This will make more sense if you have read the previous parts of the story.
Opening the door, naked, more than a fortnight later, not knowing who it will be, making herself, as she has begun doing, open the door fully, stand clear of it, so that her nakedness is unmistakeable, and seeing Anne-Marie (who normally lets herself in with a key) standing there, immaculately chic as always, smiling, a prettily wrapped gift box in one gloved hand, Liana feels tears of joy welling in her eyes.
Almost immediately after that, her knees begin to buckle as the knot of desire that has been built inside her through her compliance with Anne-Marie’s orders catches fire, at the same time as all the other repressed emotions seethe and boil, demanding expression also. Rage, resentment, pain, shame — all to be laid at Anne-Marie’s door, all of them requiring desperate efforts to once again control, reign-in, sequester away, in service of her need to be what this strange, unknowable, terrifying, glorious woman wants her to be.
Because the feeling of being brought back to life by Anne-Marie’s approval is supreme in her, of meaning something again, of being safe again, of knowing again that she simply can do what is asked of her, rather then take her own responsibility, simply because Anne-Marie is paying attention to her, has chosen to look at her, is smiling at her.
That is all that matters for her, she suddenly sees, frightened and awed by how deeply this hits her, how obviously true it is, how terrifying the implications are, how vulnerable it makes her. But still — how wonderful, how dangerous, how glorious it is to feel like this!
It is all she can do to simply stand, trembling visibly, her gaze lowered, unable to actually meet Anne-Marie’s eyes for more than an instant, to see the complacent pleasure there at the obvious implication of Liana’s nakedness, knowing that, in a flash, Anne-Marie has seen everything — understands her emotional turmoil — knows without doubt that Liana has been abjectly, earnestly obedient to the letter of the humiliating strictures Anne-Marie had imposed upon her.
It is at once glorious and horribly humiliating for this to be understood between them.
The older woman’s voice, is soft, sweet, caressing, lover-like;
“Your nipples, my dear, are divine — so invitingly stiff and obvious, yet so clearly tender, so very vulnerable — it’s all I can do not to bite them. And your pretty cunt! Do I see a little glisten, there, between the folds? Tell me, are you wet for me, already? Or, have I surprised you at your exercise in front of the mirror? Have you been diddling yourself, for me? Just now?”
Liana’s blush manages to deepen, to pinken still further, the flush extending to her chest and the upper slopes of her breasts, now, but she cannot speak, only nods — in fact her whole body shyly but earnestly assents to the truth of the matter — that she had indeed been on her knees, thighs spread wide in front of the big mirror when the knock sounded, gently teasing her sex, gasping to herself. For she has become so highly strung, these past days, that only soft touches are possible, if she is not to lose control and drive herself to orgasm.
“Oh? how cute! Let me see. Hold this.” — and the gift-wrapped package is offered.
Liana takes it in both hands, and immediately sighs, soft, but intense, wonderingly, coo-ing almost, as Anne-Marie’s gloved fingers gently but imperiously push between the moist lips of her sex.
The manipulations proceed without pause; intrusive, possessive, demanding, and Liana’s cries become more urgent, but still not loud — she is determinedly keeping it so. For despite the desire which burns ever more urgently inside her, the knowledge that she is at her front door, naked to the hallway, is all but impossible to live with — she dare not alert a neighbour — bring them to their door, to see her like this.
She is to be allowed no escape, no relief from her anxiety, though — quite the opposite;
“Come out here now, pretty, and face the wall — don’t make me wait! Open your legs; wider, now — don’t you dare even dream of hiding yourself! Up on tiptoes for me, that’s a good little pretty, open yourself, now, push your lovely arse back for me — that’s it, let me in, make it easy for me, let me hurt you, let me have you.”
Liana cannot believe it, but Anne-Marie is unhesitating, casually certain in a way which admits of no impediment to her getting exactly what she wants, immediately, without further effort on her part — unconcerned by the fact of the open hallway, a window to the street at the end, four other apartment doors close by, the glazed door to the stairwell, and as soon as Liana is positioned to her satisfaction, her face pressed against the wall, turned sideways to face the window, her shoulders against the wall too, up on tiptoes, legs spread wide, well back, hips pushed out as far as she can make them, and Anne-Marie’s gloved hands take control, one at Liana’s waist, positioning her, the other at her sex, penetrating her immediately — with skill and subtlety borne of deep experience, to be sure, but at the same time entirely without consideration for any conventional sensibilities about manipulating a girl’s pussy so unceremoniously in a public hallway.
