognises, too, the neatness of this trap, which forces her to degrade herself more, offer herself more obviously, to gracefully, gratefully accept whatever kind of sexual usage is imposed upon her, just to make sense of the shame, all the time knowing that this only encourages more abusive, shameful treatment, which will drive her to more need for sexual obliteration— and so on; down, ever downward, in a cycle of degradation.
That it is this cycle she must lean in to, like it or not, since she has given herself to Him, and so, when next Norah takes an excuse to put her hand between her legs, a finger straying in between her sex lips, casually pushing inside her, Chloe does more than weakly open herself a little, but lets her knees buckle, her thighs splaying, angles her body forward, so that her breasts sway free, lets herself moan, very softly, leans her cheek onto Norah’s shoulder, her whole posture communicating her willingness, her weak vulnerability, her acceptance; dying inside, even as she feels herself lubricate, panting as Norah, with a short, sneering laugh, makes it three fingers, bunching and pushing up into her, and Chloe cries out now, helpless, despairing, but unmistakably aroused, too.
Norah’s hand is in her hair, then, gripping tight, hurting; lifting Chloe’s head back, forcing her to make eye contact with the older woman, so that the way her face changes as the fingers push and twist inside her make it obvious just how affected Chloe is, the older woman grinning, enjoying herself;
“That didn’t take long, did it, little whore? Quite the dirty slut, aren’t we? Well don’t you worry. Adventures with Norah will be coming soon, and they will be experiences you won’t forget, girly.”
“But right now, He wants you, and we need to get you dressed.”
To Chloe’s surprise, it’s a full outfit, and not a slutty costume one either. New clothes, too, something that must have been bought for her. A skirt— high waisted, short and flaring, sexy shoes and a gauzy, cropped, bolero blouse, fastened only at the neck, kept in place over her breasts only by the weight of glinting, sewn-on chains and dangling medals.
An elegant, expensive, sexy outfit that makes Chloe blush with foolish pleasure;
How is it that I can be so easily manipulated? So easily trapped like this? So willing to play along with it all?
She can’t answer this question; but at this moment, in love with her new clothes, with the memory of Norah’s fingers in her sex still powerful, the dream comes back to her and she does know that she will never want to escape enough, that something inside her needs to be here— where she can seduced by moments like this, no matter how terrible the cost.
She feels the enormity of how fast, how far, how deeply she has fallen, feels the abyss below her, too, and sways with the terrible vertigo of it, helplessly, wordlessly looking up at Norah, forgetting the rules for a second, needing another human to be sure that this feeling is real, that she’s not dreaming again.
The hard glint in Norah’s eyes brings her back to reality with a bump, and she says the first words that come into her head, urgently needing to close off the fearful overwhelm of that vision; the enormity of her loss, the implications of the transformation that she has offered herself up to, in submission to His desire;
“No … No underwear?”
It’s a pathetic, stupid thing to say, and Chloe is pink with embarrassment, drops her eyes rapidly, but Norah’s voice is soft and almost conspiratorial in her ear, then;
“Don’t be silly, pretty. Not going to be hard, to get yourself raped in this outfit, now, is it? Why would a slutty little whore like you want anything getting in the way of that, eh?”
Chloe’s belly does a little flop at this, and she knows that Norah is right. She wants Him to want to throw her down and take her on sight, in this outfit, to bite her breasts, to make her wail, and there is no denying to herself— or to Norah— that she wants it. Her smile is helpless, weak, accepting.
There is another telling moment, too, when, hair and makeup done, Norah looks at her watch and turns to the door;
“Come!”
Chloe falters, hangs back, and when Norah turns her head, questioning;
“What?”
Chloe lifts her wrists, twisting them a little, offering them, somehow sure that Norah must be going to cuff and collar her, that she has forgotten, needs reminding.
Norah laughs again;
“The time will come, pretty, when you feel uncomfortable without restraints, but that’s not up to you, is it? He doesn’t want them now. You’ll be entertaining visitors, later, and He wants you to present as if you were a normal person, at least to begin with.”
