The Story of Odile Pt5.

You will find that this makes more sense if you have read the previous part of Odile’s Story.

You can find all the episodes here.

Almost nothing physical happens in this episode. But major shifts occur for Odile, in her understanding of her position, in the realisation that her submission to Andrew is not to be private between them. It will work to a climax, but that will have to be in the next episode, now.

In the courtyard

This time, as the car slowed to a halt, they had arrived at somewhere unknown to her, even its approximate whereabouts unguessable. Odile felt a lurch in her belly; she had not simply been inattentive to the world outside, but had been completely elsewhere; willingly— wilfully— lost in … in what?

Simply, she answered herself— lost in Andrew. Lost in being, as fully as possible, what she hoped he wished her to be, occupying herself completely with pleasing the cock in her mouth, with her posture, and, too, with the sensation of doing this for him, of surrendering herself to it; not so much repressing those voices in her mind which wanted to recall her to the world, to its expected norms, which demanded that she pay attention to the sharp incompatibility between what Andrew wished of her and any acceptable picture of what she should expect from an intimate relationship— she was not so much repressing these voices, or arguing against them (futile, for she knew they were right— those were her own views; any friend of hers who had recounted experiences such as she had had with Andrew would have been given the same advice, strongly expressed, full of conviction); but, very simply— wilfully, determinedly— she was ignoring herself.

She ignored herself, and all that her life had brought her to understand and to believe; ignored all of it, in favour of this; kneeling, in a rich man’s limousine, half naked, doing everything she could to please his cock, making herself accept it, deep into her throat, for long moments, refusing to allow her instincts, her body’s insistence, to interrupt the smoothness of her caress, even though (because?) he had told her, in the most brutal terms, what degradation, humiliation and shame she could expect from him, and then, immediately afterward, had made her believe him to be completely, ruthlessly capable of subjecting her to.

Claude had opened the car door; she was on her knees, breasts exposed, the slip at her waist, cape swept behind her, hair mussed, her head on Andrew’s lap, mind empty— gratefully so.

She had been fucked, thoroughly fucked, in the behind and in the throat. She had given of herself as fully as she could, letting the controlling selfishness of his use of her body, the pain, her own shame at finding it so easy to accept being controlled, letting it all be part of the experience, part of his pleasure; to be welcomed, somehow— and he had apparently been satisfied.

And she? She was stilled; Claude’s grin, his evident appreciation of her naked breasts, Andrew’s complacent, amazing words;

“As you see, Claude— the pretty has been brought to understand herself, a little”, were neither as shocking nor as disturbing as they should have been, as she knew she ought to have found them.

Rather, she found his casual identification of her as ‘the pretty’, which had been ‘brought’ to some desirable condition, to be welcome, reassuring; her own understanding of what the last hours had done to her reinforced, reflected, consolidated. Bizarrely, unconscionably, she felt safe to be seen like that, to be spoken of in such terms. Safer, indeed, than she could remember feeling for a very long time.

Safe, so that she had defied her reflexes, stilling an automatic shrinking when Claude opened the car-door— the urge to hide her breasts, to pull the slip down over her buttocks, to jerk her head back, in order to make it less obvious that she had been serving Andrew’s cock; not only resisted all those impulses, but instead found herself seeking ways to make her submission, her willing servility, as visible as possible, lifted her buttocks as she pulled her head back, lowered her shoulders— feeling her nipples touch the soft pile of the carpet, bowed her head, did not raise her eyes to look at Claude’s face, but instead responded to what his hand required, as he reached for her, giving him first one arm, then the other, as he took both her wrists in one strong hand, pulled her sideways.

And since she felt so paradoxically, so bizarrely safe, she could concentrate on elegance, and not in the slightest on modesty, as she allowed Claude’s strength to control her— he was manhandling her without consideration, imposing his will on her, but this, too, she found strangely welcome— to be treated like this on Andrew’s behalf; the certainty that, what Claude would have her do, would be exactly what Andrew wanted of her.