Now, working, working, subtle but relentless, at her now soaking pussy, that hand takes assured and vigorous possession of Liana there, so that there are soon three, then four leather gloved fingers inside the girl, then — “Aaaaa-eeh!” — the knuckles, working, working, pushing, stretching, and then;
“Ready now, lovely, I’m going to punch you, hard, right inside, and you’re to stay open for me and welcome it, because you’re a sweetie and a dirty little fi ..”
“Haaa!! Hai! Hai! Hai!!!”
Taken by surprise, as Anne-Marie intentionally does not complete the cadence of the words before thrusting her hand deep into Liana’s sex, Liana somehow manages to hold her pose, control the volume of her desperate little cries, even as tears are rolling down her cheeks, and deep shivers are shaking her whole body.
To have this done to her in the hallway! To be so vulnerable! To be so pathetically grateful! To be accepting the pain, the shame so abjectly! To be so urgently seeking the pleasure her body craves, in such shameful circumstances, for her hips to be thrusting urgently, backwards, flexing; desperate to encourage the shocking invasion…
The strangeness, the impersonality of the feel of leather inside her is just another layer to the impossibility, to the wildness, to the transgressive insanity of the experience, to the savagery, the glory, the impersonality of the abuse.
“Ahhhhhhhhaaahhhhaaahhh…”
The long, rasping sigh is drawn from her as the fist forms itself inside, and she knows she is lost; that, even without any manipulation of her clitoris, in such a degrading situation, she is not going to be able to resist her orgasm — and it begins to shake her, irresistible, losing herself, her knees slackening, her cheek sliding down the wall, body wracked by spasms, the fist working inside her, the pain of the stretching somehow an ecstasy, to end with her face crushed against the skirting board, Anne-Marie’s fist working relentlessly, so deep inside her that it seems the centre of her very existence, the one truth around which everything else must revolve, panting and crying her climax through lips jammed together in an attempt to control the noise of her wordless utterances — the noise tragic — more like a cry of anguished despair than one of pleasure.
Satisfied of her dominion, Anne-Marie now withdraws her hand, without ceremony or finesse, making Liana shiver and wail, then stands and walks casually into the apartment, without comment, heels clicking, ruefully examining her glove, wet with Liana’s fluids, smiling just a little.
Her horror of being discovered notwithstanding, it is some while before Liana can manage to crawl in through her own door and push it shut behind her (it was going to be some while, she realised, before her legs could be trusted to keep her upright), slumping on the floor, belly still jerking with aftershocks; she is panting continuously, each breath accompanied by a helpless vocalisation — unformed, soft, high-pitched — a pathetic and defeated sound. She has no idea if she has been seen.
To be honest, she has hardly any idea who she is, any more.
The last week has been increasingly strange. While she has gone to work as usual, been at least superficially her normal self there, none of it has seemed real.
What is real is the experience of being naked in her apartment — always naked, always sexualised. Of structuring her time, her life, her very existence around the timing of her sessions in front of the mirror — sessions which have become increasingly ritualised, as, day-by-day, she repeats the behaviour, obeying Anne-Marie’s command. Sessions which have come more and more to be near hallucinatory, drug-trance like experiences as the strangeness of such repeated, regular, self-conscious masturbation without the release of orgasm has mounted.
It had gone like this; on the day Marie-Anne had left her, ravaged, sore, in shock perhaps, she had crawled back to bed and stayed there for hours, until, jerked awake in the middle of some frenzied dream, she had found herself panicking — knowing, that — for all she was naked — she had not done what had been asked of her. She had taken herself to the mirror and, strange as it was — she had never watched herself masturbate before — she had found it both easy and exciting to pleasure herself and please Anne-Marie at the same time. Not taking it to orgasm felt odd, but not particularly abnormal. Doing it again, a little later, felt stranger, but still good.
