They were watching the video of Babette’s ‘performance’ the previous evening (of course, she is known only as ‘B’ these days — Babette is gone — or at least, on hold), vastly entertained — commenting on her sweet, tearful efforts to accommodate that enormous cock into her neat little pussy, working her hips, spreading her legs over the big man’s lap as wide as she could, gasping as she writhed over his naked fat body, so gross and hairy, flexing and thrusting her groin until at last it had been buried fully inside her, poking painfully into her womb, her hips jerking helplessly, his hands pinching and twisting mercilessly at her stiff nipples, by which point she had become obviously desperate; urgently needy for sexual release, mewling and crying, working herself towards a terrible and glorious orgasm — one that shamed and devastated her, loudly moaning her unwanted pleasure, crying and twitching in front of an interested and amused audience.
The young one was saying;
“I’ll bet she faked it, the little tart — after all, it’s just good business, when you’re a whore.”
And she had to sit here, look pretty, smile faintly and weakly, in this shaming, revealing dress; not yell, not attack the stupid boy, not scream her torment at them; caught in the terrible trap which combined freedom with the inability to actually get up and leave; the trap which destroyed her a little more each day.
Her chest heaves with the intensity of her emotion; she bites back tears. Her sex is still raw from the previous night’s violations, but Anne-Marie is flicking her finger.
Babette rises; carefully, slowly, obviously brings her shoulders back, setting her breasts moving. She takes a couple of steps, eyes fixed submissively on the boy’s groin, then smoothly kneels, to crawl and kiss his shoe with quiet, trembling intensity. Back on her heels, she picks up the whip from the low table and offers it to him on outstretched palms, says what she has been told to say, shocking herself with the urgent sincerity in her own husky voice (her throat, too is sore);
“Please … please be … very cruel to me, before you fuck me, Sir — if you please.”
Her knees are, of course, rather wide apart. The older man behind her puts the sole of one shoe into the small of her back, hard, and violently shoves her forwards, to land with her face on the cold hard boards, legs still obscenely spread. There is a moment as he waits for what he must know she has been trained to do — deliberately, invitingly, open her legs still wider, lift her buttocks; open herself, her head on the floor, face twisted deliberately in the direction which makes it least likely she can see what is coming next (training for this seemingly small requirement often meets with mulish, desperate disobedience - girls find it terribly hard to deny themselves the chance of preparing for abuses. Of course, certain Members prefer to look into a girl’s eyes during uses and abuses — for these a simple ‘look at me girl’ suffices). She performs creditably, thinks Anne-Marie — unmistakably offering her holes for use — or equally for abuse.
He works the toe of his shoe into the folds of Babette’s sex, and she lifts her groin still further, to make it easy for him as she knows she must, hating it, blinking away tears, but feeling the heat build in her loins nevertheless.
The boy in front of her squats, lifts her head painfully by the hair, leans in to look into her eyes;
“You really want this, don’t you, bitch?”
And they both know she means it when she says, voice soft, sad, intense;
“Yes, yes please, sir. I … I want it.”
It must be true, she thinks to herself, for the thousandth time — otherwise why am I still here?
Later, breasts and buttocks cruelly marked; her mouth, throat and sex bruised and sticky, she finds herself giggly and girly despite her tear-marked cheeks as the youth tickles, teases and tortures her clitoris, her legs spread wide for all the room to see, hips surging for him, leaning in to kiss him, wanting him to see just how completely she is now his, how helplessly she is grateful to him, her conqueror; the girl whom Anne-Marie conquered months ago, who is conquered anew several times a week. Who has become addicted to being conquered.
“I could buy her, couldn’t I, Uncle? They’d sell her to me — like a sex doll?”
“Perhaps so — The Castle does sell girls sometimes.”
“And then I could burn her — you know — mark my initials into her like I saw in that film?”
“Once you own her, of course you could, if you wanted to. Anything you’d like.”
The boy grabs her chin, sneering, testing;
“Move yourself on my hand, slut. Make yourself come while imagining me burning my name into you.”
And — of course — she does just this for him, her moans filled with despair and raw with intensity as she twitches and grinds, electric against him, searingly aware of the eyes of strangers on her as she destroys herself a little more, searching for oblivion.