She was to get herself out of the car without standing up, she understood, and, trembling, but softly compliant, she made efforts to move as smoothly as she could; extended one leg, out, onto the paving, then let Claude support her weight; he had his other hand at her elbows then, hefting her as, head down, back horizontal, she let him move her sideways, until, with awkward and somehow deeply shaming uncertainties with her legs and feet as she navigated the unusual manoeuvres, she was standing beside the car, bent right over from the waist— a peculiarly powerless and humiliating way to be made to stand; he held her like that for a long moment - long enough for her to know that he knew how it felt for her, that he was showing her that he had power over her, that she, in her quiet acquiescence, had accepted that he had power over her - that this would be how it was, with her and Claude, now; that he would manhandle her on Andrew’s behalf, and she would comply; softly, sweetly, without complaint.

All this was demonstrated again - reinforced - as he had her stand upright; gently enough, but taking her obedience for granted, with strength and to spare to force her if it was needed.

She understood what he wanted, and at once accepted, repressing her emotions at having somehow become a girl who would accept such treatment without demur, finding it easy, shockingly easy, in the warm lights of an elegant porte-cochère, in full sight of a couple of uniformed flunkeys, to restrain herself from clutching at the silky dress as it slipped to the floor around her ankles, letting it fall, leaving her nude, hands expressively helpless, elbows behind her, held by Claude, her eyes downcast, but her head held carefully up.

That Andrew had brought her to such a position, where to be naked like this, an obvious and vulnerable whore, made her feel safe, no matter how crazy that seemed; that he had brought her to such a reality, in such a brief period, for her to be so very grateful to him, was suddenly dizzyingly unreal, and indeed she swayed, which made it all the more obvious that Claude’s grip was controlling her, as her knees momentarily buckled, while she let out a breathy, weak, apologetic half giggle, apologising for her foolishness, her weakness, her helplessness; her self respect lacerated by her obvious complicity in the way she is being treated; and, all at the same time, powerfully aware of a swooning, guilty pleasure at those very same conditions.

She was not a slut, no.

But she was, now— and forever, perhaps; certainly, as long as Andrew wanted her to be— she was now a whore; his whore.

That the horrible word, the heavy, deliberate meaning of it, was acceptable to her mind was another a guilty pleasure, as she told herself she was now a whore; a willing, compliant, submissive whore. A grateful, eager whore.

But still not a slut; there was nothing brazen, nothing proud, nothing salacious, either in her bearing, or in her mind. Her nakedness, the men around her, all of them warmly dressed against the cool, damp evening, filled her with weakness, with embarrassment, with trembling awareness of her terrible vulnerability. And yet; and yet, she worked to present herself as she hoped Andrew wanted her; as an invitation to ravishment.

Never mind that the calm she had felt in the car, which had filled her as she had knelt with Andrew’s cock gradually softening in her throat, patiently, lovingly; holding herself at his disposal until he had moved, indicating he wanted to be free from her (knowing, without doubt, though— without the slightest resentment, either— that he would never love her, never even care for her, not even a little, not in that way; not only was there no resentment, she realised, but more; that she had felt blessed; for it made his attention, his interest in her all the more special; knowing, too, that she would not love him, either, not in that way, even though she had given herself to him in some way she did not fully understand, save that it was so); never mind that that calm was now deserting her, that she was trembling, not so much from cold but from the astonishing new reality of an Odile that would, that could, willingly present herself, naked, to strangers, wanting them to think about fucking her (not for herself, not out of desire, but to do honour to Andrew, to justify his continued interest in her).

She realised, indeed, with numb wonder, that it was inevitable, if she stayed the course with Andrew, that such men would indeed, sooner or later, be actually fucking her, that she would be whoring herself to them, working to please their cocks, encouraging them to use her without restraint, willingly enabling their usage of her, just as she would with Andrew; not because she would want them as a slut might do; greedily, but because Andrew would wish it of her; that his wishes— even her assumptions about his unstated wishes, were now her commanding duties; that she would not resist; would not, right there, even, have resisted, if he had required it of her. That she would be thenceforth incapable of resistance. Indeed, would exert herself to demonstrate how willing she had become to please. Never mind the shredding of calm; for this; this was wonderful.

Not nice, not happy, not kind, not joyful— none of those kinds of wonderful; but rather, simply, that feeling that she could only call safety— which grew from the knowledge that Andrew wanted her, no matter how unsafe she knew the situation to be. And it was wonderful to her, as she felt herself flooded with a deep, profound gratitude.

