Castle Story — She asked for it Pt4

This will make more sense if you have read the previous parts.

“Bye bye freedom, pretty cunt.”

Something breaks inside her. Something vital, previously taken for granted, so that she doesn’t know what it is, precisely, that is gone. Only that she has been changed, now; that she can never recover, never again be what she had been.

A deep soft sadness, a heavy weight of pity, floods her, that she knows she will never again be free of. Strangely, being overwhelmed by this flood is as comforting as it is heart-rending — as if it were an absolution. It’s over — truly over; over at last — her struggle. Her attempts at ‘becoming brave’, her losing battle, her dogged, desperate insistence that she was someone — a proper person; someone with a meaning of her own, a being which defined, embodied and enacted that meaning, sure that it was everything that made existence worthwhile.

But that wasn’t true. Not any more. Not for her. She had lost her meaning. Or, at the least, she had forfeited it.

Now, she was nothing. Nothing more than their meaning, at least; and their meaning of her was that she should be, simply, an open, available cunt.

Nothing more than juicy holes … squishy mounds.

And it was a relief. A relief not to have be brave any more; not to have to try. A relief to be pushed to her knees, a relief to have the jacket lifted from her shoulders, her dress ripped from her — to have the ambiguity she has been battling for so long now, between the reality that she lived for him, her Master, for those moments when he was interested in her, and the desperate rearguard determination to carry on pretending; trying to be herself, to hold for herself some conviction that ‘herself’ had any meaning of its own beyond him.

Now, though, she had given in. Yes, she was pathetic, yes; weak, yes; stupid, yes; cowardly, yes; she had betrayed all those who had nurtured her, supported her. Yes. But beyond these shameful admissions, even, there was something else — something that was terribly painful — that she had abandoned the possibility of joy. Joy that she had had so little of in her life, but which had granted her moments that remained with her still.

That was the source of the sadness — the knowledge that she had let him break the hope in her of moments of joy; break that hope forever. Worse, that those precious memories of joy were ruined, now. Even though she would never forget them — that meeting with a shy faun in the forest after a snowfall, as a young girl — that timeless period during which she and the exquisite creature had simply looked at each other; the unlooked for, astounding thrill of ecstasy that had blossomed in her at the resolution of the theme during the first symphony concert she had attended in the big city — no, she would not ever forget these; but from now, they would serve mostly as reminders of everything she has given away, for no greater gain than to become this helpless, naked slut, kneeling at the feet of a callous, cruel stranger, desperately trying to present herself to him as sexually interesting, repeating to herself his crude mantra, that it was better to be raped than be thrashed.

But it was impossible not to experience relief, too; immense freedom from tension, from anguish, from turmoil, from doubt, from endless double-thinking of everything.

She has traded all hope of future joy, accepted a lifetime of inescapable, open humiliation, in return for being allowed to give up on the requirement to be responsible for her own meaning — for freedom from the experience of constant defeat, constant failure, constant hopeless effort to achieve something that, deep down, she isn’t even sure she wants, any more.

Where her shameful, dirty hunger for being removed from the world by being fucked, fucked hard, fucked without love, fucked repeatedly — where that comes into this equation is beyond her. Even acknowledging this hunger to herself has been hard. But it cannot any longer be denied. From now on, she will no longer be permitted to hide it from others, either.

She is going to be degraded, in public.

It is already, immediately, frighteningly degrading, to be naked here, to be dragged on her knees, from the lift, scrambling helplessly, desperate to minimise the damage to her stockings, to her legs, from the rough concrete of the parking level floor, to feel her unfettered breasts swaying and jouncing wildly (impossible to control this shaming display with her elbows cuffed so tightly behind her back; impossible, too, to keep her thighs together, so that she must be exposing her sex, too), to have allowed herself, without resistance, to be made so horridly vulnerable; to know that that immaculate young girl is seeing her like this, hands flapping uselessly below her locked elbows, despising her own pathetic, strangled yelps (she simply dares not scream at him, despite her horror and shock at being treated like this); knowing that her former lover is watching this — that he has been working towards this experience for … she doesn’t know how long — perhaps since before he first spoke to her — who knows? It’s probably as bad as that; her complete fucking hopelessness at being an effective person, that it has taken her until this moment to consider that he had never once seen her as anything but a potential sex slave — an amusing challenge, to see if he could bring her to this point, if he could actually destroy her hope.

But still, still, despite the trauma, bad as it is, hard as her poor heart is hammering, horribly as she is trembling from both the fear and the cold (puddles in the garage have a thin film of ice forming on their scummy surface, and she has scrambled through several of them) — still, in so many ways it is easier to be this degraded slut, on her way to be abused, thrashed, fucked, humiliated — easier by a thousand times, in truth, than it had been to have that conversation about him sending her to the old pervert, just an hour earlier (see Part 1).

Because she has no choice, now. None. She will be humiliated, she will be beaten, she will be raped, and she will have no choices at all, except for the small matter of just how beautifully she accepts it, how desirable she can be as she is ruined.

Because none of this is her fault. Because nothing, ever again, will be her fault. It is as if, by capitulating, she has committed every sin that awaited her in her life, at one go. A hard, insane bargain, but somehow worth it, in order to become free. Free from doubt. Free from choice. Free from responsibility. Free from trying to mean something.

Yes, she will carry that guilt with her forever — guilt at the betrayal of her life force; an unforgivable sin.

