All the other girls had told her — Anne-Marie had told her (albeit teasingly, all but daring her) — it was obvious, anyway; that it was a terrible idea. And yet she had done it.
Selene had let herself fall in love with a Member. Deep down, she was not at all sure that she hadn’t made herself fall in love with him. Fall in love with a man who paid a great deal of money each year in order to have licence to do just about any cruel or sexually degrading thing with any of a diverse group of pretty young, thoroughly brainwashed and ruthlessly controlled slavegirls at The Castle.
Fall in love with a man she had only met because she was one of those helpless slavegirls. Had only met because one night he had come in when she was on duty in the lounge, on a night when she had been very much on edge about meeting her quota, and so had gone to her knees as soon as his eye had fallen on her, spread her legs and begged him to rape her, to be very rough with her.
Which he had been — by far the harshest usage she’d experienced in her five months as an indentured Castle Toy.
She had forced herself, though, to stay responsive — opened herself sweetly to his savagery, right to the bitter end, then smiled at him and thanked him, when, with a snarl of satisfaction, he had at last thrown her aside.
She had grovelled at his feet until he had permitted her to clean his cock with her soft mouth, despite being racked with agonising sobs that she could only just keep from escalating into hysteria, so hard had she been pushed.
She’d been excused her roster duties for two days recovery time, afterwards, on Anne-Marie’s instruction.
He had gone for her again, the first night she was back, and she had made herself smile, as if overjoyed, despite her fearful tremblings.
Again, she had taken every abuse he had thrown at her without any hint of resentment, and taken every opportunity offered her to deliberately open herself to his greedy assaults without more than pretty hesitation — trying to judge these shynesses to achieve maximum stimulation for him — letting him see how devastating, how frightening it was for her to let him use her so — offering him her weakness, her vulnerability as a gift — asking him to abuse that gift, to take maximum advantage of her, to degrade her, to possess her.
She wasn’t quite sure why it was this man, of the many and many that had used her at The Castle, who elicited from her this completeness of response, whose way with her demanded of her that she do everything she could imagine to encourage him to excess. For at that point it certainly was not love. Most likely, she thinks, it was simple desperation. That in her despair at realising that this, now, was her life — that The Castle was going to consume her, completely; that whatever might remain of her once it decided it had had enough of her would certainly not be the self she had known as Selene — might indeed be almost nothing — that she had seen something in him which perhaps offered some slim chance at human connection — even if that came at the cost of abjectly, intentionally inviting brutal treatment.
After that, he had chosen her whenever he could — asking for her even when she was not on duty (only in rare circumstances will what a girl is doing be allowed to take precedence over a direct demand for her from a Member; it had been both a joy and a terror to Selene to be called from her chores, or from her yoga class, once from the heat and humiliating despair of a competitive buggering by two footmen in the corridor, to be called to rapidly prepare herself, then hurry into his presence, fall to her knees, open her clothes, lift her skirts — gauzy as they were, he wanted her always to show him herself immediately — to beg him to rape her, and be very rough with her, just as she had that first time); watching her with lazy attention, smiling, entertained, as she was used by others, too, at those times when she had already been taken before his arrival - encouraging them to be rough with her too, having her affirm to them, in husky, apprehensive tones, that she did indeed respond to violent treatment with eager submissiveness.
It wasn’t that he had been nice to her — far from it — he continued to be rough; violent, sadistic, degrading in his usage of her. Of course, this was nothing to remark at — it’s what he had paid such shockingly high fees for; she had signed a year of her life away in the full knowledge that she would be used like this, by men like him (for all that she might regret the decision now, dwelling on regret simply made everything worse, as both her training and her experience had taught her; there was no easy way through this experience, for such as her, but submitting to it as fully as possible would be the least terrible, she had decided, and it is this path she had attempted to follow, as did most of the other girls).
Other men were rough and degrading with her, too, and she offered her body, opened herself for them, too, as best she could, smiling desperately through tears, committing herself to serve their pleasure, to accept deliberate cruelty and the pain it delivered, willingly suffering the shamefulness of this, working hard to bring herself to orgasm despite (and, frighteningly, increasingly, through) their abuse of her, if they required this.
