You will find that this makes more sense if you have read the first part of Capitulation
One thing that a sequence of cruelly and carefully planned, prolonged and merciless gang-rapes will do to you— when played out relentlessly over a full week that felt more like a month; treatment as psychologically manipulative as it was physically and sexually violent— one thing that will do to you is simplify your life.
Radically.
Many, many things that seemed important will now seem meaningless. Almost nothing has turned out to matter at all, and of those few that do, most have been violently and callously stripped from you.
Sitting on the train back to London, making myself sit well despite the many sorenesses; sharp and dull, hot pain and grinding shame, with Maddy facing me across the table in first class, filming me as she had all week; through it all, I knew that there was no way that my face would not betray me; that the change they had forced upon me— that Justin had forced onto me, would not be painfully, shamefully obvious. The change I had offered myself up for; consented to, against all reason, against all better judgement, against all decency or sanity or expectation, that change was in my face.
For nothing of my life story up to the day Justin had asked me that question, nothing at all, looked like anything now but the feeble, naive confusions of a sweet but ultimately foolish child.
The world— my world, at least, was not as I had imagined it; my story was not the one I had told myself; the other players in my story were just that— players— not real people— either acting, playing me along, or, more likely, just as confused, naive and foolish as me— ignoring as much as possible of the evidence that surrounded them as to what the world is like, what people are like, what happiness is, what meaning is, as they possibly could, so as to get by with the least amount of trouble.
But all that was over for me, now.
My choice was simple, and stark.
I could leave, with nothing (oh, I might have a bit of money, all my possessions would still be mine, but I would have to start again, all my previous understandings of myself erased, no belief in anything to rebuild with, no Justin, no Maddy, nothing; not my family, for sure, since I could see all too clearly how I had learned from them the habit of building a plausible web of lies to ward off uncertainty)— or, I could walk forwards into this new reality.
This reality where my value, my meaning, my pleasure, my pain was all defined by the simple, brute business of being fucked; by the use of the holes between my legs, and the one in my face.
For, whatever else had been destroyed that week— and the pain, the terror, the shame, the outrage at the loss, the ravaging, the heartless, laughing, tearing down of everything that I had thought was my life; that had all to be dealt with still, whatever I chose— but alongside that, there was something new.
Something real, something which must have been there all along, hidden, impossible to acknowledge, something that was so deep in me that it could never be taken from me, something that I could never lose.
And it was this; that I liked being fucked by strangers; that I liked being fucked impersonally; fucked hard, carelessly and casually used; liked being forced— spread, invaded, manhandled— that I liked having strange men, men I didn’t like, even, liked having them come inside me, liked their frenzy, their need, their urgency as they did it to me.
And, too, I liked men looking at me, knowing they could do that to me.
I liked showing them that I wanted it as well, that I was open to it, eager for it; liked their surprise, their joy, their wildness as they realised they could go at me, unshackled by anything they had been told, that there was no need to think about me or my feelings. That I would give them myself to the extent that I could, that they were free to force me, to roughly take from me anything which I could not bring myself to give.
It was terrifying, this choice, but with each moment, in the boring, sterile surroundings of first class, no communication at all between me and Maddy, the carriage all but empty, the noise of the train at once intense and forgettable, with each moment it became clearer to me that it had to be made.
That any attempt to paper over the cracks, to pretend that Justin and I could somehow assimilate this seismic event into the old version of what we were to each other— even if that ‘papering over’ meant ‘breaking up’, it would just be another sort of pretense that a typical relationship situation had occurred— that anything like that would send me to the madhouse.
Any attempt to rebuild the fairy-tale castle of lies that ‘Princess Mia’ had lived in was doomed to disaster and despair.
And despair was the enemy, I knew. Despair was what had overwhelmed me, that night, after the fourth day of terrifying, sadistic, greedy, laughing abuse, and I could never face it again, I knew. Every frothed-up cheerful story about how life was really weighted towards love, that the universe was a place which rewarded goodness and positivity had been ruthlessly proved to me to be nonsense; happy-clappy self-delusion. The universe wanted to tear me down— would tear me down, and there were two ways out— either to give up; seek death— or, to embrace it and live with what dignity I could muster.