But it isn’t regret — not now, at least — not even as, naked now but for the tatters of her stockings, the sexy little suspender belt he had watched her put on just that morning (a lifetime ago, a personality ago), and her elegant, crippling heels (which she would gladly have lost but which are held in place by the tight buckled ankle straps); not as she is gagged with what must be a stolen linen napkin from the restaurant, stiff with starch, held in place by a hastily removed tie; not as her head, shoulders, breasts are pushed in through the lowered window of the passenger door, only for the window motor to whine in reverse, trapping her, hurting her, bent at the hips, already whimpering with fear into the dry cloth of the gag, certain that a beating is coming next.

Still, it isn’t regret. And somehow, it is easy to submit; not to struggle, even, not seriously. Somehow it feels right. Right and proper that she has given over to this. That she can simply be her body, now. Even if that means not being a proper person in the world — not a person with meaning and purpose and dignity. It’s actually lovely to be free of all those things, to simply be; to have nothing matter in any but the most immediate sense; for her life to consist, simply, of her body, right now; the position it is in, the people she is with, what they will demand of that body. No past, no future, just this; even if this is hard to bear, it is a revelation to be absolved of responsibility. She cannot fail. Her standards, her judgements, her desires, her hopes — all gone, irrelevant, as if they had been puffs of mist, now dispersed.

It is just fear, just pain, just her awful, agonisingly humiliating inability to stop herself from kicking and writhing in useless attempts to avoid the slashing of the belts, from both sides — for it seems that they are both at her; the sandy-haired one and her lover, her new master.

It isn’t even resistance. There is no point resisting the inevitable. This is the choice that she has made. Even through that awful first thrashing, she knew that this was better than before. There was no more pretence with him, now. He would be cruel to her, and she would let him, and he would fuck her, just as he liked. And she didn’t have to pretend any more — didn’t have to tell herself that it wasn’t really true that he enjoyed fucking her more when he could see her cheeks stained with tears — see the evidence that he had caused her pain. Because it was so; it was true, he did like it more, that way. Now, she could simply accept that he was an abuser. That she had allowed herself to be abused. That she had encouraged him in his abuse of her. That she had become addicted to being abused. That being treated this way is her release from an entirely different kind of pain.

And so she had given herself to him, understanding that he will feel free, now, to make her scream, if he chooses; to make her cry and beg, so that he can fuck her just as he likes her — shamed, hurting and despairing — and he is indeed, harder than usual when, the beating having ceased (she had not even tried to count), he unceremoniously pile-drivers his cock into her rear hole, making her scream a whole new kind of scream into the muffling gag, the starched cloth so terribly, suckingly dry in her wide-stretched mouth.

Relentless, utterly self-absorbed, grunting deeply as he only does when powerfully aroused, he brings himself off inside her without once touching her with his hands, so that she might have been a hole in a wall.

And she? She finds herself going up on tiptoe, offering herself to him, spreading her legs, arching her back until it hurts, presenting herself, angling her hips so that his thrusts drive into her as deeply as possible, clenching her inner muscles onto his cock as she had learned to do at the classes she had paid so much for, found so shaming; helplessly, pathetically determined that he should enjoy her as fully as possible.

For what else does she have left?

In the silence that follows the cheerful, horribly casual banter between the men after he pulls out of her, she realises she must brace herself for the other one — the sandy-haired man — to have his turn, and is surprised when, instead, she is released, the window sliding down; when she is carefully supported, even, by her former lover, who is now her new owner, the man to whom she has given herself so tragically, so easily, so totally — supported as her legs give way beneath her, as she shivers and trembles with both the cold and the shock (mixed, indistinguishable; both of them her due).

He doesn’t hug her, though — there is no warmth, no sharing; instead, he stands behind her, one arm through both of hers, above her cuffed elbows, clamped tight, pulling her shoulders back, painfully, his body angled away from hers, even.

Holding me like a slab of meat, she realises; shocking herself by feeling impressed, even grateful. It’s something, after all, isn’t it? To be his possession, held by him? Isn’t this that special feeling? Some small foretaste of what it had been to be that blonde girl at The Castle — stripped, beaten, raped in the ass, in a public carpark, with strangers watching and judging her, laughing at her, sneering at her; and more, to have offered herself up for it, even in the knowledge that more, and worse — much worse — is coming, and yet not to be struggling. Not even — she realises, feeling even more strange — not even wanting to struggle. Taking the casual cruelty of his holding her like this as a tribute to her submission, to her having, finally, given him what he really wanted of her.

Finding the idea that he owns her, now, really owns her; owns her breasts, her sex, her mouth, her ass — that he is free, even, to mess with her mind — and, more than the idea, the feeling of it as being real for her, real for her body, inescapable, an iron fact of her existence — finding this to be, if not actually pleasant, then utterly remarkable, intense; all of a sudden, she is suffused with — for a moment or two, consists solely of — a sweet and total feeling of powerlessness and freedom, somehow inseparably entwined.

The feeling lasts for a few seconds only, but possesses her so strongly during that time, that she knows she will want it again, whatever the cost; realises that feeling that way is going to become her need, her yearning - that it is what has trapped her, brought her to this. That that yearning, that abject hope, is what will drive her to be what they want of her, the need to feel like that again, even if only for a few moments.

Off to the side, Sandy Hair and his girl are in a fierce embrace, his hands all over her, hers at his face; she is dragging him behind an SUV, while he is pulling back, laughing (it is his loud and irritatingly upbeat voice — like that of some stupid radio DJ — which has broken in to her reverie of submission);

“Nope; sorry. Not now. No! No I’m not gonna fuck her. If I was, do you think it wouldn’t be now? Just feel me! Like a fucking iron bar!”