She had gotten herself through the hardest times, those last months; times when she’d been cold, sore, lonely; despairing times in the small hours, chained in some horribly uncomfortable position, waiting to be thrashed by the warder on duty (thrashed as a matter of routine, not even for anyone’s entertainment), her softest membranes on fire after harsh usage, her mind alive with the shame of both the abuses she had been subjected to, and the shameful way in which her body responded to them, all compounded by the humiliation of her abjectly submissive offering of herself — she had gotten herself through by repeating terrible, destructive mantras in her mind, even whispering them out loud; ‘Only special girls get to be chosen to be here; specially pretty, specially sweet, specially willing. The Members pay so much because I’m special, because I will do this for them, because I will smile for them and open myself for them, and come for them so hard. I’m special’, ‘It’s because I’m so pretty that they need to hurt me’, ‘I need this, I am here because I volunteered, because I need more than other girls — more excitement, more intensity, more sex, more emotion’, ’ I’m in the right place for me. I could never come so hard, so often, so wildly in the ordinary world. I’m lucky that Anne-Marie let me stay’.
But love for Richard had changed all that. With that, everything — every suffering, every shame, every degradation — everything became an offering to him, a chance to practice her devotion.
As far as she could tell, it was simply his consistency in choosing her that had led her to this aching, desperate, hopeless love for him. She could see, very clearly, how pathetic, how dangerous this was — how alike to Stockholm Syndrome this love of hers was — but this knowledge couldn’t stop it feeling like love.
She knew it was crazy, that she was losing her grip on reality, but it was a crazy that made her life better — that helped her smile, sweetly, at the warder who had just terrorised her with a flurry of sharp whacks with his riding crop - aiming it just up between her sex lips for the entertainment of a junior.
He had interrupted her only allotted break in a day full of hardships; but still, she smiled sweetly through her pathetic, shameful squeaks (as she fought the demands of her body to clamp her thighs together, protect her softest, most sensitive parts from these humiliating insults), then, as soon as she is certain he has had enough, to fall to her knees and begin to nuzzle at his groin, rewarding him for his cruelty with a blowjob that she put everything into, getting herself almost into a trance, focused entirely on his pleasure, knowing that the only outcome of this would be more frequent cruelty, more frequent expectations of this level of service.
It would only encourage the junior, too, to use her in just the same way, expecting the same servility, but she found it impossible not to seek for the chance to glance at the younger man, intentionally, to let him see, in her eyes, that he should consider himself free to use her in just this way; not that she wanted it — but rather, that he should know that she will be helpless to resist him — not just because of the rules of this place, either, but because she is, deeply, a whore. A whore who wants to be used.
Tragic as it was, she could not help feeling happy that all this was true, simply in the hope that it might make Richard smile, if she were permitted a chance to tell him the story — would get him hard, would perhaps earn her a fucking from him.
Now, though, the utter foolishness of letting herself develop such feelings is being made manifest.
Weeks before, he had begun a conversation with her, in the aftermath of a typically rollercoaster session of mingled pain, humiliation, and violent sexual excess (she had also been brought to two powerful orgasms — he was good at that — though each of them, looked at clearly, had been more of a mini-tragedy than a happy event);
“I’ve had an idea.”
“I think we should ask if they’ll downgrade you; officially — reduce your status permanently. That would be so cool — to be the guy you did that for.”
She had moved her head, then, in the manner that, between them, was understood to constitute a request to speak.
She had learned the hard way (two black eyes and a savage whipping) that despite the intimacy of their physical relationship (he liked hugs and cuddles once he had exorcised his demons on her mind and body), she must take care not to assume any rights at all with him — but that also, in some moods, it entertained him to have her talk, almost as if she was a normal girlfriend. Such interludes were both heaven and hell for S (who had once been a shy, thoughtful, if slightly melancholy girl called Selene), as she never felt herself being abused more intimately, more personally than during those little talks, while at the same time measuring her life by them.
He had laughed at her, ruffling her hair casually;
“OK, cunt, what’s on your mind — your funny, fuzzy little mind?”
She smiled, at this demeaning aside; smiled but felt sad. It was true. Her mind was indeed fuzzy and small these days. It had been so sharp and clear, before. Before she’d been shown how needy she was, how eager she was, for sexual attention — so needy, in fact, that she had corrupted herself — learned, for the sake of a tawdry little affair with her boss, to like having degrading words thrown at her during sex, to like being spanked before being tied up and poked with his ineffectual cock; had encouraged him to go further with her — be more demeaning in his use of her — in the hope of getting more attention from him.