Norah is acting more like a conspiratorial girlfriend, now, than a harsh mistress, and Chloe gets the idea that the woman is only accompanying her to the living room to see the impact of the lovely outfit on Him, rather than to make Chloe feel as if even this short journey is something that she must be controlled for. The fact is that Chloe is deeply grateful as Norah takes the lead— she feels impossibly weak and needy, and it is so much easier to follow Norah than to go by herself, not to have to choose anything.
Outside the door, Norah turns to face Chloe, and, without hesitation, simply puts her hand up Chloe’s skirt. It is as shameful as ever to allow this check, but pleasurable, too, to be discovered to be both moist and warm down there. The knowledge that she is going to be showing Him her naked sex in just a few seconds all but overwhelms Chloe, but there’s nothing for it but to live her life, and this is her life, now.
He’s on the sofa, with the dog, as she has so often seen Him, and again, despite the fresh memory and pains of His assault on her earlier, it comes naturally to her to be happy to see Him, even as an intense shyness comes over her at the realisation that her new status is completely established now, that her arrival like this is not the momentous event it seems to her, but simply ordinary, to Him. Not looking Him in the face, getting her nerve up to be able to show Him her naked sex, while Norah looks on— all of this comes over her, hard, so that she is trembling, certain suddenly that He will look on her with disgust, worthless as the sort of slut must be that would allow His earlier crude assault on her to be an accepted fact of her existence, rather than an outrage.
Shy or not, there is no option for her but to do the unthinkable— impossible not to lift her skirt, now, and show Him her naked sex, her trimmed pubes, offer herself for rape. The skirt is stiff, and folds, rather than gathers, as she lifts it, so that she feels particularly exposed as she curtseys for Him, mouth slackly open, moistened tongue tip flickering, blushing deeply, heart thudding, sexual arousal and crushing shame mixed in with fear and a tragically deep need to have Him be happy with her, to approve of her little performance.
He spends a long moment, looking her over— she can’t be quite sure what He is looking at, since her own eyes are deferentially lowered, two urges at war in her— the need to collapse into tears at how devastated her life has become on the one hand, and on the other, the wish for Him to stand up, to come and possess her, fuck her hard.
A lazy flick of His fingers is all she gets— which she takes to mean that she should fold the skirt down again, as He turns to speak to Norah;
“Lovely outfit. You’ve not lost your touch; she looks good enough to eat. Well done. Our visitors will be an hour or so; If you’d let me know when you’re about to let them in, I’ll send the pretty out to welcome them.”
As Norah leaves, He speaks to her for the first time;
“The vulnerability of your breasts in that teasing little top is very tempting, and confirms my thought that today is the day to introduce your tits to the riding crop— to hear you really scream, have you watch the blows as they fall, look into your eyes as I hurt you. But right now, I want to talk to you. Come and kneel on the table, will you?”
His tone is perfectly conversational, friendly, as if nothing had changed between them, but the words make it hard for her to breathe, break her heart. How can He have been so excellent and convincingly sincere a lover, over so long, when all the time He had wanted to say things like that to her, had planned to whip her poor breasts, to enjoy her suffering?
She can’t move, for what seems an age, for to do as He wishes will be to accept that this terrible thing will be done to her, to accept His right to whip her, while to do anything else will be an act of defiance, however small— and she cannot manage either.
If He had done anything other than He did, at that moment— which was to obviously relax, settle Himself back into the sofa, casual, ruffling the dog’s ears, unconcerned by her immobility; uncaring, seemingly— then the spell might have been broken, she thinks; but the reminder that the only context in which she means anything in this house, any more, is through her commitment to serving His pleasure has her on a hook— a cruelly sharp and barbed hook, on which she dares not even wriggle, and without ever actually deciding to, she takes a step, then another and another, and goes to Him, biting her lip, hard, to keep the tears from falling, writhing inside with dread at the awfulness she has delivered herself to through this insanity of acceptance that grips her.
The low coffee table has a thick glass top; He holds her hand, gentleman-like, helpful, as she arranges herself on her knees, facing Him, heart thumping, breath coming irregularly, cheeks blazing; at one point He opens the little blouse to expose her breasts, and she freezes, anticipating some cruelty, some outrage, wondering if He might have become tempted to bring the promised encounter with the riding crop forward. But He simply looks and smiles;
“Delicious. Now, let me pour you some water.”