For the next two days this feeling that she was playing at being obedient, that it was fun, cute, sexy, had persisted, and the mounting sexual tension of continually denying herself a climax was exciting, too — another new experience courtesy of her sophisticated older lover.
But on the fourth day, work had been difficult and depressing for all sorts of little reasons, none of them important — but nevertheless, she simply did not want to strip naked to please someone who would not see her, would neither know nor really care, did not want to be controlled so at all times, did not see why she should; she began, too, to let her shock and shame at having been used so hard, in such a manner, used so that the name ‘fist-fuck-slut’ was not unjustified, to let this reaction come out, express itself, and she came over all mulish and stubborn, and told herself that she would not be so imperiously managed.
Pictured herself, even, telling a returning Anne-Marie that she would not be so treated again.
In herself, she knew that this was ‘acting out’, rather than a realistic plan — let alone one that she might actually carry out — but for that evening, it suited her to tell herself it was so.
She fed her anger with the irritations of the day, and stayed in her work clothes, poured herself a glass of wine and picked at food from the fridge, putting herself in front of mindless TV. She was having a night off.
It lasted only until it was time for sleep. Because she could not. She lay awake for hours, fighting with herself, refusing to accept what she knew was inevitable — that she was going to give in. That she wanted to give in. That she was increasingly jittery at the knowledge that she had been disobeying all evening — not because ‘disobedience’ meant anything particular to her — but rather because Anne-Marie’s approval meant so much, and also, deeper in her mind, that she was beginning to understand that the cumulative impact, day after day, of the masturbation ritual, was changing her, that taking a day off risked derailing the process completely, that there was that inside her which wanted, wanted very much, to allow Anne-Marie to transform her — to become something that Anne-Marie had ordained. To allow her lover to change her, deeply; do something to her which could never be undone.
At 4am she admitted defeat (or did she achieve victory?) and got up, took off her pyjamas (she had been so defiant as to dig these out of her bottom drawer, where they had lain, unworn since Anne-Marie had told her they were ridiculous, a year ago), lit some candles and arranged herself in front of the mirror — arranged herself with great care, exaggerating the spread of her thighs, pushing her hips up and forward, hard, demanding extra of herself, that she leave aside no possibility to increase the intensity of the experience, the impact of her compliance on her own psyche. Only once she was satisfied that she had done everything she could had she begun, slowly, and then with increasing, surprising urgency, to work herself up. If stopping without climaxing that time was hard, then it got worse the next time, half-an-hour later, having drunk two cups of strong coffee.
And it got harder through the next day, which she spent at home — calling in sick without even thinking about it, dedicating herself to the task of making up the lost hours of nakedness, of compliance, of increasingly agonising frustration.
And so it went on.
She has hated Anne-Marie, considered her a goddess, a succubus, a monster — all of these things, all within the space of twenty minutes, as her world has increasingly come to be focused on the intensity and other-worldliness of watching herself in the mirror, naked, thighs spread lewdly, take herself, over and again, to the edge of delirium, without ever allowing herself release.
All because of an instruction from her lover, the absent, ruthless lover; Anne-Marie. A lover whom she has discovered she never even knew, whose fascination for Liana has been redoubled as a result of what Liana knew would immediately be considered unacceptably abusive and controlling behaviour by anyone she might describe it to. So that she has had to acknowledge to herself that the notion of her relationship with Anne-Marie being one where she is subjected to abusive control is not repellent.
Abusive? Yes. Controlling? Yes. Frightening? Yes. Shocking? Yes. Degrading? Yes Dangerous? Yes. Perverse? Yes. Cruel? (it was hard — very hard — to accept this one, but in the end, she had to acknowledge it to herself)? Yes.
So that she, Liana, was forced to contemplate, endlessly, the idea that she was not repelled by the idea of being subjected to cruelty by her lover.
A lover whose day job, it turns out, is intentional psychological manipulation of young women so that they will accept lives as degraded sex-slaves for rich sadists.
Was it any wonder if Liana’s grip on reality was becoming ever more tenuous?