To no avail; but before being spurned by him, she had allowed him to pass her on to a more accomplished and vigorous older man, for whom she had transformed herself still more (knowing it was wrong, knowing it was foolish, knowing she was digging a trap for herself, doing it anyway), until he in turn had given her — explicitly given her, without troubling her for any consent — to a man he knew only from a sex club (it had turned her on so much, sitting there at the cafe table, ignored, as she was transferred from one to the other — her involvement in things mentioned only in blatantly exploitative and sexual terms), and who had brought her, first to Paris (without complaint from her; indeed, she had thanked him, profusely, on her knees, naked, breasts marked by his belt, nipples hard, sex wet and pulsing for him).
(She had agreed, too, to write to her family, her old friends, and tell them that she had moved on, to the big city; would no longer be communicating with them — that she had a new life, now, that they should forget her), and then, finally, to The Castle — in order to sell her.
(She was being paid for her indenture, an amount that shocked her, it was so large — but then he had been paid, too, for delivering her body into their hands. The money she would get didn’t seem real to her, at all — partly because she had signed an ‘extensible/transferrable’ contract; they would keep her as long as they wished, and sell her contract to another if they wanted, too; she wouldn’t see any money until no-one any longer considered her worth abusing. But the money they had paid him for her felt very real. She had been sold like a used car. A used cunt. A cunt, to be used. Sometimes, she liked to think about how much she was worth — how much her fuckable holes were worth — in hard cash. Other times, the very idea of this made her want to die.).
“I’m sorry, Richard, but I … I don’t know what that means — to be … officially downgraded.”
He had encouraged her to call him by his first name — another reason it felt as if it was special with him. Not that there was anything exclusive about the relationship. He came to the Castle when it suited him, without reference to her, naturally. When he was there, he used her whenever he could, to be sure, but if he was late, and some other member already had her; fingers in her pussy, cock in her ass, Richard would just select another girl to abuse. And of course, on evenings when he didn’t show, she had no choice (or desire, to be honest) but to make herself very obviously eager to any man who was looking for a girl, simpering and smiling and wiggling the tip of her tongue.
He had laughed at her again;
“Oh, it’s just a step further into slavery. You have even fewer rights, you get heavily pierced and suchlike — more markings, usually get your ass branded — maybe even your face. You pretty much lose access to any rooms, or human interaction — spend your life on your knees in the corridors, mostly naked. Naked and cold, with your piercings chained to a hitching ring†. It’s pretty cool, actually.”
“Hasn’t been a girl like that here for a couple of years — it’s time we had a new one — and you’d be perfect!”
Does he know? she wondered, sometimes. Was he consummately, immaculately, knowingly cruel in his emotional manipulations of her in those conversations, or was he just having fun with her, unaware of just how devastating to her would be his casual musings about what it might be ‘cool’ to do with her next. How heart-stoppingly, fascinatingly cruel it was, to have her experience of a loving relationship consist of planning how she would be further reduced as a human being, how she could be made to suffer more interestingly, become more thoroughly enslaved.
“That … that sounds … as if … as if it would be very … very hard … to … to bear. For … for the girl. For … for me.”
“I know! I mean; imagine just how dark that could get.. Fascinating. It takes a special sort of girl. And a special sort of guy to get her to ask for it. That’s us — we’re special, aren’t we? You know we are!”
She had been fearful that expressing her doubts so clearly would make him angry — hoping that it wouldn’t, that he might see just how terrible a prospect it was that he had laid out for her.
But this! This cheery acceptance of how awful what he is asking of her would be — for her — for it to be so obvious that he saw it as little more than a fun opportunity for him to demonstrate his skill at manipulation to his friends…
Sick dread overwhelmed her, but his fingers were pushing themselves into her sex, and she must move for him, open herself, swallow the terrible foreboding, and instead give him the kind of sexy moan he liked when he imagined he was giving her pleasure — find a way to move so that it hurt a little less, concentrate on getting herself wet, while also nuzzling her mouth towards his crotch. Think of Monica’s clever little tongue, that time, when Anne-Marie had had them put on a show for some visitors — think of that..