She almost cries, then, at the tiny kindness of a glass of sparkling mineral water, for a girl such as her, who is having to learn to drink from a dog’s bowl, from the toilet.
He holds it for her, holds it to her lips; not for her to use her hands, of course, but it doesn’t matter— that He is serving her is … her heart feels as if it might burst with warm pleasure at this tiny acknowledgement that she has needs— that He cares, even if only to toy with her emotions, which she is certain He is doing. She will take it. Accept this, too. With gratitude; murmuring a daring;
“Thank you, Master.“— to which He makes no response, simply catches a drip that remains on her lip with a forefinger, puts the finger into her mouth, for her to suck, which she does, willingly, as softly and sensuously as she can in the short moment of contact she is permitted, trembling, now.
But He’s already moving on;
“Let’s just, now, before we get started, do a little thing about kneeling. Until I get tired of you, you’ll be kneeling a fair bit, and you’ll probably want to kneel so as to please me, I’d imagine.”
Chloe decides that this is not a question, and manages a small, pathetic smile of acceptance instead.
“It’s not complicated. First, the knees— wider apart, please— just a bit wider than your shoulders— better. Now, the ankles — they should be crossed, one on top of the other— that’s to immobilise you a little— it’s always worth thinking of little ways to make yourself more helpless, particularly if this is something that will be just slightly unusual, that will attract attention— that will get someone wondering just why — some of whom, at least, will understand that you have been trained this way. And some of those, of course, may be sufficiently interested by that realisation to do you the honour of sticking their cocks into you. There now— do you see how hard it would be to stand without uncrossing your ankles?”
“Next, we come to your lovely little arse— and your pussy, too; the point of the positioning here is to maintain and advertise accessibility; there are two options here— ‘high’ and ‘low’ and they depend on circumstance. Generally, if you’re up on a platform, as you are now, then ‘low’ is the position; keep your bum a hands-breadth or so above your ankles— your hips should be bent. In this position, its inevitable that your hips will flex a little all the time— this means your bum will move around a little, too— attracting attention to itself. This will get hard if you have to hold the position for longer than ten minutes or so; in which case, you’ll just have to suffer. You will discreetly exploit this condition to invite attention— wiggling your butt, flexing your hips— all to advertise your holes, in the hope of getting yourself fucked.”
“If you are on the floor, though— and especially if those for whom you’re kneeling are standing up, then the correct variant will be the ‘high’ one— with your thighs coming straight upward from your knees, the hips in line— like a standing position with just your knees bent. This obviously gets your holes closer to the hands of the people you hope to entice to use you.”
“Of course, you should be alert at all times for any signal that whoever you are serving wants you to change position— to move up or down.”
“Now we come to tits. The main thing here is shoulders and belly— the belly must be tucked in, while the shoulders should be squared or pulled a little back— to push out the breasts— again, to advertise their availability, their vulnerability— to offer them.”
“Hands and arms; often you’ll have no choice— you’ll be cuffed or bound in one way or another; but if your hands are free, as they are today, you will clasp them behind your back, each hand grasping the opposite elbow— again emphasising helplessness, vulnerability.”
“I’m pleased to say that you have already arrived at a desirable habit with your mouth— that tongue tip thing is delightful— should get you fucked in the mouth more often, and you’re getting better at keeping your eyes lowered, too.”
“If all this sounds fussy, it is— but I won’t be checking, and I’m honestly not concerned with specific details. What matters to me— and therefore I imagine of major importance to you, too, is how often I find myself feeling like using or abusing you. The more the better, of course. I’m only giving you these pointers because in my experience, girls who understand the whys and wherefores of such positioning tend to get used more; I’m trying to be helpful. It’s not just about kneeling, of course— if you apply the thinking to other positions, I think you’ll find it easier to decide how to please me— how to get raped more often— which, after all, is the name of the game.”
All of this is said in such a matter-of-fact tone, perfectly kindly— as if explaining some rule of politeness to a child who doesn’t know better, but who is expected to comply without question from now on.