As these thoughts and feeling whirled in her head, a pressure at her arms from Claude indicated, and she, helpless, without demur, accepted; accepted that she was then to be brought to kneel, kneel naked in front of them, kneel on the cold stone, that she must allow Claude to bend her body forward, down, until she was looking at the grey paving slabs from close up.

The unmissable meaning of this imposed itself in her mind; she was being very deliberately humbled, shamed, her submission made visible to the doormen - and to anyone else who might simply arrive, or come out through the well lit doorway. That this was a terrible thing which was being done to her was very real in her mind. Public humiliation as a servile and pathetic whore.

It was awful— she could see it with harsh clarity; she knew that this moment would stay with her, that it would eat into her that she had allowed this— more— that she had complied as prettily as she could with Claude’s manipulations.

And yet, just knowing that Andrew wanted this, she found that she would, of her own accord, carefully, deliberately, emphasise her shameful submission, that she wanted, as obviously as possible, to make it clear to the watchers that she was indeed a willing whore, eager to please, and so she made every effort to open her thighs, lifted her hips, let her nipples be grazed by the grit of the paving, feeling the cold of it, the chill of the air, prevented herself from thinking, or looking even a little sideways, despite the urgent need that was in her to know even one small thing about where she had been brought to, whether there were others there to observe her humiliation.

The intensity of feeling this produced in her chest was like nothing else she had experienced. Not all-consuming, burning, wild, as it was when Andrew was fucking her; those memories were self-contained; when Andrew fucked my ass for the first time , the time he bent me over backwards and made me suck him that way — this kneeling, being made to kneel, to grovel, naked, in the cold and damp, in a strange place, not knowing who might be watching; this was a sign of some permanent change. She was Andrew’s whore now. And she had accepted it, demonstrated her acceptance of it, in public. Things would never be the same again. Andrew was having Claude treat her like dirt, in public, in front of strangers, and she was doing her best to make it clear that she understood that this was her place.

She would cry about this, at some point, she knew, but right then, she made herself lower her head, just a little more, until she could smell the stone. If Andrew wanted her here, then that was where she would be the best she could for him.

Into this reverie of wonder at what she had become, losing herself in presenting herself as best she could, came a sharp sound— his footsteps, Andrew’s footsteps, and she saw his shoes, close to her head;

I’m grovelling at his feet, naked, displaying myself for him in some car-park— and his chauffeur, too, and … and there’s nothing else I want to do, even though I know it’s wrong.

The shame of this thought; the glory of it, propelled her to move for him, then, to exaggerate her pose, to let her hips writhe, softly, to whore herself more obviously for him.

She saw, clearly then, that in behaving like this, she was making herself ever weaker, ever more obviously vulnerable, recognised that she was being sucked into a vortex, a future where she would be used (abused, too, she saw, with yawning clarity— violently abused; again, a reality that inevitably flowed from that moment, from that evening, from Andrew’s usage of her)— used and abused as a whore by many men. Accepted the understanding. accepted the inevitability of it.

She felt herself, stupidly, deliciously, gratefully letting herself go; letting go her rights to her own sexuality; accepting it, welcoming it even as she feared it; felt herself warm between her sex lips, felt her nipples become preternaturally sensitive, her pulse become febrile, fluttery, felt her hips move, as if of their own volition, felt herself appalled and possessed at the same time.

She was breathless with it, her body helplessly moving with the intensity of the emotion in her, even as the knowledge that it must be obvious to Andrew— that he must see just how deeply his treatment of her was affecting her, how confident he could now be of her vulnerability, her susceptibility to him, how inevitable it was that he would take advantage of her weakness— as that knowledge, too, burned its way into her.

Every minute of this makes me weaker, traps me more, and it’s all— all so dangerous. It’s like a one way road, and I keep letting him show me how to go further, deeper, and I’m making it so easy for him, doing it to myself, asking for it, asking for more, and I … I want it sooo much.