And then he was hard again, and it was time to offer him her sex, do everything she could to advertise how wet and hot she was for him — and she was, she was; helplessly hot and wet and so, so very eager, so very, very hopeful, so very, very needy, so very, very grateful when for once, he took her up on her offer rather than flipping her over to fuck her tight asshole, her gratitude needing to express itself in giving him the most perfect fuck she could manage, all her senses attuned to him, to his needs, to his responses, to his noises, to his sensation, serving him — serving him with her whole body; unable, now, to distinguish between loving service and fear of the cruelty that a disappointing fuck will bring down on her (even though it would be the recurring issue with his erections that would be the cause of any problem, rather than any lack of dedication or skill on her part).
Ah, but she was getting fucked, was losing herself in service of the man who was fucking her, and all the pains and shame of her existence were being erased, subsumed, made meaningless by the fact of being hammered by a hard cock, which, if she could only focus totally on its service, would absolve her of all responsibility for at least a few minutes.
The fact that this was happening in plain sight of twenty or more other people, some of whom were other girls, some of them regulars, some of them staff, and some of them random visitors — the fact that she had to make herself the consummate slut in the sight of all these others, made it simultaneously harder and more powerfully overwhelming, should she get it right, but also ruled out completely the possibility that love might, by some magic, save her from eventual despair. She was a willing, abject whore, being selfishly fucked by an abusive and manipulative sleazeball, in front of assorted other degenerates, and she was giving herself completely; doing everything she could to commit her very soul to this violation.
When he came, when he told her he wanted her to come, too, she wanted to resist, but dared not, could not, and the animal noises that came from her, the seismic shaking and quiverings that racked her body — so violently that it was obvious to the watchers that she had succumbed to a powerful and deeply felt orgasm, that this was no sort of an act — made her know she has been taken down another stretch along the slow, but relentless path away from being a real person; toward becoming a mindless, helpless sex toy.
And she could not decide which way she really wanted to travel — only that to be in the space between personhood and ‘nothing but cunt’ was an endless agony that could only be made bearable by continuous fantasy weaving.
That night, immediately after that wild fucking, that wrenching orgasm, three other men had asked if he would relinquish her to their use, and he had laughed and told them to feel free, and they taken her then, immediately, not even waiting for the spasms to stop before invading her — one in each hole, going at her steadily, powerfully, for what seemed an age (they had been using other girls all night, and with only viagra sustaining their erections, they were not going to come again quickly) looking for the entertainment value of simply ploughing her, aggressively, for five, ten, fifteen minutes — swapping holes every now and then, turning her over, upside down, holding her in the air, draping her over a table, pounding her, pounding her, until agonisingly, devastatingly, she was again brought to the point where she had to ask them, beg them, to be permitted to come (a girl that could not be certain she would be able to stave off an orgasm had to do this, on pain of terrible suffering, for unconsented orgasms were considered an unpardonable offence, meriting exemplary punishment).
This time, the orgasm dissolved her, and she blacked out for some seconds. Not that this deterred the two of them who had yet to finish — one in her mouth, the other in her pussy, and she was revived from her swoon by their continued battering at her, through her post-orgasmic hypersensitivity, which had her hysterical, almost, with the terrible intensity of it all. This was noticed, and was the cause of some laughter at her helpless paroxysms as the two grunted their individual spurtings into her, after which she was simply abandoned, to lie, trembling, holding herself together only through great efforts, ignored, a naked, used, sticky body on the floor, unremarked by anyone — least of all her Richard, who was at the bar, talking and laughing, his fingers in another girl’s sex, kissing her deeply when the fancy took him, the girl’s hips moving for him, lascivious, her smile apparently genuine, eager, promising.
For some days after that, she had wanted to die; not the fantasy of love, not the mantras, not being fucked, not being thrashed — nothing could shift the heavy dread at the picture of her future as this thing, this abject, helpless sex creature, this picture which had possessed her.
Perhaps all this explained how, during her next scheduled attendance at Anne-Marie’s tea-time confessional, she had found herself asking, her voice small, hesitant, frightened, about what it would mean to be ‘officially downgraded’. After all, if she was doomed to this future, and Richard wanted it, hadn’t she as well get it over with (or, asked a sneaky voice in her head, was this just an excuse? Hadn’t she been, in truth, obsessed with this idea, as fascinated as she was appalled, ever since he had told her about it?)?