Anne-Marie, meanwhile, cannot be sure whether she is pleased or puzzled. Part of her had taken the fist-fucking on their last evening together to such an extreme as a way of ending the affair. Liana’s loveliness, her seductive mix of innocence and naivety, combined with her inability to control herself in the face of the sexual responsiveness Anne-Marie’s demands and impositions have unleashed in her, all has kept Anne-Marie interested for far longer than has been normal in these relationships. At the same time, Anne-Marie is feeling the urge to move on — both to have one of her occasional periods of abstinence — time for reflection, for consideration — and as well, the itch for new conquest. This girl really has taken too much of her time — and it’s getting worse.
Anne-Marie, contrary to the opinions of many who do not really know her — who see her only in her context as the all-seeing, all-knowing, coolly manipulative Madame of The Castle — Anne-Marie is not at all a heartless machine. She has had uncharacteristic episodes of self-doubt over this Liana — wondering, in moments of weakness, whether this could be love, whether she should think about retiring from The Castle, making a life with the fascinating girl. These interludes never last more than five minutes, before being dismissed with a twisted smile, but they are unprecedented.
It is definitely time to move on.
Non-compliance on Liana’s part — anything less than perfect obedience — could have provided a break point, a reason to reject her; for Anne-Marie to allow her sadistic side to enjoy the pain in the Liana’s eyes as she was told she had failed, that she was being discarded; to have the girl watch as all her contact details were deleted from Anne-Marie’s phone, added to block lists, to watch herself being expunged from Anne-Marie’s life. Hear the ‘phone call as Anne-Marie asked her friend to terminate Liana’s work contract, not to help her in finding another — to let it be known, in vague terms, that she had been dismissed under threat of criminal prosecution — and then another with the landlord (Anne-Marie had of course found this apartment for Liana; close to Anne-Marie’s place, right in the heart of the Troisième arrondissement, it was eye-wateringly expensive, despite being so small) explaining that she would no longer be paying the rent, that Liana had lost her job, and so recommending immediate termination of the lease.
All that would have been fun.
Especially when followed by a cynical, knowing last seduction — using Liana’s body for sex while the girl was weak, devastated — just because she could.
The discovery, though, of meek and complete compliance — and of the evidently powerful impact of that compliance on the girl’s psyche, was also fun. To have ruined a very expensive pair of gloves — one of which would never now match the other, would always show a ‘tide-mark’ at the wrist (could I do her again with the other hand, for a matching pair — would it work?) — had certainly been worth it.
The way forward was clear, though; to make further, more outrageous demands of the girl; pushing her would be fun, whatever, and if she failed, the affair could be broken off at that point with all the cruel games that could allow. Of course, if she complied, that would be interesting and entertaining, too.
Anne-Marie surprises Liana by bringing her a cup of soothing, energising herbal tea (in their time together it has, of course, mostly been Liana who has been responsible for menial and caring tasks, with Anne-Marie in the rôle of gracious recipient). The understanding in Anne-Marie’s eyes (however cool, however sardonic) as she holds the cup out is better than any tisane, though, for Liana, since she has been in an agony of apprehension that, having proven herself so far gone in her sluttiness, the older woman must now surely either spurn her or despise her, or both.
This time, Liana manages to bear Anne-Marie’s gaze, and the long look that passes between them is powerful. For Liana, it cements, forever, a feeling that Anne-Marie owns a piece of Liana’s soul. That the woman is privy to deep-hidden secrets about Liana that she can barely see for herself, and that this knowledge gives the woman permanent power over her.
This understanding is at once frightening and delicious, and the girl finds herself carefully, consciously re-arranging her body — still curled on the carpet of the hallway — opening herself deliberately, displaying herself more thoughtfully, offering herself in humble tribute to the woman who now holds her future wellbeing in her hands.
For Anne-Marie, this is almost banal — given that she has taken now more than a hundred girls through versions of the same experience — no; what matters is what she learns from the girl’s response. She sees that the resilience at Liana’s core has allowed her to rapidly process the ruthless enforcement and consolidation of this new phase of their relationship, while her innate vulnerability to this sort of treatment — the vulnerability which had first attracted Liana’s predatory instincts — has led her simply and deeply to accept it. No resistance, no resentment, no stubborn defences can be detected.