The next morning, she awakes to see strange clothes — outside clothes, normal clothes, and her heart flips as she remembers the interview in Anne-Marie’s quarters the previous evening, remembers her inability to do anything at all when asked if she had any objections to, or questions about the terms of the deal which was being offered to her; five years of chattel indenture, extensible without consultation, no reservations whatsoever as to what may be done with her. A million in a Swiss bank account with Anne-Marie as the custodian.
“So, B, you have heard what is proposed for you. Do you have anything you wish to say? You are permitted to speak freely, at this point. On the other hand, silence is clearly preferable, and will be taken as positive, willing consent.”
On her knees on the low table, naked, cuffed, collared, thighs splayed, breasts carefully thrust upward and forward, in the display posture, eyes deferentially lowered, she had done nothing at all in the silence that followed that question — and again nothing after Anne-Marie’s patient clarification when the boy had expostulated at the idea that a slave girl might be permitted an opinion on such a matter; Yes, young sir, she does indeed have a right to refuse, or to negotiate — B is a volunteer here at The Castle, not under contract with us — under no obligation at all. She had done nothing at all — been quite unable to do anything but concentrate on what her training has taught her: maintain her position, keep herself from crying, have her buttocks, her nipples, her tongue tip all in subtle, unemphatic, near-continuous motion — just enough to attract attention — to have it obvious to anyone who notices her that she is fully occupied with communicating her willingness to be fucked.
And so, this is happening.
Two years ago, she had agreed to spend a week under Anne-Marie’s control — to be whored at The Castle — at the request of her then lover, an older woman; a painter, for whom she, an impoverished art-student, had begun modelling — first clothed, then naked, and then, eventually, in sexual congress with a variety of partners.
The week had been appalling — horrific — terrifying, in so many, many different ways. But at the same time, she had found herself unable to resist, and unable to hide, either, the urgent and shameful responses of her body to the abuses imposed upon it. She had stayed the full week out of bloody-mindedness (she knew was free to leave at any time; they would remind her, occasionally) — to show her lover that of the two of them, she at least was faithful to her agreements (she had discovered, just days before she was due to submit herself, that there were two other young women in her lover’s life who had been told similar half-truths to the ones which had ensnared her).
She had broken with the older woman immediately after her release, and returned with determination to her art studies, long neglected, only to discover that the only subject matter which interested her, any more — the only thing which she could work on with authenticity — were scenes from The Castle; scenes from her memory, scenes from her direct experience.
She was painting the suffering of naked and submissive young women at the hands of sadistic abusers — those were the images people saw — but what mattered to her, what interested her, was the wonderful and terrible quality of the state of mind of these young women, for whom sexual degradation, at certain moments, could paradoxically bring the most intense experience of transcendent ecstasy — or, equally, blissful peace. For whom chains could deliver freedom, for whom cruel punishment could offer relief from despair.
The paintings and drawings sold well, but she knew they were failures — all people saw was the sexual excess — she could not find a way to convey the experience.
Nine months ago, she had arrived, at The Castle, one day, unannounced (she had no way of making contact - Castle Toys are of course not given any such details, for a variety of excellent reasons), asked to see Anne-Marie, explained that she wanted to talk to her about an art project. She didn’t know the warder that answered the door, and, blushing darkly, had had to tell him the dates during which she had been an inmate there herself before he would give her anything but polite but meaningless brush-offs.
He had disappeared then, without a word, while she waited. When he returned, he was grinning, and looked at her entirely differently, insolently letting her see him assessing her breasts and legs.
“If you will strip yourself, girl, and take the collar, I’ll discover whether Madame will see you.”
He showed her the leather collar she remembered so well, wide, with the iron central ring hanging heavily from its sturdy cleat.
In vain did she explain that she had been a voluntary visitor (a ‘tourist’ as the other girls had called her), that she wanted to consult Anne-Marie on a personal basis; the warder would not budge from his position. In tears, in desperation, she stripped, on the courtyard steps, and was then immediately collared, wrists cuffed and shackled to the back of her neck, her breasts and sex casually but thoroughly investigated by his gloved hands, before she was forcefully thrown down, onto her knees, on the cold, wet stone and vigorously fucked. She did not resist, did not complain, and, weeping a little, meekly and carefully cleaned the man’s cock with her mouth when he silently presented it to her, just as she had been trained to do the year before.
Only then was she admitted through the front gate.
Anne-Marie had laughed heartily, much entertained, on hearing this little story from Babette, recounted in a small, halting voice from where she had been pushed down by the warder, onto her knees, naked, sticky tracks down her thighs, make-up ruined.