For Chloe, though, who of course has been adjusting her position carefully and constantly throughout, the whole experience is deeply humiliating and disempowering (she finds that she cannot trust herself to decide whether her knees are spread sufficiently, whether her belly is tucked in or not, how high her bum should be above her ankles, how far back her shoulders ought to be— at the same time she is ridiculously frightened of failing to be perfect; knowing that He almost certainly intends for her to feel like this just adds to her emotional load), and then at the end, emotionally overwhelming— the crudity of measuring her value in such simplistic terms as how much He feels like using or abusing her, while not really news, is so stark and dehumanising that she almost loses control, tears brimming, suppressed sobs threatening to become hiccups, an urgent need in her to look into His face, to let Him see in her eyes how deeply, how cruelly He is hurting her, to see if there is any mercy— any humour, even, mixed in with all this utilitarian and abusive reduction of her to little better than a sex robot. But she dares not.
Dares not do anything at all except try to comply, to please Him, to be what He wishes her to be, feeling so unsure that she imagines she must be a failure at this, even.
“I notice you’re wincing. You’re in pain, yes? Your knees hurting from earlier? And perhaps your throat, too?”
This is a real question. An answer is required. It’s actually hard, for a second, to make herself speak, which shocks her.
“Yes. Yes it’s very sore, actual…”
He has held up His finger— still smiling, but clearly she is wrong again;
“Say as few words as practically possible. Don’t speak at all, if you can help it. But of course, I asked you a direct question, so that an answer is required. In this case, ‘Yes, Sir’ would be enough. Perhaps, ‘Yes, Sir, Thank you, Sir’ would have been appropriate— since you are encouraged to express gratitude for being abused, for being hurt. No, no— don’t speak now— just remember.”
She is nodding, finding even this, another kind of awful, a welcome distraction from micro-managing her pose.
“Good, Good. I like that; like that you’re hurting. That I’ve hurt you. That you’re taking it so meekly— that you’re still here, still trying to please me, even though you know I’ll always hurt you. Augurs well. I think I’m going to enjoy you.”
After that, silence; a long silence. It’s awful; knowing He is looking at her, knowing that her pose is far from perfect, far from elegant, her own silence more acceptance— acceptance that He can say such nasty, deliberately cruel and humiliating things to her, and that she will listen to them, keep trying to hold herself just as He has specified, in the hope of encouraging Him to ‘use or abuse’ her.
How can this be me? How can this be my life? How can I not imagine being anywhere else than here, offering myself up to be used like this?
This train of thought is dangerous— she needs to distract herself, and decides to make sure her sex isn’t getting dry— makes herself think back to the dream sequence, looking for the lustful mood that had got her so worked up then. It’s disturbing how easily it works— how the idea of Him fucking her with a gun, that image, that feeling, gets her past all the negative emotion and centres her awareness in her sex, in the thought of Him fucking her— fucking her violently, destructively.
The knowledge is terrible— that He is watching her as she makes herself think these thoughts, as they have their effect on her; more, that He might well understand a little about what is going through her mind, be able to see in her face, her body language, just how completely she is prepared to pervert and degrade herself in order to be permitted to serve Him, the shamefulness of it— and yet also sickly fascinating; that she is showing Him her degradation, for His entertainment; wallowing in it. She is breathless with the intensity of it.
The silence ends, as He speaks at last;
“Very good. Good little cunt.”
She wants to scream her despair at Him— that He thinks she will be grateful for such degrading condescension.
She wants to smile and giggle and shimmy for Him, in helpless, girly embarrassment at such a welcome compliment.
The second impulse wins out, and she tried to let Him hear in ver voice just how eager she is to be fucked at that moment— even as it makes her feel dirty.
He almost laughs, Himself— she can hear the satisfaction in His voice as he says;
“Just so. I’ve been anticipating this moment; sitting here quietly with you, looking so lovely, sitting so nicely for me, displaying yourself so carefully, with all the degrading things you’ve allowed to be done to you over the last two days so clear in both our minds.”