“I’m saving this for you, babay — but not right now — I’m the Collector — I have to deliver her. Where? Well, one day, gorgeous, I might let you visit; see what they’ve done to her there, but until then, it’s a secret, sorry. A b-i-i-i-g, old secret! Not one for lovely, cute little girls like you!”

“We’re going to drop you off at Lucinda’s party, and then I’m gonna be a while, delivering, and then I’ll call you, and you can tell me where to be, and then you can have me any way you want me — promise!”

Sandy Hair pulls himself free, goes to the back of the car and pulls out an old blanket, with which he covers one side of the back seat, before her man bundles her in, awkwardly, her arms still cuffed behind her; naked, soiled, despairing at his callousness. She squeals as her backside touches down, instantly flips herself onto her side — she is on fire back there.

‘That’s right’, he mutters, then unceremoniously — deliberately rough with her, impatient — manhandles her as if she were a sack of coal; she weakly, shamefully submissive, feeling her nakedness deeply, doing all she can to comply, until she is on her knees on the floor, thighs widely parted, facing backwards, face pushed down onto the seat, the rough knit of the blanket itching her breasts and belly. The sudden pain and shame of his casual parting slap at her open, exposed sex rips apart the last shreds of her dreamy feelings, her momentary peace, and has her first mewing in pain, then weeping; not sobbing, but simply, softly, weeping; weeping helplessly, shivering, trembling, defeated; shamed by her defeat, by how easy, in the end, she has made it for him; shrinking inwardly with that shame as the other girl, protesting at having to even be near ‘that skank’, is pushed into the other side.

Blinded by tears, darkness, her face in the dog-smelling, hairy blanket, she is only dimly aware of the journey; city streetlights, steadily strobing as they speed along late night quiet boulevards; a stop, the girl almost throwing herself out of the car, more loud and urgent talk between her and Sandy Hair, incomprehensible; horrible knowledge that her former lover, her new owner, is sitting, perfectly calmly, in the front seat, casually accepting that she is as she is, naked, beaten, cuffed, shamed, sticky with his come, despairing, weeping. Telling herself desperately, that this is good. That this is right. That this is how she wants it. That, anyway, it makes no difference what she wants, any more, since she is nothing, now. Nothing but cunt.

At least, that this is how it is. How it will be, now. Now, and for the foreseeable future, too. That there is no need, any more, to pretend that it is anything else.

It doesn’t work, really. She is doing what she needs to do, she knows, but she gets nowhere near acceptance, nowhere near to experiencing again that feeling of ‘specialness’, of the sweetness of complete submission. Even the idea of that feeling seems a cruel joke, now. Just not a joke that she can escape from.

The dread when she realises that Sandy Hair has got into the back, telling her man to drive. Worse, when he pulls some sort of woollen hood over her head — a ski mask, perhaps, but backwards, and as prickly as the blanket. The gag is pure agony now — it is as if her jaw has been fixed open forever, the skin of her tongue and inner cheeks burned dry, welded to the cloth, the fire across her back and buttocks almost gentle by comparison. She has no more tears to weep, and when his hands come under her to grasp at her breasts, she finds herself weirdly, horribly, grateful, even as she hates the reality that looking for pleasure in such treatment is all she can hope for, now. Even when one hand trails down her soft side, then ignites fires by cupping her backside, before diving, casually, carelessly, between her legs, to grab roughly at her sex, then her clitoris, she finds herself almost eager to lift her hips, open herself, welcome his manipulations — even move for him; there is simply no sense in her being here if she does not, even as the waves of shame rise in her breast.

And she moans for him, too, moans hard into the gag, arches her back as his fingers once again demonstrate their skill and knowledge of how a woman works, down there — he works at her as if she is a piece of machinery with which he is adept, and she — she works herself for him, does what he intends her to, searches for a way to become aroused, lets him see that she is responding to him, as if he were a lover. And he? He laughs at her; sneering a little, but also, clearly, enjoying himself.

It destroys her, how abjectly pleased it makes her feel, to have made him happy — this cruel abuser, this casual crusher of her hopes and dreams. Except, of course, that it is her, not him, who is the real crusher. He is just the Collector of an already self-declared whore, playing with this new Castle cunt. How can she criticise him for enjoying the only thing she has to offer? Surely it makes total sense for her to move for him, now; open herself, rub herself against him, let him know how good he is at arousing her, that she acknowledges his right to treat her so, to let him know that he should do with her just as he wants to, that she is his. His, just as much as she is the property of her owner, as he had explained to her — since at the Castle, all girls, whomever they belong to, are held in common. This, too had been explained to her by Anne-Marie, on the night of the blonde.

She will learn, over the next weeks — and then months, too — that these realities, so unacceptable, so against the grain of everything good in a girl’s upbringing, her expectations, her life force, that these realities take time to become truly embedded in a girl’s psyche.

She will learn that such acceptance, such submission, such calm, comes only in waves, is never assured, that calm is always succeeded by bouts of equally animal refusal, rejection, denial. She will learn that it is only with the ruthless, cruel crushing of each of these uprisings of resistance by The Castle’s heartless, relentlessly demanding machine, that the floods of submission will return, more overwhelming each time. That the peace of opening oneself yet more fully can only be bought at the cost of having been ever more thoroughly degraded. She will see, in herself, increasingly — with increasing horror, and with simultaneously increasing dismayed yearning — see in herself the urge to incite such deeper ruination, less constrained cruelty, more terrible humiliations, driven by desperate need for the deeper peace which these might bring.

And the first of these resurgences of refusal, of resistance comes soon enough, when, the car having drawn up on noisy, crunching gravel (the sound immediately suggesting clean, expensively maintained country château driveways), she is pulled by her hair from the back seat into the shockingly cold night air, yanked upright by her upper arms, dragged a few paces and then roughly flung against what seems to be a large, and very cold, wrought iron gate.