“Gerardo certainly takes his duties seriously! And his opportunities, too! Fancy you allowing him to rape you like that! Anyone would think you were a dirty little slave slut, rather than an up-and-coming artist on the brink of success.”
“I would offer you your clothes, Babette, offer you the comfortable chair, offer you tea, as a welcome guest, but do you know, I rather like having you here, naked again; cuffed. So pathetically vulnerable. Such pretty tits, too — I remember how they looked after I did them with the dog-whip that time — quite delicious.”
She had paused then, purposefully, giving space for protest, which did not come — which Babette urgently wished to make, but simply could not achieve, to her own distress.
Anne-Marie’s voice changed, then as she continued — became more businesslike, uncompromising — the voice of a superior being speaking to an inconsequential underling;
“Well, now, that’s clear, then, B — I am pleased to see you remember something of your training. I think it will be best, girl, if I book your conversation for Monday (the day was Thursday) — we’re in for a very busy weekend, and I can’t really spare any time for oddball requests until then.”
Babette had looked up, then, looked into Anne-Marie’s eyes, searching for — and finding — confirmation in Madame’s smile as to what was being done to her — that she was being taken in, being deliberately treated as if she was back to stay — being called ‘B’ rather than by her name. Naked, wrists shackled, on her knees on the floor, Anne-Marie was telling her that she would be kept prisoner, used and abused like any other Castle girl, until Monday, unless she now refused; unless she stood up for herself, demanded her rights as a free woman, as a human being.
It was clear in Anne-Marie’s face that such a refusal would immediately be honoured — this was a promise, a question, an offer, a suggestion, but not a requirement. Babette could speak up — say just a few words — and her clothes would be brought to her, tea would be offered, she could have the conversation about her art project, person-to-person, as if she were a normal woman, not just a weak and foolish slut who could be manipulated with ease.
Only … Only … it seemed that she was incapable of speaking; worse still, that the idea of being taken, naked, chained in her cell until it was time for her to be readied for the evening’s debauch — when she would be beaten, abused, fucked, humiliated by strangers; expected to comply, and to express pretty and humble gratitude, too, on pain of even worse atrocity — that this idea was not as unwelcome, not as outrageous as it ought to be, and her eyes filled with tears, and lost their focus. Her mouth was soft, her lips a little open, but no words came out. For quite some time, it seemed as if she had forgotten, indeed, how to breathe. Her nipples were stiff and her hips moved, flexing slowly, as if of their own accord.
Anne-Marie’s smile had widened, slowly, and hardened, until, in her softest, most dangerous voice, she had said;
“Better drop your gaze, now, pretty cunt, before I have you on stage, tonight, taking a pony whip between the legs for forgetting your place.”
Nothing more had been said, after Babette had, obediently, agonisingly, lowered her gaze, to look at Anne-Marie’s patent leather shod feet. More telling still was the way the girl had shifted herself — opening her thighs, lifting her chin, pulling her shoulders back, raising her buttocks up off her ankles, tucking her belly in.
Anne-Marie had taken herself over to her desk, back to her correspondence, leaving Babette, ignored, naked and kneeling, her belly hollow with foreboding, horrified at the turn of events, but having found herself incapable of doing anything beyond waiting, fighting back tears; remembering the rule — that she is not permitted to cry for her own reasons. She has never forgotten its impact on her — seemingly simple; in practice deeply insidious, mentally undermining. And now, here she is again.
It seemed that Anne-Marie had pressed the call button, for a few minutes later, a girl appeared whom Babette did not recognise, beautifully but revealingly dressed in a fussy, gauzy dress, and, after a covert, infinitesimal glance at Babette, had knelt herself, just inside the door, and waited, until Anne-Marie looked up;
“Ah, it’s you, Sooli. That couple from last night want you for the weekend. Ask Mme Duchèsne, please, to ready you for despatch. You should prepare yourself for some hardship, I fear — they’ve paid extra. Oh! and take this pretty thing to Madame, too, will you — she’s a volunteer, will be here until Monday, at least — tell Madame that she should be intensely used while we have her — no down time at all for her, no restrictions on usage.”
And that had been it. Babette (simply ‘B’, now) has been at The Castle ever since, on ‘volunteer’ terms, feeling herself, week by week, settling deeper and deeper into understanding herself as Anne-Marie understands her — as little more than a helplessly lost sex-slave — knowing that she has proved herself a weak and foolish slut, who sees just how it is that she is being manipulated each day, understands exactly to what ends that manipulation is being imposed on her, and who yet cannot find it in herself to resist.