Andrew, at her side, a hand in her hair, not gentle or cruel, but simply practical, taking her acquiescence for granted, as one would that of an inanimate object, pulled at her head so that she had to turn her face up; she needed to see his expresion, then; looked up, but could not hold his gaze for more than a split-second, realising immediately just how well he understood how it was with her, his complacent half smile, his satisfaction, his enjoyment of her weakness, his taking for granted of her acceptance, her submission, the total absence of doubt, of gratitude or concern, and she had to work hard to recover her poise, until, for the second time that evening, in the face of humiliating and degrading treatment, she found herself saying;

“Thank you”, her voice low, breathy, urgent; helplessly sincere; pathetic.

His only acknowledgement was a slight widening of his grin;

“Your gratitude is pretty, and pleasing to receive, but you must not doubt that I will take you beyond your capacity for thanks, sweet girl; far beyond that limit.”

He bent, then; his hand, descending to her buttocks; between, under, directly at her sex and— oh glory, oh shame! — as of right, casually intimate with her, he made it obvious to all present what he was doing with her, cleverly, knowingly pressuring her clitoris, stroking at her sex lips, telling her;

“Show these fellows how hot you are, girly, how easy it is to arouse you, how willing you are to abandon yourself to sensuality. Move your hips now; excite yourself.”

It was unthinkable, impossible, and yet she was, helplessly, obeying him; feeling Claude’s grip at her elbows tighten as she opened her thighs and rocked her pelvis for her monster (two men’s hands on her, as she was driven to public sexual display!), obediently working herself, diligent, urgent; working, because he had commanded it, to maximise the growing sensation of churning desire in her belly, feeling her breasts move, hearing her breath catch in her throat as it convulsed at the pleasure that rose in her, her little gasps turning into soft cries, as she ruthlessly sabotaged her instinctive suppression, in the presence of strangers, of such obvious signals of her arousal, her noise almost inaudible at first, but very soon building to become higher pitched, the calls louder, longer; feeling the shame rise, and making herself ride it in turn, making it feed it back onto itself, to intensify her experience, the heat of her sensation, moving urgently now, wanting release, if he would give it to her; a whole day’s erotic intensity suddenly clamouring for it, no matter how shaming the circumstances.

Until he stopped, abruptly, a satisfied grunt of half laughter all her reward as he stood back from her, leaving her panting, desperate, half delirious; plaintive noises issuing from her, like a dog whining, hips churning, nipples stiff, chafing on the cold stone, drowning in shame, glorying in it, knowing she has indeed been weakened, grateful for it, stunned at the speed of it all; helpless, knowing she was helpless.

“Clean her up a bit, Claude, then give her to the MâitreD’ — I will sign her in as a nothing; her name need not be used.”

A Nothing, prepared

Claude was all politeness, all support, but at the same time completely uncompromising, as he helped her rise, gave her no chance to catch at her slip, which formed a pool of silk around her ankles as she stood, now able to see that they were in a courtyard, had come through an open gateway from the road, in the glow from the porte-cochere which outlined her nakedness, the two flunkeys clearly enjoying the sight of her, sharing some salacious joke which, from their body language, was very much about her.

She quivered, gripped by shame, legs almost too weak to keep her upright, needing Claude, but held herself as steadily as she might; Andrew’s whore, in Claude’s hands, under his orders, her breath catching in her throat, bellly still churning with insensate desire, her nipples almost painfully stiff as Claude knelt, and carefully pulled the slip up, negotiated her wrists— which she had remembered to position in the air, behind her hips, then set the thin straps at her shoulders.

She waited, docile, eyes down, feeling the attention of the uniformed men, the words ‘as a nothing’ echoing in her head, demanding meaning, while he fetched, then attached, the cape to its necklet, pulled it around her, so that she was, once again, technically ‘decent’, then obediently, at his gesture, walked into the light, in the direction of the door through which Andrew had disappeared, only for the flunkeys to move toward each other, denying her progress, while Claude put a hand on her shoulder, motioning her to the right;

“That door is for members and guests only, Ma’m’selle— this way, please.”

A smaller door, beyond the pool of light, where she paused, while Claude opened it for her— she continued to remember how Andrew wanted her hands— it was something to hold to, something to fix her mind upon, while all her thought and emotions were in such wild disorder, something of Andrew while he was not with her, and she was desperately grateful for it, even for the feeling of disempowerment, of vulnerability it brought, as Claude made no pretense at respecting her personal space as he reached past her, the door opening outward, requiring her to step back against him, the thin slip all that was between her body and the lineament of his cock, obviously stiff in his pants, large and very hard, shockingly felt it jerk at the contact with her flesh.