Suddenly, all softness, all acceptance, all willingness to please, to present herself has evaporated; this is wrong — terribly, horribly wrong — a violation that cannot, must not — WILL not — be tolerated. Still blinded by the hood, gagged, cuffed, naked, trembling, she does what her body can, and kicks out, sharply, again and again, grunting her rejection of being treated so, this being the only noise which can get through the gag at all. The sharp pointed toe of her shoe hits, hard; a shin, perhaps, and there is a gasp, grimly satisfying to hear, which shows it has had some effect.

Her mind is in animal ‘fight or flight’ mode, now; she has been attacked, treated abominably, and they will pay, she will punish them, until she can get to the point where escape is worth trying, and then she will run, get away from this madness, find some normal people, get them to help her. She kicks out again — only to have her thigh caught with a big hand, under her knee, now lifting, overbalancing her, so that she cannot stop herself tipping backwards into the arms of one of them (she has no idea which is which), and then she is off the ground, both her knees hooked by large hands (Sandy Hair, she suddenly thinks, with horror), now spread wide; horribly, helplessly wide, the flailing of her feet now useless, arms still cuffed behind her, feeling her breasts move, heavily.

“Good to see she’s got some fight in her, the little cunt — boring when they’re too easy. Mind you, she’s a helpless wanton, all the same — lifting her arse for me, in the back, there; rubbing herself onto my fingers like a bitch in heat, she was; like you said, it’s the accelerated regime for this one, for sure.”

“Still, behaviour like that can’t be tolerated; we get to thrash her tits, this time.”

Just the mention of this defeats her, floods her with terror and dismay, and she’s immediately making pathetic, desperate, hopeless attempts to signal her renewed submission, her abject apologies, through the gag and the hood, as they carry her to the gate and re-arrange the cuffs so that her wrists are locked to the bars, high above her head, her back hard against the ice-cold iron. She doesn’t expect anything but to be ignored — but still cannot stop herself from uselessly babbling her fear, her submission, her pleas, all absorbed, reduced to nothing more than entertaining signals of vulnerability by the terrible gag.

“Let’s get that hood off her, and the gag, too — let her see what’s coming; she can scream her lungs out, here, with no-one to come to the rescue.”

When the hood comes off, she’s immediately blinded; they’ve parked the car so that it is pointing at the gate, close, the single parking headlight tightly focused on her, shining directly into her eyes. Even as she gets used to that, it still dazzles, the glare making the surrounding darkness almost total. It’s as if the universe consists only of black fog, and one single, powerful light illuminating her shamefully displayed nakedness, the two dark figures abusing her no more than silhouettes, coming in and out of the pool of light as they move around.

It’s too intense, and she knows she cannot bear this; sees, clearly, for a second, just how sickeningly easy Anne-Marie’s task will be, how she is already so weakened that she will probably rush into the conditioning, the cruelty, the chains, so frightened is she of everything, now, so far from any idea of normality. Shame overwhelms her, and she has to fight herself to keep the tears in check, remembering, with bitterness in her mouth, that she is forbidden, now, on pain of more cruelty, even to cry for herself.

As soon as the tie is loosened from the gag, there is a hand at her left leg, lifting her thigh, and before the bunched linen napkin is tugged from her distended mouth — pulling horribly at her inner cheeks, her palate, her tongue, having got so dry it seems glued to these, the separation cruelly painful, as if the inside of her mouth is being torn — before this is over, her knee, too, is tied to the barred gate, high and out to the side, splitting and stretching her sex, her right foot scrabbling for stability in the gravel, and she is babbling and whining her fear, her pleas for mercy, her abject apologies, her promises of sexual service, her inability to survive more pain, the impossibility of her breasts being able to take the heavy leather belts that had been used on her back and buttocks, urgently trying to communicate all this, even with a mouth that is thick with congealed spittle, her jaw so stiff and painful that she cannot form the sounds clearly, sounding as if she is a stroke victim, horrified at the pitiful noises coming from her, but unable to stop, so desperate is she, so convinced is she, that she will not survive taking the belt on her soft breasts, or, more terrifying still, into her splayed open sex.

Sandy Hair is up close to her, then, his groin pressing into hers (she can feel his erection pressing against her sex), one hand on her hip, the other at her breasts, breath hot, talking quite normally to her, and she stills herself, shamefully affected by his nearness, weakly grateful for his warmth (the cold is biting at her now, physically frightening her);

“Did I hear you right then, pretty? You want to give me a lovely fuck of your slut pussy — you’d rather some stranger fucked you, all trussed up like this, than take the beating that’s coming to you? You’d do everything you could to make it good for him, move your hips, kiss him nicely, ask him to fuck you like a dirty whore, do whatever he wants — is that true?”

It takes her a few seconds to get herself to it, but when it comes, it sounds — and is — desperately, urgently sincere;

“Yes! Oh yes … please! Please … I can’t … can’t take those … those belts on my … I … Please, yes … yes I’ll make it good for you, move for you, give you what you want — anything, please — please?”

And she is already moving her hips for him as his hand, for the third time that night, invades her sex, and she struggles, forces herself to recall how it had been, in the car just before, in the restaurant, earlier (a thousand years ago), to recall how helplessly she had responded to him, how wet she had got, offering herself to his hand, as blockish and unhelpful now as it had been clever before — he is making her do the work, whore herself, demean herself.