On the Monday (after a weekend reintroduction to the life of a Castle girl which, despite Anne-Marie’s instructions to Sooli, had proved surprisingly exhilarating and sexually satisfying to Babette — Anne-Marie had given later, private instruction to Mme Duchèsne to do all she could to ensure this would be the case), as agreed, Anne-Marie had granted Babette an audience about her idea for an art project, in the context of her regular ‘tea-time confessional’ session — B was there with two other girls (each of them made to explore, out loud, some aspect of their understanding of what was being done to them through the imposition of the Castle regime). Anne-Marie had listened to B’s request for little more than a minute before interrupting, her voice soft on the ear, a steamroller to the spirit;
“That’s all very well, pretty, but none of our members is in the slightest interested in what it feels like to be a sex-toy. If you want to paint more of the the things you’ve been doing that’s fine — the members love them, but if they start getting weird — abstract, or psychological; you know what I mean — that will be the end of it.”
Babette — on her knees on the low table, displaying herself with earnest attention to detail, trembling — having already been chastised several times that morning for minor failings — had not spoken, responding only with a small, submissive nod and a smile that was pathetically desperately to please.
On being dismissed by Anne-Marie, that day, confessional over, she had not, as she had expected, been shown to the room she remembered from last time, where girls leaving would be reunited with the clothes they had arrived in, their belongings returned, treated politely, transport arrangements made for them — but instead had her wrists cuffed behind her, before being taken straight to the club room, where it transpired she had been offered to a party of visiting Japanese. The three of them used her cruelly, in a formalistic, slow and patient way, enjoying themselves enormously, until she had first cried out in agony and despair, then begun to squeal and yell her terror, so loudly that the party were asked to remove to the dungeon, where they had continued to abuse her for several more hours.
Somehow, once they had finished with her, she had still fully believed that she would be released — that this had been one last power-play from Anne-Marie, to have her leave with marks on her flesh, strangers’ come sticky in her sex, its taste in her mouth, and shame hanging heavy in her belly. It had been hard to take such usage when she had been expecting freedom — to take it prettily, as she knew she must (on pain of being made to beg for it by application of the electric shock prod); to open herself to it as she had forced herself to do — even to let herself be brought to orgasm for their entertainment — even though all of this had been terribly hard, a part of her welcomed it — as further input for her creativity — her project now at least grudgingly accepted.
But when she was led, in chains once more, away from the hospitality wing, back toward the cells, taken not to the relatively comfortable volunteer room she had been allocated over the weekend, but to a tiny, cramped, dank cubicle on the lowest level, a blackness had descended on her that was worse, even, than the sadistic treatment she had just endured. She knew — she knew with an intensity that was like being crushed alive, that she must, immediately, make the strongest complaint possible, demand to be released, insist that since she had stayed voluntarily, The Castle had no hold on her — no hold at all, that she demanded her freedom,
The blackness, of course, was the result of her counter-knowledge — that she was not going to be able to protest; that she was powerless, pathetic, helpless, shamefully weak in the face of their cool presumption that they could do as they wished with her, without so much as a pause for thought, let alone an ‘if you don’t mind’.
So debilitated was she by her own humiliating acceptance, her meek obedience as she was directed down into what she knew were the solitary confinement cells, where terrible things took place, that when she was told to strip herself even of the pretty, sheer little slip she had been given that morning, then place her hands into the cuffs dangling from the ceiling, and lock herself into them, she could think of nothing else to do but comply, trembling and shaking though she was.
She was then informed, in perfectly normal tones, that she was now to take a harsh whipping, on Anne-Marie’s orders, that her breasts and sex would not be spared. That, immediately the thrashing was complete, she was to have her mouth and anus plugged with expanding iron pears (an ornate and valuable antique went into her asshole, a modern, shiny stainless steel version between her teeth), then be chained overnight by her collar at the mid-height ring — the one which made it impossible either to stand or to kneel, which permitted only a bent or squatting position, neither of which could be maintained for long without intense suffering.
Mme Duchèsne, who was telling her this, had paused then, watching Babette’s face working, watching the girl’s intense efforts to prevent herself from sobbing, assessing her evident commitment, in the face of this terrifying set of promises, to maintain an acceptably appealing and inviting demeanour (when harsh promises like these were made at The Castle, they were always fulfilled without the slightest softening).