He’s right; there is indeed something strange and special about recalling this bizarre, shameful shared knowledge, in this quiet setting— as before, her retelling of the events in her head smooths over much of the harshness of the real experience— whether her mind is protecting her from overload, or she simply can’t remember enough detail; although even these memories are still stark and shocking, just knowing that He acknowledges their complicity, that He is enjoying her, she finds this pathetically welcome, and she manages to calm herself a little.
Something in her demands, then, that she look up at Him, and she does it, almost without thinking, wanting to share some bond with Him through locked gazes, as they have done many times, sharing secret jokes, remembering sexual intensities, laughing secretly at some buffoon’s pomposity at a dinner table.
But the eyes she meets, while friendly enough, His face smiling, lack the slightest sign of any willingness to share. He’s looking at her as if she were a specimen, she thinks. And it hits her, all over again; she’s no longer in the girlfriend category. She’s a sex toy now. The reaffirmation of this, so clear in His face, is unbearably painful; she winces, helplessly, flushes, looks down, blinking hard.
He lets a few seconds pass, then;
“I’ll remember that little moment with you later, once we’ve introduced your pretty tits to the riding crop— I can promise you will bitterly regret your choice to look up, although I must say, the despair in your eyes was rather lovely. Remember, pussy; pretty deference, awareness of your position in the pecking order— show people just how submissive you are whenever you can. Looking real people in the face, directly, is an insult to them from a hopeless little slut like you, and one which will always merit cruel punishment.”
How bitter it is to know that she has proved herself to be exactly what He calls her; ‘a hopeless little slut’; that she has no grounds at all for complaint, even though, only three days ago, she had been a girlfriend who believed herself loved and respected. Had been a person who thought she had moral courage, standards, a girl who deserved to be treated with decency. Shame and despair eat into her, but at the same time, she cannot deny the little surge of excitement in her belly at the knowledge of what happens to little sluts, of how open she is to being fucked, how likely it is that she will get fucked, of the certainty of being neither able nor permitted to hide the wantonness of her response to being fucked …
“It’s a good introduction, though, to what I wanted to talk you you about. For the next while, now, I want you to talk a little more— be a little more conversational— and, despite what I have just said, for now I do want to see what is in your eyes; you are required to look at me for the next bit.”
“First, though, I want to tell you something.”
“I want to tell you that, while you were always lovely, that since I have had you raped, abused, whipped— since you have been degraded, since you have begun to work on yourself— to deliberately make an effort to internalise your degradation, you have become truly beautiful to me. It’s real, in your face. The awareness of despair, of pain, in your eyes now; the certain knowledge of your inability to free yourself, your vulnerability to depravity, to violent and greedy usage— all that has made you more lovely even than you were— more desirable, too. In time, as you are used more ever more thoroughly, as it becomes impossible for you not to understand yourself as beyond rescue, as broken, your knowledge of your own vulnerability will transform you.”
“I am going to require of you that you make yourself a walking invitation to aggressive sexual assault, so that men who know nothing about you will feel lust consume them as you pass, so that men without violent tendencies will imagine themselves throwing you to the floor and kicking you in the belly before raping you.”
This speech both terrorises and exalts Chloe; she’s spellbound, staring directly into His eyes, uncaring, breathing deeply, heavily, her limbs feeling heavy and soft; powerfully aware of her body, trembling deliciously, her throat dry, heart tripping wildly fast, nipples stiff, sex tingling, hips slowly rolling of their own accord, anticipating the treatment He promises; the awesome wonder, the terrible certainty that she has no choice about this, that she, Chloe Dainty, is going to be whored, destroyed, degraded; that this Man has the power, the will to promise this thing and make her believe Him, have her accept it all, no matter how destructive, how unbearable.
This … this, somehow— this is why she is here, why she will let Him have her, why she will help Him do this to her, even as she despairs.
He’s smiling at her, a simple, pleased smile— nothing apparently of depravity about Him as He holds out His hands— she, terrified, awestruck, entranced, as if in a dream, reaches out to take His, her heart beating as if will burst from her chest, tears again in her eyes, trembling violently now.
She needs to speak, but it’s hard to make the words, as her jaw keeps quivering, her voice only just more than a husky whisper;
“Does … does it … Do I … ? Is … is there n … no other way?”