She does it; does everything she can think of, smiles pathetically at him with her twisted mouth, puts her tongue out a little, writhes as best she can against him until he’s laughing at her;

“Jesus, mate, you weren’t wrong about this one; she’s got me hard again, and it’s worked, the clever bitch — I’m going to rape her now, instead of thrashing her straightaway. We can do her tits afterwards, ha! You never know, if she’s good enough I might have it in me to do her up the backside after that — although I do need to have something in the tank for Alison when I get back — that little girl has a deep need to get fucked that would surprise you — will surprise you, I promise -”

” AAAArrrhhhhhhh…”

— he has sunk himself, abruptly, deep, deep into her wide split, defenceless sex, and she yells, too, from the heat of him, from the shame of of it, from the despair at having so easily been brought so low as to be urgently, carefully bucking her hips for this horrible man, in the hope that he will enjoy his rape of her, in the vain hope that he will forget his plan to thrash her breasts; in her need for the suppression of all thought that being fucked might bring.

He continues talking, even as he’s fucking her;

” … and maybe sooner than you think, too. Her step-father, it turns out, has been a guest here — he’s a business partner of a Big Table member. Get this — he wants Alison brought here! Wants her broken in and trained so she’ll marry some guy he wants to have a hold on. His own daughter! Fucking hilarious!”

He is silent, then, picking up the pace, and she, too, shockingly, finds herself suddenly focused; eager, almost — for heaven’s sake, her body is actually interested in the possibility of orgasm. And then they are fucking — really fucking — she working with him, for his pleasure, feeling him, wanting him to feel her, serving him, paying attention to him, giving herself to him, weeping now, softly (the knowledge eating into her that her former lover is seeing just how right he has been about her, seeing just how quickly, how easily, with how little struggle she has become a whore), but not letting that distract her from Sandy Hair’s pleasure — for she, despite her breath catching in her throat, her belly spasming, is a thousand miles from a climax of her own; focused entirely on him, meeting his mouth with her own when he dips his head to kiss her, losing herself in the kiss as best she can, until he pulls back with a softly voiced but cutting ‘Whore’, so that she has to doubles down to distract herself from the painful shame of it, concentrating now on the way his hips are jerking, anticipating his climax, doing what she can to serve it, strengthen it, lifting her right foot off the ground now; offering herself, hearing him laugh at her, sneering, and committing to him anyway, helping him lift her thigh, wrapping her leg around his waist, stretching herself to do so, pulling him into her, tightening her internal muscles, opening her mouth to his as he leans in to kiss her again, suffering the pains at her wrists, her tied knee, her tenderised back rubbing against the cold hard iron of the gate, her broken and wrenched heart; accepting those pains as simply part of it, and giving herself to him in spite of it all, losing herself, wanting to lose herself, in the simple fact of being fucked, fucked hard, fucked without love, without care, just fucking, fucking, being fucked…

Begging him, to ‘fuck me, fuck me hard, hurt me, destroy me … Oh God, fuck mefuckmefuckme…’, until he begins to slam her, violently, back against the gate, again and again, without restraint, making her fear he will really break her; smash something inside her, growling like some fierce wild animal, a sound that seems to her to be full of terrifying hatred, while he spurts into her, and her sobs break free.

As soon as he’s done, he steps away, back into the darkness, laughing, his breathing still rapid, pleased with himself, abandoning her in her shame, her panting; weakly, desperately, trying to place her right foot so as to give her some support, to minimise the agonising bite of the cuffs into her wrists, feeling the wetness of his come on her leg, her body still jerking in the aftermath of him, her breath catching; more naked, more exposed now than ever, the fact that she can’t see the men, but knows they are right there, in the darkness, seeing her like this, how tragic, how dirty and pathetic and sordid it all is, and how this is all she will ever have, ever again.

Fighting tears, again.

“Wow. Fuck! That was worth waiting for — couldn’t do her in front of Alison without undermining the game plan, which was fucking annoying, but I’m glad I did wait, because having her up on this gate is excellent. That is one dirty fucking whore, and not exactly exclusive to you, mate, either — did you see the way she put her leg round me, hear her moaning for me, begging for it? And what she can do with those Kegels, Christ! If she arrives as hot as this, imagine what she’ll be when Anne-Marie has her tuned up and firing on all cylinders!”

Being talked about like this hurts in a whole different spectrum, and with all her heart, she wants to cry out to him, the man who has been her lover for so many months, to beg him, plead with him, just to make it a little easier for her, not to hurt her, not to shame her, quite so much, to show her just … just something; some small mercy, some tiny kindness. But she cannot.

It’s not that she cannot, she realises, suddenly. Not that she is frightened to, either, although both are real.

It’s that she knows it would be wrong. He shouldn’t. He mustn’t.

Not because she doesn’t deserve mercy — perhaps all creatures do — even if she, through her bringing of all this onto herself, is perhaps the least deserving of creatures. But anyway, it’s not that, either.

It would be wrong, because of this terrible reality; that this is how it must be — she is to be broken, broken to The Castle. She is to be made special — special like the blonde. And this; this relentless, unremitting, heartless cruelty is what it will take.

She cannot be treated with kindness. Kindness will only make it harder for her to experience again that specialness, that limitless submission, that peace.

She is terrified by these thoughts, finds them unbearable; but has no outlet for her fear and pain other than to moan — an agonised, passionate, keening, shuddering moan of terrible despair and heartbreak, which is met only with an appreciative jibe;

“Christ I like it when I hear them like that, that we get to do that to these bitches - that they ask us to do that to them — I’m getting hard again already; come on, time to thrash those lovely tits, make her jump and squeal.”

Of course. She has degraded herself, given herself, worked to let him enjoy his rape of her, all for nothing. They will thrash her poor breasts in any case.