She could not repress a gasp at this, which was ignored, as he gestured once more for her to proceed.

A door, opening off the small, drab lobby they had entered, gave onto a well appointed, forensically bright-lit washroom, into which he steered her, and where she stood, passive, trembling, while Claude removed first the cape, and then, without the slightest ceremony, twitched the shoulder straps of the slip so that once more it fell from her, leaving her naked with him in the small, cold room, blushing deeply, trembling, horribly ashamed and apprehensive, but schooling herself, nevertheless, to take from him whatever he felt entitled to, in service of Andrew.

It beame quickly clear, though, that he was concerned only to clean her up — embarrassing enough, but also somehow disappointing; she was in his power, naked, she knew he was aroused, he knew her to be hot and ready, brought to a peak of arousal in front of him by Andrew, and yet his treatment of her was cool, practical.

This manner persisted as he knelt and picked up the slip, hung it on a hook on the back of the door with the cape, then had her open her legs and lean back against him, facing the basin and the large mirror above it, one strong arm around her upper body, while he wiped, first with a cold rinsed cloth, then with a rough towel, her belly, her thighs, her backside, the cleft of her buttocks, and then her sex.

She felt her breasts under his arm, shockingly intimate, and quickly found it easiest simply to close her eyes and accept; unable, though, to prevent herelf from imagining what it would mean to her to let that hard cock of his into her sex, into her mouth, if he, too, would wish to bugger her, shame her like that; half crazy with the strangeness of such thoughts.

His practicality meant that he was brisk, the job quickly completed, after which he had indicated the cabinet, within which she found an assortment of make-up tools and materials, and bidden her to repair her lipstick, her mascara, which had suffered less than she would have expected— testament to the skill and quality of the work at the salon.

Claude having folded out an ironing table from the wall, the scene became weirdly domestic for a few minutes, as he brought the slip back to some semblance of newness, dabbing at marks with a cloth, while Odile, still naked, leant over the sink, attempting to meet the standards of the salon professionals.

Finshed, and at a cough from Claude, she turned to face him; he held the slip, preparing to drop it over her head; his expression was bland, matter-of-fact, but she sensed a deep menace in this intimate practicality, something in his eyes, depite his calm face, made her sure that when he did, he would use her harshly, enjoy frightening her, hurting her, and she was suddenly overcome; trembling, she shied back, leaned against the basin, arms tight across her chest, thighs clamped.

She half expected him to be rough, attempt to force her to comply, but instead he stepped back, lowered his arms, looking at her now with some small glimmer of interest glinting through the coldness of his eyes.

She looked down, shivering, suddenly horrified at being naked in front of him, in that tiny space, him knowing what he knew about her.

She heard herself speaking;

“I … I don’t think I can … … maybe … maybe I can’t … can’t do … this …”

Her voice was small, husky, full of doubt.

He was silent; still, watching.

If he had moved, perhaps, she thought later, she might have run, darted through the door, naked as she was, might have tried to run, might have freed herself. She wondered, sometimes, where she might be, these days, had he done that, had he given her reason to run; whether it would have made any difference; whether she was fated to end up as she now was, a helplessly willing, infinitely servile, shamefully eager sex-slave; a possession, nothing more; hardly even valued, desperate in her neediness to please, intimately, deeply convinced of her own worthlessness, her disposability, her insignificance.

Might she, might she have had a different path? She shivers, as she had that day, then laughs at herself; silly— silly even to think such thoughts, when the heavy, decorative chain which hung from the thick ring, welded in place, pierced so crudely through her inner sex lips, just above their lower junction, the thinner, larger ring, the large ‘O’ which hung from that chain, when that was now the meaning of her existence, the thing which defined her. What else could she ever be, ever have become, but holes, but ‘O’?

She took up, once again, the careful, thorough, conscientious exercise of her inner muscles (this exercise at once was a meditation, and a sacrament, since it was the means whereby, despite regular rough usage, forced insertions of fists, fat dildos and the like, she was still able to feel tight to those who took her, front or rear— and, more, was able to actively massage the cocks that violated her, in her desire to serve, to give maximum pleasure, to be chosen again and again, commented upon, as a ‘remarkably satyisfying fuck’).