Anne-Marie had looked at S, quite intently, for a long minute, so that she had found herself shaking; shaking badly; pathetic. She had become so weak — so destabilised. Was this it — the thing the girls whispered about — was she about to be ‘broken’? About to lose herself, beyond repair? It took all her efforts to hold back the tears — even though everyone in the room could see that she was crying in all but practical fact (as well as the three other girls and Anne-Marie, there were two older members, both Great Table fixtures, in attendance, savouring Anne-Marie’s subtle psychological manipulations of the pretties, enjoying ruminating on which of the lovelies baring their souls today — both giving up the secrets which will make it easy to manage them, and entertaining their betters with their delightful vulnerability — which they would select to inflict their viagra-enhanced attentions upon later. The girls, of course, were aware of this, and also knew that Anne-Marie offered little favours to girls who got good reports from Great Table members. It was a delightfully asymmetric setup — so consequentially high-risk for the semi-naked and powerless young women made to reveal their hopes and fears, and such inconsequential fun for their owners, being entertained.)
“So, pretty; Mr Richard, I take it, has suggested that you might ask if we would consider a request to officially downgrade you?”
“Yes, Mistress. He … he likes the idea of me being … permanently downgraded.”
“And you, girly? What do you think of the idea?”
This was dangerous territory. In Anne-Marie’s tea-time sessions a girl was simultaneously required to be honest about what were normally to be ruthlessly suppressed — her inner feelings — but also to ensure that this honesty never suggested anything other than complete acceptance of a Castle girl’s position as a degraded plaything, without rights or expectations of any kind.
“I … um … Master R-Richard’s wanting it for me is … I can only take his interest in me as … as flattering, Madame, and … and I do, very much, wish to please him, so … so that. ..”
Anne-Marie’s eyes were glittering a little, and her smile had tightened — almost imperceptibly, but nevertheless, there it was. A straightforward answer was required, and fast.
In her urgency, in her fear, S could only think of one thing to say;
“Yes. Yes, I … I formally and humbly request to … to be p..perman … permanently down … downgraded.”
By the end of this sentence S’ voice had become almost a whisper — a throbbing, desperate whisper, but nevertheless, in the quiet that reigned during tea, her words were perfectly clear. She could hardly believe that it was possible she had said them; appalled at her own weak stupidity, at the danger she had just exposed herself to.
Anne-Marie let the silence stretch out, then, exchanging significant glances with the two older men present — one of whom was grinning quite shamelessly, the other of whom was frowning a little, looking at S’ lovely breasts, her quivering setting her nipples in motion under the gauzy, see-through baby-doll. Anne-Marie’s expression was, as so often, inscrutable. The other girls were noticeably pale, stilled, terrified by association.
S had no idea, at that moment, whether that was it — decided — that she was now committed to whatever it was that the dreadful-sounding phrase implied — surely there was more detail than Richards’ casual description chained, naked, pierced, branded, not allowed in rooms? And surely there would be some process? But of course, that was all guesswork. For all S knew, Anne-Marie’s next move would be to ring the bell and have footmen come to drag her off to some dungeon where she would be tortured.
Eventually, though, Anne-Marie spoke;
“Do you even know, pretty, what it is that you are asking for?”
“Um … not … not really. Madame.”
“I thought not. It is is no surprise, of course, to discover that a hopeless little wanton from the sticks is both ignorant and foolish beyond words, but I’ll have you whipped for this in any case. Ask Mme Duchesne at dinner tonight to arrange for you to get twenty with a pony whip, after closing time, in the staff common room. They’re to draw blood — and keep you overnight, too. You’re to do all you can to get at least ten doses††.”
“As for this ‘Permanent Downgrading’, I will explain it to you, since you know so little. A girl who has been ‘downgraded’ has all privileges removed. Privileges are set out in your indenture contract (of course, S, along with every other girl, was not given the chance to actually read the impressive looking legal document that she signed at the outset of her enslavement, and simply has to take this reference at face value — it does not even occur to her to challenge this), and include clothing, dining, bathing and toilet privileges, a designated sleeping space, social contact and the like. Removal of these is easy — I can revoke those for you this second, if you so choose. Indeed, you have already so chosen.”
“But when a girl asks to be permanently downgraded, there are other implications, which require an addendum to the indenture contract. First, this removes all restraints on physical treatment — branding, piercing, cosmetic surgery and the like. Second, the privileges I described are permanently revoked and explicitly denied.