Lacking the energy or even the self-respect to beg for mercy, she is still moaning as they begin to hit her with their belts again, the blows lashing into her from the darkness, shutting her up sharply — the luxury of grief abruptly abandoned in the face of an urgent need to focus; for although, tied as she is, there is nothing, nothing at all that she can do to mitigate the blows, she is possessed by a need to be fully present, as aware as possible; to prepare herself, to be ready to do whatever she can to manage the unspeakable, unthinkable reality that she is chained, in the freezing dark, spotlit by blinding light, having her breasts thrashed — and then her belly — and then … then. And she does squeal, and squeak, and beg, and babble, and yell, and cry, not knowing, really, what she is doing, except responding to the pain, to the fear, to the abject helplessness of being trussed like this, of being so cruelly, heartlessly, casually beaten.

Then they get to her groin, and the front of her thighs, and they are talking about technique, about just what it takes to be sure that the tip of the belt will curl round to flick at her sex, her clitoris — and at last she screams without restraint; full throated, breaking quickly to a higher pitch still, agonised, hysterical with it all, as another lands, and then another, and yet another, until it seems as if there has never been anything else in her life than this.

And then it’s all over; they’ve stopped.

Only her whimpering now, in the pool of light.

And she hasn’t died — although she would gladly, at this moment, accept a painless oblivion. It takes all she has not to think, not about what she has done this evening, not about what has just been done to her, not think about anything.

There is a pause, then, during which she isn’t really present; probably not long, but she has no real idea. It doesn’t matter, of course. She has no time, now. They have time, and they have her. They have everything, and she has nothing, not any more.

And then they are back, passing a spirits flask between them, slapping their hands against the cold, laughing at the way she is shivering, how stiff her nipples are, stroking her arms softly to feel the goosebumps as some relict of evolution attempts to fluff up some non-existent fur to keep her warm, jokingly playing with her clitoris, her nipples, her labia, her cheeks, her thighs, not at all gentle, commenting on her responsiveness (for she cannot help herself from moaning and moving under their manipulations), playing with her vulnerability; entertaining themselves.

Neither of them speaks to her, of course, or tells her anything, and she remembers, just in time, not to look up at them, for fear of more pain; and then they are at her wrists, her knee, and she is released, falling, helplessly, her legs impossibly weak, cramping painfully, falling to her knees, which she discovers has been the plan, as one of them, it becomes clear, wants to use her mouth — yes, it is her lover, her master, her owner — and indeed he is almost immediately into her throat with his hard cock, pushing hard, pushing deep; slow, casual, clearly settling himself in to enjoy her to the maximum.

“Go round the back will you? Put that tie round her throat, choke her while I do her. Choke her hard. I want to feel her throat tight on me as I push in; all the fucking way in.”

He is fucking her mouth now, treating her in a way which, only a day ago, even as accepting and submissive as she has lately become, would have got him slapped, screeched at, but which now gets him her full, earnest attention, her total commitment, in the horrible awareness that a misjudgement now, with the tie like a noose at her neck, could mean the end of her; discovering, despite the feeling of only a few minutes ago, that her body wants to live — fiercely wants to live.

Again, she has no idea how long it lasts, that nightmare of forced deep throating, the tie around her neck always tight, sometimes so tight that she cannot breathe for impossible periods, of her urgent eagerness to pleasure him with her tongue and lips when he gives her the chance, trying everything she knows that he has liked in the past, opening herself, desperately, until at last she knows he is about to come, and braces herself for the violence of his frenzied thrusting, which she knows he has held in check with her before (they have talked about it, she’s told him he must, that she cannot take the full force of him, not in that way), realising that now, tonight, he is going to feel free simply to take her as he wishes, that he will not hold back, that she will have to work at surviving him.

Only his first few spurts are emptied deep into her throat, before he pulls back, grasping his cock, staving off his climax, prolonging it all — a trick of his — snarling;

“Hold it in your mouth, cunt, hold it, hold it all you … fucking … dirty … stupid … little … SLUT!”

He only uses such language with her when the sex is so good that he loses all control, and, through the struggle of it all as he shoves himself, violently, back, deep into her throat — trying to breathe enough, making sure not to let her body do what it wants to do and bite him, to get this fat thing out of her throat; dealing with the shame of it all and the fear and the cold, all of it — what breaks through when she hears this is simple, stupid pleasure; she’s given him something, something that he has wanted, and he’s enjoying it, and happy tears leak from her eyes; stupid, happy-sad tears, even as her whole body is spasming in its urgency for air, just to breathe again.

When his jerking becomes doubly frenzied, she knows he is, finally, coming, and she tries to obey him, she really does, except that she can’t, simply cannot control herself; it’s in all her airways, thick and sticky and hot and so much of it, and she’s drooling and snorting and retching and coughing, and it’s spurting from her nose, hurting her, and her feelings switchback; her tears turn hot and bitter and her heart fills with black despair and as he pulls out from her, wiping himself on her hair, on her cheeks, and then, clearly still half-manic with sexual excess, he rants at her;

“Useless little bitch. The first time you get a chance to really please me with your mouth after all this time and you fail me. We’ll see whether Anne-Marie can train you properly, whore, or whether I’ll have to sell you on as soon as you’ve signed.”

First the shame and then, following closely behind, a terrible, bottomless sadness claims her, wiping out everything else, and this time she does wish she could die. She’s not going to be able to do this. Even the freedom of meaninglessness is not going to carry her through such horrifying abuses. She’s lost. Lost it all. Lost him, even.