He’s still smiling as He moves her hands slowly apart— making it clear that He is enhancing His view of her breasts, opening her body up to Him, clearly enjoying Himself;
“Not for you, pretty; not here, at least. Girls like you— if you are to be thoroughly transformed— girls who have grown up in safe places, loved, respected, well treated, with advantages— girls like you need to have it rammed home, have the new reality relentlessly and mercilessly ground into you that you exist for no other purpose than to have cocks put into you.”
“You need to be hurt, you need to be degraded, and your only release from that needs to be cocks, stiff cocks, in all your holes, all the time, slamming in to you, raping you, filling you with come. Until you understand that there is nothing else about you that matters. Experience has taught me that it takes a fair bit of work to get even the easiest of you to the point where you really build that idea into your self-image— to the point where you understand how totally your utility for rough and selfish sexual usage defines you. I’m going to help you do that to yourself.”
“Now, I’ll tell you when we’re done with this, but we need to talk properly for a while— proper answers, eye contact, everything. We’ll have a time this every now and then, as I see fit. And then, when we’re done, I’ll switch you back into Rape Doll mode. There will be no pattern; you’ll have no idea when— if ever— I’ll speak to you again as if you were a person.”
His eyes, on hers, watching as this sinks in, as she tries to smile for Him, fails, manages a tiny nod, screwing her eyes up against the insistent tears, then shaking her head, urgent, trying to reset her thoughts, get past the blackness that seeks to engulf her, to regain a little control, to live through this.
It is awful having Him see all this, knowing just how well He has always been able to judge what is going on in her head. To be observed, forcing oneself to accept the terrible things He keeps saying, keeps promising.
“So, can you smile for me, now— yes? A pretty smile— let me see you happy— or at least trying to show me happy, hmm?”
His tone is as normal as ever, but there is a little tease, a little challenge in His voice that reminds her of … of so many sweet moments with Him … before, and she feels her heart flutter with ridiculous, stupid hope for a second— knowing, knowing it’s all manipulation, that He is playing her, playing her as He has always been playing her, but not caring— happy to take this second as itself, just let that feeling flood her, even in the knowledge that it will be cruelly dashed, and she lets it happen, and manages a sweet, desperate, frightened, hopeful train-wreck of a smile.
The grin that meets it more than fulfils her expectation of the moment being cruelly terminated, but somehow she manages to find that, too, sweet.
He has asked her to make an effort to smile, helped her with an obvious piece of mean emotional trickery, and she, seeing it for what it is, has nevertheless played along with it— pleasure for Him, heartache and despair for her. Just as it will always be, she knows, while she cannot bring herself to leave.
Just as I want it, then, she is forced to conclude.
“Very well; again, you manage to be a good little cunt; I’m pleased. Now, to begin with, I want to ask you a question. How did we do it— by which I mean, what did we each actually do, when we were being boyfriend and girlfriend? Have a little think, then let me have your answer.”
This takes Chloe completely by surprise— such a change of direction, such an unusual question— and while she is still processing, too, the searing cruelties of His last little speech.
But He’s in no hurry, and at last, she finds herself able to speak, even if she can’t think of much to say that seems to even half answer Him. Her voice is full of unshed tears, tears prompted by the awful contrast between the future He has just laid out for her and the dragging up of memories from their life together before all this madness.
“I … I guess we … we did things that … that we hoped the other would like— tried to make each other happy.”
It’s torture, thinking about that time. The understanding that He had been planning for this all along just made it harder (I’m still here, though, aren’t I?).
“That’s it. Very good. I did boyfriend things, hoping that you’d like them, and that liking them would encourage you to try more girlfriend things, you in turn hoping that I would like those, and that that would encourage me to do yet more boyfriend things. We made the situation more intense, by encouraging each other.”
“Well, you see, I want you to think about this new situation, how this works. It’s clearly different in a few ways. Have a go, tell me how you think this, now; how this will work.”
And now a couple of tears do drip onto Chloe’s cheek. This is too cruel! Is He going to make her define the terms of her own submission, now?