After a while, seeing, with satisfaction, that the girl seemed unlikely to manage even the mildest form of resistance, Mme Duchèsne had said;
“Anne Marie wants you to express your gratitude, out loud, at our being prepared to continue to accommodate you.”
And still, even permitted, encouraged to speak, Babette could not find it in her to resist, and heard herself, instead, in a breathy, wondering voice, say simply;
“I … this … this c-cunt is … is grateful to The Castle for … for … having me … It.”
The ordeal which followed was truly terrible, worse than anything she had previously experienced. But even this could not arouse any anger in her. Rather, once she had recovered, and was back in the ‘stable’, with the other ‘fillies’, she found herself almost eagerly throwing herself into the traps that were offered her, the traps by which a Castle girl is taken further and further into the psychological vortex of sexual submission.
Babette (very definitely just ‘B’, now) was given no further opportunity to express herself until three weeks later, in another tea-time session, when Anne-Marie asked her directly how it felt to have simply been kept, rather than released, without her consent having been sought, without even an acknowledgement that this had been done to her.
How it sat with her that they intended to continue to hold her, indefinitely, even though she was only a volunteer. What her response was to the fact that the Big Table had agreed with Anne-Marie’s plan to work on her with the explicit aim that, one day, she would give up on herself; beg for an indenture contract, sell her freedom — become nothing but owned cunt.
There had been a long, long silence, but Anne-Marie had not let her off the hook; an answer was expected, and at last Babette had to speak;
“I … I don’t … want … that.”
Anne-Marie let that hang in the air for a while before responding;
“That’s fine, pretty B — we understand. You don’t want to be indentured. Of course you don’t — it would be a terrible thing to accept. You won’t be, of course, unless you consent to it.”
“What I’m interested to hear, though, is whether, knowing as you now do that I have been instructed to work on you until you do so consent — knowing that I am relentless and considered rather effective in such matters (a savage little smile here brings a pause, as Anne-Marie enjoys her own wordplay) — whether you are asking to leave, to be released — which you have every right to do, of course, as a volunteer?”
Again, it takes an age before Babette can produce an answer — and then all she can manage is a small, but unmistakeable, shake of her head, accompanied by rapid blinking as she fights back tears.
“Remember, dear, to make sure to set your nipples jiggling, when you dare to say no in that way. Tell Madame that you have a black mark to add to your tally for tonight. Try again, now!”
This time, the shaking of her head is exaggerated, shaming, like that of a small child; with the difference that for B, her breasts, naked above a tight, push-up bustier, move entertainingly.
“Very well, so we will keep you. But our intentions are clear, as I have said. Are you asking us to manage you differently? To go easy on you?”
This question is a clear trap — any girl who answered yes to such a question would expect cruel and demonstrative punishment — and B responds as is expected of her, with a clear, sincere sounding intonation of a standard answer;
“Madame, I humbly beg The Castle and all those with dominion over me to treat me exactly as it pleases them, without consideration for my happiness or wellbeing.”
And so it has been, ever since, that B is held at The Castle, that she is managed, controlled, used in accordance with a regime laid down by Anne-Marie that is explicitly designed to bring her to the point of asking to be enslaved, to give herself over to the control of people who will value her for nothing except her availability for abuse. That she knows that this is what is being done to her, that she has accepted The Castle’s right to do this to her, that she has asked to be kept on the specific understanding that this will be the way of it.
She is permitted, every now and then, a few hours for her art in the late morning, when other girls are performing domestic duties, and continues to struggle with capturing the essence of what she experiences — almost nightly, now — the paradox of a voluntary sex-slave’s existence.
Anne-Marie walks her to the car.
“You are still free, pretty — not a lost slave quite yet. Only say the word.”
The older woman is smiling, sure of herself, enjoying this little torture.
B is trembling, but only falters a little as she keeps walking, unused to the feel of a brassiere (albeit only half-cup), of panties (satin and lace scraps that draw the eye more than conceal), of her breasts not being on show.
At the car, she bends, humbly, to kiss Anne-Marie’s offered hand, and stoops to enter, determined not to give in to the tumult in her heart, which is hammering in her chest, so that she feels she might faint. There is no-one else in the luxurious passenger compartment, all gleaming, glossy chestnut leather and walnut facings.
The chauffeur indicates that he intends to lock her into the cuffs which are attached to the armrest, and she meekly offers him her wrists.