She hardly notices what is happening, then, as she is pulled and pushed, and mauled, just letting it all happen to her, as they rearrange the cuffs, fix something cold and hard at her neck, until, quite quickly, they seem to be finished with her, to be talking about the drive back, whether or not her man will go to the party where Alison awaits Sandy Hair (the charms of some young friend of hers being described by him as an encouragement; ‘You’ll need a new challenge, now, mate!’), and then they’re walking back to the car.

The doors slam, the engine roars, the other headlight comes on, and with a fast three point turn, it pulls away. Nothing at all has been said to her; they’ve simply gone, leaving her, naked, sore, sticky, shivering in the black dark, on a freezing night, chained to a gate in the middle of nowhere, her wrists once again cuffed behind her.

The horror of it dawns slowly at first, then comes over her with a rush, panic following in its wake. They can’t! It’s not possible! I can’t … !

And yet they have. And so she has no choice; no choice but to accept.

Of course.

She wrenches at the restraint, helplessly, hurting herself. It’s at her neck, a cold iron circlet, with a dangling something — presumably a padlock — fixed around the elaborate latch in the centre of the gate, at such a height as to have her bent over, her back at a steep angle. It’s quickly evident that there is nothing — nothing at all — that she can do. This is her life, now, until someone comes to change it for her. This is it. She will die, here, then. Die of the cold. Or die at her own hand, possibly, if the despair takes her and she can find a way to choke herself on the iron ring.

Die of shame. Die of despair, Die of …

Die of cold.

After a while — again, there is no possible way of knowing how long a while it was, what time it is, where she is, anything — after a while, nothing matters apart from the cold. The bone chilling, numbing, agonising, hateful cold. The cold that eats at her, that has her shivering and wriggling in pathetic, pointless attempts to warm herself.

At one point, taking herself in hand, discovering once again that her body does not share her psyche’s pathetic wish to die, to be free of this agony, this shameful defeat, but rather is determined to live, whatever the cost, she tries to run on the spot, to generate some heat.

Finding this almost impossible, bent as she is up against the gate, in the heels, she tries to get them off, first by pulling and wrenching, then by means of lifting her feet up behind her, in the vain hope that her hands can undo the buckles of the ankle straps, only to discover that she has lost so much feeling in her fingers, that the cuffs have bitten so hard into her wrists, that she is physically incapable of even finding the clasps with her fingertips, out of sight behind her back, and she cries out in terrible, horrible, wrenching despair.

Later still, exhausted, her back aching terribly, she decides to kneel, and discovers a fiendish truth — that her neck is fixed just so high as to make it impossible for her to take any weight on her knees — so that as she bends her legs, it is the iron ring at her neck which increasingly takes her full bodyweight, making it cut agonisingly into her jaw and at the back of her skull, unbearable, while her knees — already bloodied from the sharp gravel during the rape of her throat, can only uselessly graze the stones. She must either stand, back twisted, or squat, neither of which positions is bearable for more than a few minutes at a time.

Later still she discovers, through hateful, shameful experiment, that the ring cannot be got into any position which will reliably throttle her, either; so that, even if she could make her body go through with it, she is denied even that route out.

There is nothing, nothing to be done but endure. Not endure through willpower, not with hope, not with determination.

She has none of these.

Simply, to endure because she can do nothing else. Endure without hope, Endure without purpose.

Simply, endure.

Somehow, for some unfathomable reason, she cannot bring herself to get rid of what remains of her lover’s come from her mouth, holding it, careful not to swallow any. Because he had told her to keep it there. Because it was the last thing he had told her to do. Because she had given herself to him. None of these make any sense. But still, she keeps to it, through everything.

Because that was the only purpose she could cling to, the only thing which might, perhaps, provide any meaning to this terrible suffering.

And so she endures, simply endures, waiting for the cold to take her. For her body to be found, naked, face and hair sticky with his come, mixed come stains on her thighs, too; beaten, bloodied, shackled. A degraded whore, unwanted after use, abandoned without consideration, meaningless.

It is too hard, too hard. She can’t … she can’t endure this; and yet she has no option. She wonders why she doesn’t go mad, become delirious, why she doesn’t fall into a daze, as she has heard people dying from cold often do.

But there is no release, no escape from the reality that it was her choice, her decision, her insistence that has led to this bleak and unendurable life sentence.

This agony persists, eating into her, forever, until the rest of her existence, her past, the insanity of the evening that just passed, all that seems like nothing more than a sad, silly hallucination.

Until, from nowhere, a thought comes to her, that, if she cannot bring herself to swallow the souring come that sits on her tongue, that she can, perhaps, pathetic as it might be, build on that.

And so it is, that, much later (although still half an hour before the winter dawn), Anne-Marie and two footmen, in the faintly ridiculous little estate buggy, find her, semi-conscious, moaning almost continuously under her breath, but doggedly presenting herself, body at ninety degrees to the gate, feet spread widely apart, back arched, tongue clamped between her teeth displaying what remains of her new owner’s come. She has found a way to wipe at her face, catching her hair on her shoulder and rubbing her cheeks awkwardly against it, cleaning herself up as best she could, then afterward worked to shake and push her hair into some sort of shape, and since then, she has held the position; despite the cold, despite the terrible pain in her lower back, despite the despair, despite everything; often on the verge of passing out, but forcing herself not to, to be present, to be this open, available cunt, since there is nothing else, any more, that she can hope to be.

Signing to the flunkeys to stay back, to keep their torches on the girl, Anne-Marie, in a smart woollen trouser suit, high-heeled boots and a heavy fox-fur against the cold, walks slowly up to the naked, trembling body, so pathetically displaying itself, observing it with experienced eyes. At length, she nods, smiling to herself; satisfied.