And it was my insight that night, that I could offer myself to my abusers with more or less dignity— no matter that they were clever, and sadistic, and would carefully, deliberately, knowingly sabotage, with maximum distress, any dignity I attained; that was not the point— they could cruelly shred my dignity, laugh at my humiliation— it had been brutally proven to me that I could not prevent them. My agency was not in the attainment or maintenance of dignity, for that had been, would be, ruthlessly, sneeringly, stripped from me, but rather in my offering of myself— in my own inner choices about how I chose to open myself to their twisted lusts, their sadism, their shamings and their abuses. It was that insight which had saved me.
More, in the days that followed— days that were in many ways increasingly awful— it was that insight which led me to my understanding of that inner truth.
That I was happy to be abused, to be degraded, to be shamed, even— as long as it went along with my eagerness to be fucked.
It had taken days, though; days, to come to terms with the fact that I had to be prepared to be open about that need— had to let my abusers see that I was responding to them, that I would encourage them, offer myself up for use, let them hear me moan, see me quiver as, in the middle of a gang-bang, pummelled by unkown men, I found myself working towards an orgasm, despite the knowledge that they would, if they could, deny me that release; that if I should achieve climax that I would be hurt as punishment. None of that stopped me from purposefully dismantling my guards, my inhibitions, my modesty (as if the term made any sense in that maelstrom).
It would take more— much more, I knew, to let this revealed truth about myself have its full expression, but at the same time I knew— for it had been the subject of excited, self-congratulatory talk between them that they had ‘raped me into nymphomania’ as they put it— I knew that quite a few people, both complete strangers (strangers, that is, apart from them having beaten and raped me over many days, had me kneel and beg and dance, and jiggle my tits for them, and beg for their cocks, and open myself, all my holes, to their fat fingers, their tongues, their cocks and their belt-straps, too) and people who knew me as well as anyone on the earth— that these already knew, had seen and understood, that I was a born whore; a helpless, servile, sensation-hungry slut, who— having offered herself up for it, and had now been so thoroughly and abjectly broken— a slut who would debase herself and reveal herself, no matter how shamefully, if she thought she had a hope of being fucked, of being taken to that other place.
But that was the choice I must make— to go down that path, which must, inevitably, take me to dark places, make me vulnerable to harsh judgements of disgust from many decent people; that one-way path— or— to reject it and face a life of emptiness and self-denial.
There was no choice. Not really. I was not strong enough to attempt the latter.
And so I looked into Maddy’s lens, and smiled as best I could, and wriggled my shoulders when she told me to ‘make your tits move— lean forward, show them off’.
And tried as many takes of; ‘See you next time, guys— I know I won’t be able to say no, even though I’m terrified!’ as she asked me to.
Not fighting the shame that welled up in me, ingrained, the automatic thought that came up; ‘you should hate yourself for being so easy‘— not rejecting it, but letting it wash through me, letting it devastate me, bring back the tears to my eyes— never far away, these days— but not letting it stop me smiling; rather channeling it into a wider smile, an extra wiggle, letting it show in my eyes.
This was me, now.
The build-up had been surreal, almost impossible to endure.
The madness began immediately— that night, once Maddy had cross-examined me, taken me through it over and over; rewound the video, watched bits of it again and again, pointing things out to me, asking me could I really, seriously be going to say Yes to such treatment— once she had fallen silent, staring at me; tear-stained, sobbing, limp and despairing mess that I was by then— once she had asked me, that last time;
“And with all that, you’re telling me you’re going to say Yes — that you’re convinced?”
And once I had screeched at her;
“Yes, No, what does it matter? It’s all crazy! We’re fucked! He’s ruined us! But I can’t, I can’t leave him! So it has to be Yes, no matter what. I have to take the one chance that we can find a way through, after.”