Then he shows her a pretty silver spring clip, with evil looking teeth, and a short chain attached, from which dangles a medal with some initials on it - the boy’s initials. Her new owner’s initials - the young, crude, unbearably arrogant sadist she has sold herself to. It turns out that the clip is intended for her tongue. It hurts like hell and the tears come as he makes her to understand that the it is not to be withdrawn into her mouth.
The dangling chain and medal are surprising heavy — immediately hateful and horribly degrading as she realises she will be unable to speak without slurring and lisping like an idiot.
Deliberately, face impassive, the chauffeur passes his large hands across her breasts, slowly, suggestive, watching her face, her trembling powerlessness. Her eyes close as the unwanted but eager anticipation flickers in her loins, but she lets her hips surge visibly, as she has been taught she must. This doesn’t go unnoticed, and the chauffeur shares a brief, laconic comment with Anne-Marie, who responds, seriously; two professionals discussing the characteristics of their livestock.
Anne-Marie had been perfectly proper in her suggestion that the girl reconsider her choice, just before — would have been willing to deal with the awkwardness of cancelling the arrangements, to manage a long-established member’s disappointment. But she had not remotely believed that this pretty, helpless girl would be able to save herself — and has been proved right.
There was no pity, now, for a silly slut who has voluntarily thrown her life away — rather a feeling of satisfaction, at once again having taken an unpromising, nervous wreck of a novice inmate and brought her safely to the point when she will make such a choice, willingly, helplessly, yet maintaining her presentation, suppressing her no doubt raging emotions successfully.
Anne-Marie leans into the the car, pushes a pen into B’s locked hand, offers her the signature page of a multi-page document that the girl realises is the contract for her indenture — which she has not seen before now — and that she is now expected to sign without reading. It takes a few deep breaths, a fair amount of mental effort, to quash the voice in her head which is telling her that she must do something — anything; anything at all — that might help her escape this terrible madness, and she achieves only a pathetic scribble which bears almost no resemblance to the confident scrawl she used to sign her paintings with.
And that’s it. She’s done.
As the car pulls away she begins to sob, softly, as the all-too familiar ache of unbearable, unavoidable, self-imposed humiliation closes in. The soft tears gradually render the fine blouse see-through, the globes of her breasts visible, rising and falling as the bittersweet taste of having, finally, become a full-on slavegirl burns its way into her soul.
She has no idea how this fate has befallen her, only that — in hindsight — it has been inevitable since she met Anne-Marie, and that she is lost.
She calms herself — or so she thinks. After all, she has been through these emotions many times over the last two years.
But half an hour or so later, once the monotony of the highway gives her nothing to distract herself with, she realises, with a jolt, that — as is entirely fitting for an owned sex slave — she has no luggage with her; nothing at all, in fact, other than these unfamiliar few clothes she put on this morning (which are not hers, of course — she has been sold as simply a fuckable body, nothing else); that nothing has been said about her painting, and thus that that part of her — which has sustained her through the months of ever deeper entrainment in the rigid constraints of life as a Castle Toy — that part of her life is likely over; has been casually deleted, without even malice or intent to cause pain, but simply ignored; irrelevant, beneath consideration.
These thoughts devastate her anew, and lead her into a new intensity and agony of despair as she realises just how stupid she has been, just how enormous a mistake she has made — immeasurably more tragic, she sees, than any submission at The Castle had ever been, and she is overwhelmed (Oh, how strange to be already looking back at the cruel Castle regime as a haven of comfort and kindness…). She begins to moan, then quickly finds herself howling and screaming, increasingly hysterical in her rage and shame and pain, yanking violently at her restraints, wrenching herself around, on the verge of madness.
There is no apparent reaction from the driver to this, and her wildness escalates, feeding on itself and on all the suppressed shame and rage at the vileness, the inhumanity, the savagery of the despoliations which have been imposed upon her, until the car turns onto a side road, then comes to a smooth halt at a deserted picnic point.
The chauffeur comes round, opens the door, squats down, and simply looks at her — face impassive.
Fear grips her, and she stills herself momentarily, eyes fixed on his, watching for him to take off his belt, or reach for a shock prod, but instead he merely watches her, smiling a little, now. A hard smile; almost sad.
She doesn’t understand at first, sure that he is going to punish her, or tell her what behaviour he wants — control her.
But instead he just watches.
It’s so strange not to be naked — to have him watching her face, looking into her eyes, not at her breasts, or her sex, or her behind — and not touching her either. Almost as if she were a person he was interested in.