The girl has not moved, although some shifting of her body, cessation of the low keening, followed by a small, incoherent whimper makes it clear that she is aware of some change, at least.

Anne-Marie walks up, directly behind her then, removes the glove from her right hand, and softly, gently, runs a finger along the spread sex, so abjectly offered.

There is an initial, instinctive clenching — undesirable, unacceptable; to be trained out of the girl rapidly — but then, encouragingly, a determined relaxation of tension.

The movement is repeated, more forcefully; two fingers now, pressing; a despairing moan, but soft and weak, just as it should be, without a trace of defiance, comes from the girl’s throat, but she has made no move to twist her head, to look for the source of this insultingly intimate first contact. Also a good sign.

The fingers push inside, now, without hesitation, as of right, investigating thoroughly. There’s a louder whimper, less subdued (but still acceptable) and, more positively, a definite move on the girl’s part to open herself more obviously; to offer herself up to the invading hand — three fingers now inside her, Anne-Marie exploring this new cunt, getting to know it (Anne-Marie has become quite a connoisseur of the internal arrangements of young women — surprisingly varied, it turns out, once you have had sufficient opportunity to explore a large sample, at leisure, completely untroubled by any objections which might arise in the heads attached to the cunts under investigation).

Anne-Marie’s smile twists a little, cautiously pleased.

“Jennifer, isn’t it? Charles’ date when we deep-broke that big-titted blonde piece? This is you, isn’t it? Or rather, that was you, I suppose. Whatever this pathetic, shivering collection of fuck-holes is, it certainly won’t be called Jennifer; won’t have a label, even, for some time. Just the new cunt. But that was you, wasn’t it, new cunt? That Jennifer?”

Anne-Marie has pulled out of her now, moved round to the side, the better to appraise the girl’s face.

She’s trying to speak, but clearly her condition, the cold and the funny way she’s holding her tongue make it hard for her to be clear. It is, just, possible to interpret the garbled noises as;

“Yes, Madam”, but Anne-Marie doesn’t care; what matters is that the girl holds her pose well enough, in the circumstances, and is responding as best she can, while otherwise remaining silent. A good beginning. In any case, she is peering at the girl’s tongue, wanting to understand why she is holding it so. When it becomes clear, she laughs a little;

“That’s his come, isn’t it? Charles’ come? You don’t need to answer, little whore. Just keep it like that until you’re told to swallow it.”

“I’m going back in for some petit-dejeuner, now. These two will take you to where you will be prepared. I don’t suppose I need to tell you, but, for the avoidance of doubt, you are nothing, here. Nothing at all. Of less importance than even the least-favoured of the dogs — whom we know by name, and care about. You have less rights than the dogs, too — although Charles has certain beneficial claims over you, the reality is that, while you are here, you are, simply, part of the estate, just as the gate you are chained to is. If anyone wants to use the gate, they don’t think twice about it — do you see? They just go right ahead and use the gate. And the gate does not resist them. If it should become a bit reluctant to open, why, again, there will be no thinking needed — it will simply be forced open. Should the gate continue to be awkward, then it will either be altered so that it is once again, something that serves the estate perfectly, or it will be disposed of and replaced with a more satisfactory one.”

“You’re an intelligent, educated girl, according to Charles, so I won’t labour the point. In any case, you will be introduced to a rather vigorous understanding of it, soon enough, as these two will no doubt wish to exercise their chance to be the first here to use your holes.”

Interpreting the new cunt’s agitated whimper at this as having to do with her urgent desire to be taken inside, out of the cold, Anne-Marie decides to be a little kind — a reward for the pretty effort the girl has made in difficult circumstances;

“Oh, I know you’re cold, cold to the bone, little cunt, but don’t worry too much; I’ve had my fingers in plenty of cold pussies, and I would say that you’re only just into the hypothermia range. Also, your toes are blue, but not white, and there is only an air-frost so far, so you I doubt you’ll lose any toenails, even. Although I can guarantee that being warmed up will be almost as bad as the cooling down was.”

“From that point of view, indeed, being roughly fucked by a couple of strong young men could be seen as a boon — starting off the warming process in an entirely natural way. Not that anyone cares.”

“We’ll begin your induction later. I believe Charles has already informed you that we will be proceeding rapidly and ruthlessly in your case, without any of the niceties. It will be awful; there is no getting around it. You will suffer terribly, and wonder at various times whether you can survive without going mad, or find some means of ending yourself, in order to avoid further pain. I won’t reassure you; indeed, no-one will — it is an important requirement of the accelerated process that a girl not receive the slightest comfort or kindness at any point. But I will tell you now that my assessment is that you will not only get through this, but that you have the potential to be quite an interesting little filly, if you manage to submit in the right way.”

“That’s your only freedom here, by the way — how you work on yourself to express your complete submission. For you will, inevitably, submit. You will be broken, and you will be made to be what you are required to be. Nevertheless, the particular qualities of your fulfilment of those requirements will, in the end, depend upon you. You will find, even with this, that I am powerfully manipulative — even this small freedom will be heavily conditioned and constrained. Nevertheless, you will be required to try to find ways to express that freedom creatively and desirably. This will be the hardest experience of your little life, cunt. See if you can make something of it.”

Anne-Marie wipes her fingers on a relatively clean-looking clump of the girl’s hair, and, flicking her hand imperiously at the footmen, as the light begins to gather, she begins to walk back to the main building along the narrow paved path that provides a more direct and walkable route than the drive, pulling on her gloves.

She does not look back, even when the girl begins to screech and squeal, loudly, desperately; seemingly horrified by something.