He reaches out and smudges a tear away, gently, His hand kind— it’s lovely to be touched gently, by Him, no matter the context;
“Try not to cry, pretty. There will be plenty of opportunities for crying, soon enough, believe me; screaming and begging and out-of-body, pain-induced hysteria, too. Now, though; right now, I want you to work hard for me, want you to think and speak and help me get these ideas into your lovely little head, so that they can fuck with your mind.”
She looks up at Him, then, eyes wide, breathing loud;
“Yes, that’s right, pretty. This is a bit of light brainwashing I’m doing on you. Nothing weird or spooky, mind; just getting you into the right state so that some important ideas will take root. The rest will be up to you— how hard you work at building them into your new world. Now, please, try and give me an idea of how you think this new arrangement— Rape Dolly and Master, how that works.”
She stares at Him for a long while, now, tears gone, in love with Him all over again somehow, lost, knowing she is lost, but at ease with it for now even as she knows that this feeling cannot last; He is in charge; He knows. He will ordain, and it will be extraordinary.
“I … It … You … you want me to do the work. You … you want me to … to be the most rape-able thing I can be … want me to … to excite you and … and … and others, I guess, to … to rape me and … and hurt me and … abuse me and degrade me. But … … you don’t want to … to have to control me. Is … is that …?”
She wants to cry so badly, now, but she will not let herself, looking intensely into His eyes, trying to show Him everything— just how deeply she is feeling this, how agonising, how terrible, how glorious, how overwhelming it all is, and she hears herself, in a different voice almost unrecognisable from the light, quavering tones of a moment ago, hears herself say, clear, earnest, needy, in warm, husky tones;
“Please … please, rape me Master. Please— rape me hard. I … I want it.”
He smiles, broadly, then, but sits back, apparently relaxed— although, knowing Him as she does, she can see that He is excited, that she has got through to Him, a little, at least, and her hips surge, and she wriggles her whole body for Him, writhing, slow, shameless, advertising herself as a sex doll, wanting it now.
He laughs— a simple, light, happy laugh— as if she were asking for a kiss or something— rather than begging to be raped;
“Very good, pretty, very good. I like that; I’ll want it some other time— and I’ll want to see you do it for strangers, too, but right now we have work to do.”
And for the first time, Chloe understands just how it would be to be an unwanted slut; to have put her whole being into that request for sexual usage, to have been as blatantly desperate, needy, eager, vulnerable; asking to be raped, using that word— and more, to have meant it with her whole body, to have shown it without reserve, laid herself bare— and still to have been turned down, casually, to have been laughed at. The taste in her mouth is bitter, ashes, a cold knife in her heart, but there is nothing to do but swallow it, take the pain, absorb the shame. Accept. Try to smile, live with the pain; own it. Eat it. Accept it.
“You did well, though; that is indeed the core of it. In this relationship, you do 90% of the work. My Dad has always had slavegirls— Norah was one of his, at first, before she came to me— he taught me how to catch girls like you, how to break you, how to train you— and he taught me well. But it always looked like a great deal of work, to me— so much training, so many rules to explain, all the time having to be a cop— and all to end up with something not much more interesting than a robot.”
“So I work it a different way. As I said yesterday, you’re not a slavegirl, but a guest. I have no responsibility for you. I don’t even want you to stay— I just put up with you— a drain on my finances, taking up space, making work for my staff, wanting attention, pathetically needy. A parasite, really; at some point, I’m going to get tired of you, or irritated by you, and get rid of you— kick you out. This is certain to happen. The only thing that delays that moment is you, making yourself available and entertaining— a thing eager and willing, offering itself to be fucked, to be used, to be hurt and abused. A thing that knows that when it is kicked out, there will remain almost nothing of what it was, what it had been, before; nothing but a rejected husk of what was once a person.”
“So, in the terms of the boyfriend/girlfriend game, the Rape Doll offers itself as entertainment, as a weak little toy, needy, willing, eager to be abused for the fulfilment of dark desires. If it isn’t able to make this offer enticing to the Master, it’s gone.”
“If it can manage to get itself used, but fails to make using it entertaining enough, it’s gone.”
“If it can manage to get itself used, and make it entertaining to use it, then it might get to stay around a little while.”
“If it can find a way to be both interesting and entertaining to continue to use and abuse, the Master may occasionally take enough interest in it to give it some clues as to how He might enjoy it more.”