A permanently downgraded girl will never wear clothes; she will be fed, washed and toileted mechanically, as with a factory-farmed animal; she will be kept permanently in chains, not permitted to stand — lying down, kneeling or on all fours. She will not generally be permitted into any room or onto any furniture. Her head will be shaved, and she will be assigned a number rather than a letter. Typically, such girls will have their ears plugged, and be fitted with contact lenses that both dim and blur what they can perceive.
Any kind of attempt at intentional communication by a downgraded specimen will be met with cruel punishment. No-one save a Member may communicate with her by speech or sign, so that if she does not do what is desired of her when jolted with a shock prod, she will simply be dragged or shoved to where she is wanted and then kicked, slapped or whipped until she has assumed the desired position. It is perhaps not surprising that such girls quickly develop a remarkable kind of intuition as to what is expected of them; it is both gratifying and pitiful to see how abject and desperate they become in their compliance.
Punishments for downgraded girls are always more severe; mercy is never shown, and the usual considerations as to avoiding permanent damage are another privilege that is done away with.”
“Finally, the term of indenture may at this point be arbitrarily extended, and other modifications made to her Contract as suits The Castle. Since it is the girl who is begging to be granted such status, these changes are made without consultation or explanation.”
“This, my dear, is what the man you say you are in love with has asked of you. Which you have, it seems, already given to him.”
Again, Anne-Marie waits, allowing for the full implications of these conditions to unfold in the mind of the trembling girl in front of her — and the other girls, too; seeing each of them shift, uncomfortably, in their presentation positions at the picture Anne-Marie has painted, each considering with consternation just how it would be for her, should she be manipulated into a position such as the one S finds herself in.
For each of them knows — all Castle girls do — that however strongly she may individually want something (or urgently not want it), that if Anne-Marie, or some Member, should take a fancy to some conditions of her service to be changed, she will, finally, be unable to resist. Each of them understands that she has lost herself, in so many important ways. That she is, truly, a Toy in the hands of selfish and entitled abusers; that the very point of The Castle is that the slightest passing fancy of a member can have life-changing consequences for any girl — consequences which will neither be considered, nor often even noticed, in the fulfilment of that fancy.
Noting that S has not gone into panic mode, that she is thus far handling herself well, keeping her position, not allowing the trembling, or her evident emotional overwhelm, to distract her from her obligation to present herself as sexually inviting and open, Anne-Marie confirms her original plan;
“The Great Table decides all requests for permanent downgrading, and your pleading may perhaps be considered, if the gentlemen should find it appropriate. You, however, will know nothing, will ask nothing, will expect nothing. Unless and until a new Indenture contract is presented for you to sign, you will have no idea when or if your status may change. If you are asked to sign a new contract, you may presume that permanent downgrade status has been granted you, and your experiences subsequent to that will confirm it; obviously, from what I have said, nothing will ever be explained to you, nor will it be possible for you to communicate any thoughts you may have on the matter — or indeed anything else, for the duration of your term. Your life will consist of nothing beyond total, unquestioning submission and service with the absolute minimum of human contact beyond physical use and abuse until such time as it may be decided otherwise by the Great Table.”
Anne-Marie pauses, here, watching S — frankly, enjoying herself — watching S in her desperate attempts to handle her emotions as these dread prospects are described to her. Great shivers grip her, and several times it seems as if she will speak — or perhaps cry out. Her body, too, is seized with what look like involuntary urges to stand up, to somehow get herself away from this place, to avoid her fate.
Anne-Marie is again pleased to see that the girl keeps herself — just — within acceptable bounds of self-control and adequate presentation of herself as property, as sexually interesting property. She looks round, to judge how her employers are reacting, and receives grins and nods of approval and assent from both. As Anne-Marie turns back to the trembling girl, so abjectly displaying herself for the pleasure of those who seem to find no more than mild entertainment in the idea of a girl voluntarily submitting herself to such a grim future, she allows herself a small smile of satisfaction. The Great Table may be in charge here (and she is unreservedly happy that they are), but it is she who is trusted to dispose as she sees fit in regard to her lovely and helpless charges.
She proceeds, then, to the next stage of the emotional rollercoaster S has no choice but to ride;
“In the meantime, pretty, I propose to grant you one week during which of all your current discretionary privileges will be revoked, starting the day after you are deemed fit for service again after your stint in the staff common room. You will be denied clothes, communication, social interaction, access to furnished rooms; you will be required to submit yourself to mechanical means of dealing with your bodily functions. Members, guests and staff will be encouraged to be more than usually harsh and demanding in their treatment of you in all respects, and to cruelly punish even the least failing in your behaviour, presentation or service.”