Of course, they are all there, somewhere — no matter that, right now, they may be shocked into incapacity, or covered up — Anne-Marie well knows the complexity and terrible internal turmoil that accompany a girl’s acceptance of a condition of permanent sexual subjugation — the important issue is that she is, very obviously, ruthlessly and effectively suppressing her own reactions, with evident effort and determination; how clear it is that she is working to present herself as she hopes Anne-Marie will want her, while repressing her instincts for self preservation, her need to preserve human dignity.
Absence of such instincts make a girl pathetic, boring, uninteresting. It is the playing — and the winning, of course — of the game of domination with a girl possessed both of resilience and a strong survival drive that Anne-Marie enjoys.
She smiles, hard, complacent, but with just enough of the smile reaching her eyes to power the girl’s neediness; and Liana responds just as she ought — a small, frightened, hopeful smile, questioning, almost not daring to exist, appears, accompanied by a quick blush of shame as the girl — not in the least stupid or emotionally blunt, understands that she is being played, and yet can do nothing but accept that she wants it to be so — that she doesn’t want to do the obvious, sensible thing, which at this point would be to ask Anne-Marie — now having made it clear between them that she intends to become a sexually abusive tyrant — to ask her to leave.
Instead, Liana, opening her thighs wider, in weak, submissive invitation, hears herself say;
“That .. that was .. thank you!” as her blush deepens again, and her gaze can no longer hold Anne-Marie’s.
She cannot suppress a tiny sob, then — a few little tears drip from her eyes, but she makes herself look up again, manages a crumpled little attempt at a smile, and all but whispers;
“You .. that ..Thank you! ThankyouthankyouThank you!”
And she leans, to kiss Anne-Marie’s hand in a gesture of deliberate self-abasement, holding her lips, soft but fervent, to the strong hand that has so recently, so aggressively violated her tender, offered sex.
“Well thank you, too, pretty girl! You’ve been sooo very well behaved, I can see. I’m very pleased.”
Anne-Marie’s thanks is just sincere enough to count, while being manifestly, cruelly insincere. It is perfectly judged to feed the girl’s helpless hope, while simultaneously undercutting her fragile self-esteem.
“Now, let’s get you up from here, and into the shower, and then we can see what your present is, and then we can go to lunch, make an afternoon of it. Maybe we will see Claudine and Vernesse, later, and you can tell us all how it has been for you, these past days — I’m sure they’ll be interested.”
The present, it turns out — unsurprisingly — is lingerie; most of Anne-Marie’s presents to her girlfriends are. The difference, today, is that the gorgeous, expensive little waspie garter belt — a micro-corset, really, with boning and lacing and straps and little buckles as well as pretty lacework details — and the matching wired brassiere are not accompanied by any panties — and that the brassiere is only half-cup, exposing Liana’s nipples, their dark stiffness underlined by pale lacy frills.
“I don’t think I want you wearing anything that covers your pussy again, sweety. I like the idea that I can put my hand up your skirt at any time, and just push into your cunt — make you moan and sigh just as I like. And your nipples, too — I want to see them through anything you are wearing — want to be able to pinch and pull at them, hurt them. Do you understand me?”
Liana, standing there, naked, putting the brassiere on, can only nod and blush, and smile her new, weak little smile, that wavers so helplessly, limpidly advertising her soft vulnerability to anyone with eyes to see — and, too, her own wondering surprise and timid delight at having been brought willingly to accept and display that vulnerability.
Of course she understands. Anne-Marie already has her always in short, loose skirts that don’t fully hide the pretty lace tops of her stockings (tights having been banished long ago), and now she will feel even more vulnerable to exposure at all times — feel Anne-Marie’s control more strongly, more of the time.
No doubt Anne-Marie will delight, too, in telling her butch lesbian friends — to whom she has often recounted all sorts of intimate details about Liana’s sexual responsiveness and willingness to perform — about this new development. They are apparently to hear all about the fisting and the fortnight of naked masturbation without orgasm, in any case.
Liana is amazed at how welcome all of this is (at the same time as it is just as shocking and shaming as ever) — how sweet it is to her that Anne-Marie is so careful, so specific, so intimate in the confirmation and consolidation of her new dominion. It is like being very, very intimately and thoroughly cared for, by hands that are soft and gentle and luxurious as silk, which are at the same time made of hardened steel, possessed of irresistible power, unhesitating in applying punishment, all under the control of an unrelenting and limitlessly greedy will, married to almost omniscient emotional intelligence.