“If it is willing and able to use those clues— to offer Him something that scratches some particular itch of His, then it might push the day on which He gets sick of it further into the future.”
“That’s how this game works. It’s set up to give me, the Master, maximum entertainment value with minimum effort. And it’s set up to mean that a girl who is not making maximum effort to be both enticing and entertaining to abuse, will be ejected, very quickly. On the other hand, if it works for the Master, He will be greedy, want more, and the Rape Dolly will have to offer more to keep His attention— in this setup, too, things will get more intense. It’s just that the Rape Doll will be making all the effort, going through all the emotional bullshit, soaking up all the pain, while the master only pays what attention he wants, and gets to have exactly the fun He wants, when He wants it.”
He pauses, watching as Chloe attempts to take it all in. The simple, elegant cruelty of it; the utter heartlessness. The position she must accept if she wishes to stay; the degradation of it, the humiliation, the promise of ruination. The fact that she does not feel she has any choice, any more, as to accepting. Her inability to do anything else but bow down to Him, offer herself to Him, despite His cruelty, His abuses. Or perhaps because of His cruelty, His capacity to abuse her. She no longer really knows.
Once more, this time as much a defence against overwhelm, as it is a need in her for the oblivion being fucked might bring, she is driven to offer herself, urgent, needy, her body moving as sensuously as she knows how, shamelessly, openly needy;
“Please, please, Master, please … rape me, please … please ab…abuse me. Please h-hurt me…”
He leans forward and softly strokes her cheek;
“Hush now, pretty Chloe— begging to be fucked is fine, but if you’ve been rejected, you’ve been rejected. This is about my needs, not yours. Repeated begging can become rather irritating. Now, tell me; have you understood me, do you think?”
As these words sink in, the casual obscenity of his treatment of her so clear, the impulse to hit out at Him, slap Him across the face, scream at Him for the swine that he is, for what he is doing to her, tell Him to rot in hell … the impulse is strong, and urgent, and perfectly justified— for such calm and prolonged psychological cruelty, smiling mental torture is beyond all … and she stops herself.
Such treatment is … is what she has accepted, what she has spent the night educating herself to accept. It is— it must be— taken as tribute; as a compliment, as her reward for …
For being— for striving to become— cunt.
His cunt. His to play with as He pleases; His to torture.
The tears demand to be let fall, but instead, fiercely, swallowing the bile in the back of her throat, she bites the inside of her cheek, hard, represses it all, fights to calm her raging, disordered emotions, and, after some moments of the most abject, despairing misery, finds a way, somehow, to smile at Him, knowing how much this is costing her, how fast she is being pushed away from anything like sanity, forces herself to speak softly, to let him hear that she means what she says, however appalling the implications;
“Yes. Yes I think … I think I understand. And And I accept— as best I can, at least, although … although I don’t know if I can do it; if I can be … be interesting and entertaining enough. But … but I’ll try.”
Tears threaten still as He watches her; intent, smiling softly at her— clearly enjoying her distress, her raw despair, her abject submission— letting her see His pleasure at her agonies. Letting her experience the difference in their weight— His feelings entirely superficial, casual, all but inconsequential, while she wrestles with the eternal destruction of her selfhood.
He smiles at her, seeing in her eyes that she knows what He is doing, that she is making herself accept— and calmly presses His advantage at this moment of terrible weakness for her.
“I’m going to help you now, a little, pretty Chloe, so listen, listen carefully. You are lucky. Lucky, because I have Norah. Norah has both time and inclination to help you be something I’ll enjoy. Let her boss you, let her manage you; she knows me very well, and will be able to judge better than you how to present yourself to me. Make plans with her for anything important that you think I might enjoy. She can let me know if there’s something worth my attention. You’ll need to make such plans, because I bore easily— you need to keep one step ahead of my boredom. Norah will be your Mistress.”
“That’s our little talk done, now. No more eye contact, no more talking. I have a little time to read before our guests arrive.”
And with that, He picks up the book, gives the dog’s head a casual stroke, and it is as if she has ceased to exist.
Read the next part of Moving Her On.