And after she had grabbed my chin and made me look her in the eyes and stared at me, stony-faced, I had said what she needed to hear, in a broken whisper;
“And yes… yes, since… since I saw her… that… that dancing… I… I… have to know… have to know if… if I … I just have to know, OK??”
After that, she became all business;
“Right. That’s it then. Decision made.”
“So, you’re going to be beaten and raped, to please your boyfriend, in the hope that he’ll marry you after that and you’ll live happily ever after. That has to go well, doesn’t it? You have to survive it. They have to enjoy themselves— no point going through with such a stupid, fucked-up-beyond-all-reason decision like that unless it gets you the answers you need, both of you. And as far as I can see, if left to yourselves, you aren’t going to be able to make sure of that.”
“He knows, right? He knows you’re telling me? You didn’t just say that?”
I nodded, then shook my head, then nodded again; shaking, unable to speak.
“Well then, the first thing is that you’re telling him right now. Forget this wait a week nonsense; this’ll probably drive you nuts at some point, but there’s no sense in bringing it on any earlier than necessary.”
And, just like that, she was dialling him;
“Hey Justin. It’s yes. I’m with her. It’s yes. Shut up, Justin; take it— you’ve got what you wanted from her, you perverted fuck. Take it and be thankful that was the choice she made, because otherwise I’d be coming for your balls with a knife. And get here, now. Bring more vodka. Limes, too, no sweet mixers; everything’s got to be harsh and sour, tonight…”
It wasn’t that she took charge, not at all. Just that she was our bedrock, the person I called, and Justin called, when the insanity threatened to overwhelm us. He wasn’t doing much better than I was, and I was doing very badly indeed. I got the sense that the ‘friends’ he was talking about weren’t so much real friends as people he wanted or needed to impress, and that they were not in the slightest grateful to me for agreeing to be their victim, or to Justin for having got me to do so. It was Maddy who told him what to say to them, helped him stand up to them when he needed to, got him to ask the questions I needed answers to.
And it was Maddy who was always willing to sit with me. I didn’t speak much, in those weeks (and it took interminable weeks), and I had very little to say in the arrangements, for obvious reasons, so she wasn’t sorting out any practical issues for me, just sitting, looking at me, there for me, ready, but not imposing. At the time it felt incredibly supportive— I was sure I would have snapped a couple of times if she hadn’t come when I called— but now I know that she would have been there more often, if she could have; that she was there for her own reasons; that she was watching me, fascinated.
To this day I don’t know if she had worked to get me to the point of saying ‘Yes’, that night, if her reasoning for making Justin accept it before the week was up was simply to stop me having second thoughts. Whether I should hate her or be grateful to her. It doesn’t matter, anyway. She didn’t make Justin ask me the question. She didn’t make me what I am.
The way she tells it (not to me, but to others; she doesn’t speak to me any more, unless it’s to give orders), she didn’t make her mind up until the second half of the week, until after I had had my ‘breakthrough’, but I’m not sure she’s telling the truth; she rarely does (the things I could tell Justin, tell the other men about how she manipulates them— that is, if they were interested in my mouth as anything but a hole to fuck, or a handy ashtray).
But what does it matter what a pathetically willing and vulnerable rape-slut like me thinks or knows?
She it is who has explained to me that I must be both— make myself both— train myself to be both; both willing and vulnerable— so that my willingness will ensure compliance where I am less vulnerable, while my vulnerability will make forcing me easy should I be so foolish as to offer any resistance.
And I do work at it; work on myself; I do. There is nothing else— beyond the constant round of maintaining my body in a state of desirability and usability— nothing which means much, anyway.
Several times I thought I must go mad with the strain of it, the insane paradoxes of my daily routine; going to work and keeping the flat cleaned, ironing Justin’s shirts (he hated the way the laundry service did them), the planning of dates, negotiating the unpaid leave with work (holiday long since used up with genuine pleasure trips) the thinking about what clothes to take with me (buying clothes to be raped and beaten in!), and, most impossible of all, the business of being in a loving relationship with the man who was going to have strangers violate and degrade me.