Another pause, broken by an uncontrollable sob which breaks from the girl — not so much of despair, or terror, as from simple inability to handle, any more, the heartless emotional switchbacks of the last ten minutes, the sob accompanied by a desperate twisting and swaying as she is equally unable to restrain her body’s need for some physical outlet for the surging waves of stress hormones that have been washing through her system. Anne-Marie is pleased to note that at no point does the girl close her thighs, and that in truth her movements are highly entertaining — setting her unfettered breasts, in particular, into enticing and unrestrained motion above the tight-waisted corselette. Nevertheless, this failure to control herself cannot go unremarked;
“Enough, little one. Be still. Be very still; make yourself presentable. Now.”
Her voice is calm, not loud, and full of gentleness. But everyone in the room knows what this means — for Anne-Marie is never more in love with one of her charges than when she is about to indulge herself in the personal imposition of pain.
S is gripped by terror, but at the same time sufficiently conditioned by her months of submission to find herself, at once, dragging herself back into line, possessed by desperate urgency, consciously considering her presentation of her sex, of her breasts, of her face, her mouth, her hips, her hands, her feet (in precisely this order), and then repeating the sequence, seeking to improve and perfect her offer, all the while ruthlessly suppressing her emotions, despite the certainty that harsh punishment is coming her way. There is simply no other possible response in her, any more, but to offer herself, however awfully hard it is to deliberately proffer her most sensitive places, make them so vulnerable, knowing that these are precisely the parts of a girl upon which Anne-Marie prefers to enact her cruelties.
“Girls, please; take an arm each; out and back.”
Again, there is no doubt in anyone’s mind what is about to happen. The two senior girls present, not daring to hesitate, get themselves behind S and take an arm each; pulling the wrist out wide with one hand, and, locking the quivering but unresisting girl’s elbows with pressure from behind with the other hand, they force S to push her chest forward, and effectively immobilise her — any attempt to move brings pain and resistance at both shoulder and elbow.
Anne-Marie satisfies herself that the girls have positioned S as she intended, then steps forward, uses her elegant and wicked little knife to slit open the front of the babydoll so that it falls away, then caresses the girl’s breasts — again, softly, calmly, stroking and teasing; leans forward and calmly informs S that she is about to be badly hurt, asks for the girl to tell her whether she thinks this is justified, receives an acceptable answer;
“Yes … yes, Madame, thank … thank you, Madame. My … my behaviour was … was unacceptable. I … I need to be punished. I … I thank you for … for your attention to me, for your help in keeping me up … up to the mark.”
Anne-Marie, reaching backwards without looking, is handed her favoured riding crop, the leather shiny with use in places, worn around the heavy but pliable whalebone inner in others, and, without ceremony, begins laying it, heavily, into S’ lovely, firm breasts, bringing screams from the first blow. Light, breathy, desperate screams, full of weakness, followed, between blows, after the first few, by throbbing, despairing moans. New girls are informed early on by more experienced ones that to offend Anne-Marie with a hoarse or full-throated yell is to double the agony.
Four carefully placed, full-force strokes to each breast are applied, before Anne-Marie turns to the two members again, offering them, as a matter of course, an opportunity to take their pleasure with the softly sobbing girl, still firmly held by her sisters, her breasts now marked by angry stripes.
A waggled finger, a complacent nod from Anne-Marie, is all it takes for the two girls to cause S to stand, and to deliver her onto her knees in front of the elderly, paunchy novelist (a well known public intellectual), so that he can paw at her breasts, bend down to lick at her wounds, making her skin crawl as she gasps at the sting, before she is made to lean in, to take his half-hard cock into her mouth and work at him with servile and focused attention until he is at last able to jerk his thin and sour offering into her soft mouth. The two girls hold her arms, locked, throughout, trying to interpret his impatient hand signals so as to force S to take him deep when he wants it that way, to lick him and use her lips when he wants that instead.
S cries soft, slow tears throughout, but manages a pretty and sincere-enough ‘Thank you, Sir’, once he seems to have had enough, before licking his sex carefully clean, then — her hands released by the girls — drying it with her hair, before buttoning it carefully back into its home between his fat thighs, again, with all semblance of reverential care.