She wants to scream again — scream at him, lash out at him with her high-heeled shoes — her legs aren’t restrained — wants to let the emotion out again, but something about him makes it impossible; she can do nothing but tremble, and look at him, looking at her.
She feels the cuff restraints as if for the first time, now, powerfully, feeling again just how terrible it is to be restrained, made helpless, in the knowledge that abuse, cruel abuse, is coming.
But this too, is impossible to express, with him so silent, so intent. She hears the birds in the trees, the breeze, the cars on the highway in the distance, but these just emphasise how deathly quiet it is, here, with just the two of them, and her future.
He waits for a long time, until at last, all her stiffness is gone, and her face goes soft, and simple, gentle tears well in her eyes, and roll down her cheeks, even as she tries to smile for him.
He watches this, too, for a while, until he says; “Enough.”
She stops crying immediately at this — experienced as if it were an edict from on high, reassuringly unquestionable — and, quickly after that, attends to her posture, looking at the floor, now, not at him, working as best she can in the restraints to present herself well. Present her body well, opening her legs as the skirts permit, tucking her belly in, her breasts pushing forward, neck straight, eyes down, hoping to have her outburst forgiven.
Again, he lets time work on her, until she is conscious of a trembling.
“Just so, pretty one, just so. Good little cunt.”
He waits, watches again, until she manages to put together a smile. A nervous, desperate little smile, to show him how grateful she is, to be called a good litle cunt, a phrase that she knows he has used to test her; test her acceptance, and she makes the smile better, manages a tiny, submissive nod.
I am happy and grateful to be called a good little cunt. I will work hard to have you call me a good little cunt in future. I will work hard to internalise the idea that it is a compliment to be called a good little cunt.
Only once he is satisfied that she has understood, that she has accepted, does he continue;
“You and I, we will have something to do with each other, now, for some time. I will be doing terrible things to you, sometimes, when I am instructed, and at other times, too, when you have been made available for me to use as I wish. I will not be kind, will not look for ways to be merciful; I serve him, just as you do. You will suffer what your owner intends you to suffer, and you will be damaged, you will be lessened, you will be degraded and demeaned.”
“Also, though, when I can, I will care for you. Not as a person, you understand; not any more — but as an animal; a creature. Nevertheless, I will care for you. Help you to survive this.”
“Part of surviving is controlling your terror — owning it, so that you do not become altogether lost — or, possibly more importantly, so that you do not lose any value you may have to your owner, such that he looks to dispose of you.”
“Yes, yes; I know. I know that this is hard.”
She has flinched, shifted in her seat, for the simple truth of the horror of her position, laid out so coldly, is hard to hear.
But his empathy calms her, and she manages to still herself again, wanting him to carry on talking to her, even if what he says is hard. Perhaps because what he says is hard. She no longer knows anything, save that she does want him to carry on talking to her. She wishes that she could become nothing, nothing at all, forever, but whatever it is of her that hears his voice. His voice that is so strong, so grounded in proven capability, long experience, relaxed confidence that nothing the world can throw at him will be unacceptable, unmanageable.
“It will be hard, yes. He is young, and has been badly reared, is full of his own rage and pain, and at the same time rather immature. It will be terrible to be his creature. But you have made your choice, and there is nothing — nothing at all — to be done about this, now. You are a pretty bird in a cage, and if you do not sing, sweet and pretty, every time the cover is removed, you will be fed to the cat, and forgotten. That is all there is to it.”
“I am going to help you with this. We will begin now. It is going to be very bad, but you will have no option but to bear it. If I understand you — if I am right about your strength — you will survive.”
He holds out a little bottle — a spray bottle.
“This is mace — what girls carry to deter rapists with. It hurts atrociously, but does no real damage. I am going to spray it first, into your pussy, your asshole. Then, when you are wild — and you won’t be able to control yourself — I am going to spray it into your face; into your open mouth, into your eyes. It will be terrible. But you will remember two things, through this; first, that although it is unbearably awful, it will not destroy you, and second, that it is me — the man who will care for you through this — who has done this to you. That I have done it to show you that you can survive. That you are strong; not strong outside — for you will be chained and beaten, friendless and perhaps starved, too; not strong in your mind, either — it is your mind which made the stupid, weak choices that brought you to this state. No, you are only strong inside; deep inside. That is where you must live; deep inside — that is the only place you can live, for now.”