We were all over the place, veering from helplessly needy— wordless, crying hugs (Justin cried too, on more than one occasion), to horrible, draining arguments like none we had ever had before. Make-up sex, it turned out, was no longer a thing since I had said ‘Yes’ (both of us were, in our different ways, too stressed and nervous for there ever to be that genuine feeling of release).
What sex we did have was unsatisfactory. Justin was back to the early days of our relationship, when we were only dating; tentative and unsure, losing his erection occasionally, while I was wildly moody.
One time I screamed at him, asking why, if he wanted to see me beaten, raped and abused, he was handling me as if I was made of porcelain? Why couldn’t he just turn me over and fuck me for once?
And then of course, he tried being rough, and hit me, made me cry, then tried to do my backside, which I’d never let him, but had to give up because he wasn’t hard enough, then cried himself— angry, wrenching, harsh sobs— before flinging out of the bedroom to sleep on the couch. That was a horrible night. Maddy had been right; without her the whole thing would have fallen apart before getting to the actual event. It was her, I found out later, who talked him down, who bought the flowers that arrived at work with his name on them. She arrived with dinner that night, too, and talked practicalities in such a matter-of-fact way that we ended up laughing at each other, while she looked on, smiling calmly.
We had the best sex for a while that night, but we were scratchy again the next day. It was a terrible time.
It was while sitting with me, just after that, that she started talking about the video. The woman had made her own ‘before’ video. Justin, she said, was nervous about asking me to make one, so she, Maddy, was dealing with it.
It was a requirement, she said. The sponsor (the man paying for the house and other things) required it. There was no possibility of negotiation.
And, since it had to be made, it might as well be as good as possible. She told me how easy it was, even with good quality equipment, to make amateur mistakes, get the lighting wrong so that skin looked grey, shadows made you ugly. She had done a few video installations, she said— would I like her to help me make the video?
“Make it really good— there’s no upside in looking less attractive, less sexy than you really are, you know.”
And, of course, I said yes.
And, of course, she took over, asking Justin to tell her what it was that the sponsor wanted, what the men wanted, what he liked about the one we’d seen, had he seen any others (one or two, he said, sheepishly)? What had he liked about them? What had he disliked?
She got him to pay for two days of a small studio, too; hire of lights and a professional video-camera. She took me shopping, chose the outfit (Not too full-on, he’d said; it’s the pretty wife next door they really want to violate, not the sexy siren.). We ended up with a short, summery sun-dress which was simultaneously quite revealing and rather girlish. Espadrille wedge-heeled canvas sandals managed the same trick— high enough, with ties around the ankle, so that I tottered a little, but still domestic. Underneath, a simple white bra and panties; again well cut, with enough detail to look pretty, but very far from slutty.
She wrote my script, too, and directed me, making me do more than a few ‘takes’ of both the speech and the striptease dance. She had her ipad mounted on the camera stand with some app showing the script in big letters, scrolling so I could read it and look at the camera at the same time.
Two days had seemed a lot, but in fact we could have used more, because I kept breaking down, or recoiling in horror at the way I looked on the screen, and in the end Maddy just took over, saying she had enough to make a decent version with some cutting together of different takes, and sent me home to cry.
When she came over to show it to Justin, I couldn’t bear to be in the room, even, and hid away. Now, to amuse themselves, they make me watch it sometimes, while they watch me, watch my agony, my despair at the girl I had been, the girl who, however, naive and ridiculous she was, had been pretty, and capable of sweetness, and hope, and happiness. Watch her offering herself up for destruction, see her piteously supplicating smile, hear how frightened, and shame-filled, and horrified her soft, hesitant voice is;
Hi, I’m Mia, and… and I’ve… I’ve consented to a… a mock-rape experience with a number of men not… not known to me. I’m making this recording, first of all, to have it on record that I have consented— that, no matter what I might say afterward, that I know very well that I am going to be very badly treated over a whole week by quite a number of men. That I… that I w… want this.
That I want them to be free to do almost anything they like to me, and force me to comply, using real violence, and with restraints, too, if I try to resist.