The proper order of things being restored, and having received a casual but meaningful nod from one of the ‘gentlemen’ present, Anne-Marie makes it clear to S — in place once again on the central ottoman — that she should remain while the other girls are dismissed.
From the body language of the two men, S gathers that further requirements will be soon imposed upon her, and, more powerfully aware than ever of her vulnerablility, does what little she can to ready herself for she knows not what.
She cannot tell, inside herself, whether she is exalted or destroyed. It troubles her, profoundly, that this is so, but she cannot deny that every cell of her her body is alive, awake; that her heart is in her throat with anticipation, that every second of her life over these last days has been — however agonising — astonishingly electric, and knows, knows with certainty now, that she is, indeed, special — that to feel life as intensely as she has been made to do is a rare and profound experience which few are granted (even if, as she suspects, this happens only in the context of extreme and immediate existential risk).
It occurs to her, there and then, that, since she has no choice in the matter in any case, she might as well let herself feel the full impact of whatever is about to happen to her. What, after all, would be the point of having come this far, if not to experience this specialness to the maximum? Even if, as seems entirely possible, she might never be able to share the feelings with another soul.
So, transfixed by the immensity, the madness of it, she makes a deliberate resolution never again to attempt to suppress, through either shame or guilt or even self-disgust, the tremulous flutterings of desire in her groin, the eagerness for sensation that demands her attention, so urgently — and, yet further — not to attempt to hide such feelings, or their physical manifestations, from her owners, her abusers, even their minions.
Kneeling there, so terribly, terribly vulnerable — having effectively announced herself as a being whose feelings need never again be considered by a soul, having put herself completely in the hands of these monsters, why should she, ever again, deny herself the full experience — deny herself any feeling of pleasure, no matter how darkly perverse it might be — from whatever she might be subjected to?
Soft tears gather at the corners of her eyes, but she blinks them away, and feels her lips twisting themselves into a soft and — yes, placid — smile, experiences an urge and immediately welcomes it, gives in to it — deliberately opening her thighs still further, straightening herself, pushing out her breasts, licking her lips, letting her hips roll — making her acceptance of whatever comes as obvious as she can, with the limited range of options open to a degraded sex-slave.
She feels the silence that follows this as a blessing, and moves, again, doing all she can to project her intensity of feeling, her need for cathartic usage, her willingness to lean in to anything, anything at all that they might choose for her, revelling in the freedom of being completely helpless, completely at their mercy, utterly without responsibility for anything beyond acceptance.
“Do you have something to say to us, pretty slut?” asks Anne-Marie — her voice again soft and dangerous.
It takes a few seconds for S to remember how to form words, and she is very quiet, almost inaudible, her words breathy, almost liquid, but nevertheless, clear in her sincerity;
“Please … please; do … do everything to me. Don’t … don’t ever … stop.”
…To Be Continued…
THW is going to try something new with this story. Part 2 will describe her experience during a week without privileges.
- Should it end with her discovering that she has been permanently downgraded, and how the poor girl fares under such terrible conditions?
- Or should she be granted a return to her privileged status, and find herself overwhelmed with gratitude and relief, determined to serve wholeheartedly?
If you have a view, please use the comments to choose Selene’s fate.
†A century or so ago, at the height of the travelling rodeo craze, some Great Table member, obsessed with the ‘Wild West’, had conceived the idea of ‘hitching rings’ at the side of every corridor and hallway door in the Castle — so that — just as with ‘hitching rails’ in Western movies, there would always be a convenient place to tie up your horse — except that, in the Castle, you would be tying your girl. The idea had become popular, and the rings had been installed throughout the main corridors on both floors.
††In the quota scheme in force at this time at The Castle, girls were set daily and weekly targets of ‘doses’ to achieve. A ‘dose’ was, quite simply, an ejaculation of semen into one or other of her holes. Staff ‘doses’ were not normally counted, but in the case of this punishment, S was being enjoined to get at least ten such during her night spent chained in the staff common room. Of course, a Castle girl has no means at all of demanding or requiring, and is tightly governed even in her freedom to solicit such ejaculations. Nevertheless, if she fails, further punishment — almost certainly more extreme — will follow. Note that when a girl is described as being ‘taken off roster duty’, it is a matter of choice whether her quota is reduced pro-rata, or not. There is more about the quota scheme in this story