“Remember this, and hold to it, whatever else you lose. If anything can get you through this, it will be inside you. I will not speak to you like this again. I am not your friend. I will enjoy using your lovely body — fucking your soft holes. I will enjoy hurting you. I will enjoy shaming and degrading you. I will demand sweet, shy smiles, perfect service and pretty willingness from you at all times, on pain of harsh punishment. I am your worst nightmare, because I know what I am doing. I want you to survive so that I can enjoy using you.”
She cannot stop herself staring into his face, then, horrified, appalled, needing — desperately needing to see if he means what he says — that this dreadful cruelty he is about to impose on her has a meaning — or if he is just pretending, playing with her poor abused mind.
His plain, expressionless face is unreadable, though, and she has to make the decision to believe him on faith, quickly, as already, without apparent haste, he has her, one leg up, over his shoulder, has flipped her skirt up and pulled her panties away from her sex …
… her world erupts and is consumed, then, leaving nothing but sensation; tearing, burning, agonising sensation, which is quickly, impossibly, compounded and intensified as he sprays again, from close up, just as he had told her he would, into her open mouth, just as she is gasping deeply for more air, and then into her eyes, peeling back each eyelid in turn to ensure she gets a full dose. Her own screams deafen her, rend her throat.
For a while, she is dimly aware that he is sitting with her, that he has a gloved hand at her sex, his fingers taking the burning inside her. Bizarrely, she experiences this as comforting, even as she screams and thrashes.
It is getting dark by the time she finds herself again. As soon as she can, despite the continuing burning sensations, she is desperate to see him, and struggles to discover any position from which she can see even a little of him, through the screen, in the rear-view mirror. To no avail.
Inside her. Strength inside her. That is all she has — he has told her this, her new god. She has no idea if she has anything that can be called strength, anywhere, but if her god says it is so, it must be there, somewhere, and this thought calms her.
After a while, the thought comes to her that, despite her restraints, it must be possible for her to arrange herself well — to make herself sexually inviting; better to be raped than whipped! as the girls said, grinning at each other, hiding the pain behind the joke that wasn’t funny.
So that when the car comes to a halt, after crunching gravel on a curving driveway for long enough to tell her that this is a substantial private estate, and there are lights, and voices, and the door opens, she is found with her skirts hiked up, legs splayed maximally — one foot hooked onto a headrest, the other bent backwards under her, trapped by her own weight; despite her restraints (her wrists are bloody from all the thrashing around, and terribly painful), she has managed, through repeated wriggling, to get the panties off one leg, so that they dangle from her lifted ankle. Too, she has ripped the blouse, and one strap of the brassiere, with her teeth, so that her breasts are exposed. Her makeup is ruined, of course, her hair a tangle, but it’s what she can achieve.
It seems to work, too, as the boy almost yelps in his excitement as he demands she be got out of the car immediately, grabs her hair and pulls at her, very rough, throwing her to the ground, face down, she panting, crying in fear and shame already; struggling desperately to get her ass up into the air, to spread her legs, to flex her hips for him, offering herself, to be rewarded with a savage, dry impalement of her ass as he drives himself straight into her with a shout, his foot on her face, grinding it into the sharp gravel, feeling it cut into her cheek.
As she arranges her hands, out wide, flapping and wriggling to emphasise her helplessness and debasement, managing her cries of pain and despair so that they sound like what she thinks she remembers him enjoying from before, even as she realises that there are other people here — servants, and perhaps others of his family watching this; despite all this, she sees that the chauffeur is right.
Something in her can live with this, even as it destroys her.
Something inside her wants this, wants to be taken where it leads her — wherever that might be.
Wants to be this creature. After all, there is nothing left of Babette, in any case.
She refocuses on what’s important; the approval of Him; the Chauffeur; her new God.
He must see that she is willing and able to give her all, and to remain sexually inviting in the most terrible circumstances. It is He, she knows, who will ensure that she walls everything that is left of Babette away; who will relentlessly police her active embrace of her degraded new status; who will accept nothing less than utter submission; who will look into her eyes and know; whom she must show everything, without dissimulation; who must be allowed to see how it is with her; the man who will validate that she has lost; lost everything, and yet wants to live, wants to experience emotion, who, above all else needs to be found sexually desirable; needs the validation of being fucked to make sense of her life; who values unhinged, out-of-control violent fucking as a sign that her rapist has lost control; that she has driven him wild.
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