It is all too easy to relax, all too unthinkable to imagine successful resistance, all too troubling to look into the future of one who does not resist. To feel utterly confident in the power of the one who controls you to keep you on track, but not to dare think about where that track might take you.
As if to reinforce these thoughts, Anne-Marie at that moment casually reaches out and runs two fingers along the slit of Liana’s sex, while the girl’s hands are occupied with the hooks of the brassiere. There is nothing to be done, Liana sees, other than to put herself at the service of those two fingers, nothing else that she wants to do, either — and so her knees bend, her hips twist as she makes herself as open and available as possible to Anne-Marie’s playful, casual caress — her whole being consumed by the desire to make the completeness, the willingness of her acceptance of this newly deepened submission as obvious as possible to Anne-Marie — who, understanding immediately, becomes teasingly, cruelly playful, pulling back, pushing forwards, up, down, sideways, so that Liana’s commitment to offering herself to the hand that is lightly caressing and tugging at her most tender places is made humiliatingly clear between them, until the woman has had enough, laughing;
“You’re sweeter than ever, pretty — it’s enticing, it really is! Hurry up and dress, you hussy, before I decide to do you again!”
Liana looks at Anne-Marie then, possessed by a need, and tells her, in a voice urgent with emotion;
“You .. you can, you know .. any .. any time. Do .. do me — like .. like that. Just .. just as you said before you went. I .. I’ve been thinking about it, and .. and I ..”
Liana cannot make a complete sentence, so overcome is she, but Anne-Marie’s eyes, her hard, complacent smile let her know that her meaning is understood. More, that she will not be allowed to pull back from it.
The look extends, and extends, until Anne-Marie lifts a hand to her cheek, gently pulls, with fingertips only, at her, until she understands she is to lean down, to be kissed, feeling the new sensation of her breasts swaying in the new brassiere; simultaneously supported, offered and moving freely, Anne-Marie’s hard-lacquered nails now teasing her nipples as they kiss.
Anne-Marie’s kisses are rare — reserved for special moments; wonderful, erotic, delicious — but they are also like being invaded, like being conquered, like being fed upon. Liana has learned, long ago, that the only way is to give herself up to her lover, to collaborate with the invader, to respond, but never to initiate, to offer, but never request — and never, never, to pull away until Anne-Marie is finished.
This one seems to last forever, and once again, Liana loses sight of who she is, other than as a creature of Anne-Marie’s desire, wants to lose herself, never surface, her whole being centred on her mouth, on offering herself — just as she has been offering her pussy — to her goddess; offer whatever is required of her.
Of course, it does, at last, end, leaving Liana — still naked apart from high heels, stockings, corselette and brassiere — breathless; flushed, giggling weakly, sex pulsing with desire, knowing that the depth of her willingness to give has been made obvious, knowing how vulnerable she is, loving and fearing Anne-Marie’s casual assurance in using such knowledge; exhilarated and terrified.
Anne-Marie, leans back, her eyes cool and hard;
“On your knees now, pretty, open yourself, hands behind you, and say it. Just say what you want me to know. Say it very clearly for me, so that we both know it’s true.”
And now, somehow, it is easy — having been commanded. Liana sinks to her knees, displays herself as provocatively as she can, deliberately making herself immodest, blatantly advertising her eagerness to be fucked, and looks shyly into Anne-Marie’s eyes as she says the words that formulate themselves without her having to think;
“I am yours. I give myself to you. Please .. please take me.”
A complacent smile, though definitely with overtones of pleasure, then;
“I’ve always had you, pretty — ever since you messed up my drinks order — and you know it.”
“But I’m not sure .. not at all sure .. that I will .. actually .. take you.”
“Not completely. Perhaps I’ll just turn you into a helpless fist-fuck-slut, destroy your self-respect, and then pass you on to the others.”
Savouring the pain in Liana’a eyes at this softly delivered cruelty, Anne-Marie smiles again, with a teasing kindness;
“Still, that’s no reason for you not to try your absolute best for me, is it? I mean, when can we ever be — absolutely — sure — of anything?”
Read the next part of Liana’s story
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