I… I know that, whatever I say now, that I probably will try to resist at some point— that what will be demanded of me will seem abhorrent at the time, and… and I want to be clear, now, that any such resistance should be swiftly and ruthlessly crushed. No kindness, softness or mercy are to be shown to me— I… I am to be used as if I were simply a robot sex doll, without feelings. There… there is simply no point going through with this if it is not carried through to the full; 100% compliance must be enforced.
Again, for the record, I… I want this. I understand and request that any and all of the following be done to or with me. I am aware that I will be made to suffer sexual violence, coercive control and real physical harm, as well as certain significant long-term mental impact. All of this is one hundred percent my own responsibility. It’s me that is asking to be treated this way. I have not been coerced or solicited.
At this point in the video, I slowly unbutton the front of my little dress, obviously clumsy with nerves, but steady and continuous in my efforts until I am able to open the front of it and let it fall away behind me, leaving me in panties, brassiere and wedge-heels, visibly trembling, glints in my eyes showing how close to tears I am.
This is a list of things that I explicitly ask to be subjected to:
Hitting, slapping, biting, choking, punching, thrashing with belts, caning, whipping, burning with cigarettes and matches, including my… my nipples and p… pussy, exposure of sensitive parts of my body to chemical irritants including mace and chilli. I fully expect that I will be made to bleed, suffer minor burns and temporary scarring; that I may become unconscious, that I may suffer sprains or minor tears. I consent to anything that might be described as a cosmetic piercing.
I expect to be deliberately terrorised with threats of torture and treatment that I have explicitly not consented to— to be lied to, tricked, manipulated— to be told that this agreement is so broad that there is nothing that cannot be done to me with impunity.
Visibly affected, mouth working, my breath coming heavy and jerkily, I stop, giving myself a little shake, reminding myself that I have more to do before I am done. I remove the brassiere, then lean forward to pull down my panties, setting my breasts swaying. A funny little noise comes from me, half sob, half laugh, at the insanity of it all. Watching, I remember that that was one of the times I nearly lost it, but managed— just— to hold on. Maddy used that take, she says, because it shows me at maximum vulnerability and maximum compliance, both at the same time.
Once naked apart from the shoes, the camera zooms out, to reveal a low table in front of me, and I step forward to kneel onto the table, my knees spread out to the edges of the tabletop, and cup my breasts with my hands, pushing them up and forward, before starting to speak again. You can see me blushing deeply, and my chest heaves several times.
I ask too, for penetration and repeated thrusting into my sex, anus and mouth in any combination and for any duration by male members, by fingers, hands, toes, inanimate objects including sex toys, sticks, tools or other domestic and industrial items.
Forced swallowing of anything including human semen.
Take pictures, recordings and videos of me under any circumstances.
Force me to perform for you in any way. More generally, and explicitly, anything at all may to be done to me, or demanded of me, or forced upon me, which does not violate the following limitations, which are to be interpreted in such a way as to give maximum leeway to those I have invited to abuse me: No treatment likely to require hospitalisation or to cause permanent harm, no cosmetic surgery beyond piercings already mentioned. No tattoos, no marks to head or hands. No sexual activity of any kind involving minors or sexual penetration by non-human creatures. No circulation of pictures, recordings of any kind made of me except among the actual participants.
Everything else is permitted and humbly requested.
I understand that, having made this video, I am not permitted to withdraw or alter this consent. I don’t want there to be any way out of this, and I intend this recording to make it impossible for me to be able, at any later date, to claim that anything was done to me against my will. I want you to enjoy yourselves to the full. Hold nothing back. The last thing I want is to go through this and have a feeling that there was any participant who felt limited in their usage of me. No mercy, no kindness; I am yours to abuse for the duration of the event. Thank you for watching this and for agreeing to do this to me.
After that, it takes me a little while to gather myself, stand up from the table, and begin to dance, my breasts swaying, tears on my cheeks, but managing, somehow, to dance well for my unknown viewers, the men who would destroy me.
The next part of this story has been allocated to the ‘Cruelties’ section. You can review the summary here