Her hips moved softly, thrusting, her buttocks winding, her nipples swaying, lips parted, tongue tip flickering from upper lip to lower, eyelids half lowered, head up, hands expressively useless in space behind her hips, alone in the corridor, the chain fixing her to the centre of the display table, where she would remain, nothing more than a decoration, until someone cared to have her put to some different use.

If, later, someone should ask her why she should be whipped, she would tell them, helplessly honest, of this aberration of thought, admit that she had allowed herself to dream, just a little, about being free— free to refuse access to her holes (of course, guests were welcome to whip her whenever, with no more reason than cruel desire, but for some, it adds to the entertainment to have a girl provide some excuse, to accept that she deserves punishment).

The soft, heavy sound of complex chain links shifting on the table-top as her hips lift and lower is both a constant reminder of how deeply she has been debased and at the same time, a welcome confirmation that she is not free, that she no longer has any choice about her captivity; that there is nothing, nothing at all for her, no responsibility, no option but to commit herself to the service of those who own her; nothing at all; not any more. That she is, truly, a nothing.

Claude had not moved, though; not given her the slightest excuse to run; given her nothing but space and time.

Into which she had been able to do nothing, nothing but ask a question; and that the the weakest of all questions;

“Would … would you … help? Help … me?”

Was she asking for help to win free, or help to submit? It wasn’t clear— not to her, at least. Nevertheless, the question changed everything. Claude was no longer a near mute extension of Andrew. She had appealed to him as a person, as his own man; naked, having whored herself to Andrew while he looked on, she had asked him for help, she had acknowledged him as having some potential, some power in respect of her, of her future. Being in a room with him, from then on, was to imagine his thoughts, his reactions to her body, to her shame, to her, as well as everything else that her situation demanded she accept.

He took his time, while she trembled, but he answered her;

“No Ma’m’selle, I will not help you. I will use and abuse you, as I am instructed, as I am permitted; I will take pleasure in fucking you, in degrading you, should I be offered the chance. But I will not help you degrade yourself; neither will I help you free yourself.”

It was impossible— impossible! — hat she should be having such a conversation, in such circumstances; at the same time, as before, her body knew what it needed, and spoke, urgently;

“It … it will be hard— for me— won’t it?”

She was looking him in the eye now, wanting to see in his face, as well as hear in his words, how he responded to this.

Again, a silence, no expression, but an answer did come; slow, careful, as if Claude had never before spoken in this situation; there was something, just a little, of personal recognition in it, now, too;

“It will be the hardest thing you have ever done in your life, Ma’m’selle. It will always be hard; hard every day; relentless. Destructive. If you choose it. If you let him.”

It was like a blow; but she took it, knowing it for truth— at least as he saw it; truth that she needed; her head bowed; she could no longer look him in the eye, not unless she was going to free herself; and she was not sure that she knew how, that she even wanted to, despite the burning, insistent certainty in her that she ought to want it.

But her body still needed answers; she wasn’t completely lost, not yet;

“But you— you will … would … will you be … kind … a little. Sometimes?”

An immediate answer, then, even more personal;

“No. Never. There will be no kindness. It will be hard, impossibly hard, cruel hard, but I will not soften it for you. You have a way out, I know. If you don’t use it, then I will feel free to use you. It will get harder, always harder, until you do use it. Kindness will only delay your escape.”

And then his voice became cold again, impersonal, closed, frightening;

“I am not a kind man, in any case. If you stay, become his whore, then, when your tears splash onto your lovely breasts, when you cry out in despair, my heart will be hard, my dick will be even harder, and I will take everything I can from you; shame you, degrade you, and take my pleasure at it, plunder you without restraint or consideration.”

Tears welled up in her at this speech, which she experienced as violence, as a blow to the belly; but then again, it was a blow which as welcome as it was hurtful; crazily, Claude’s matter-of-fact affirmation of her cloudy feeling that Andrew’s demands on her were real, that they would be extreme, that they had substance beyond mere words— that she would indeed be harshly treated, whored, degraded— this was, bizarrely, received as reassurance, as confirmed evidence that Andrew could and would deliver what he promised. That this was all real. Evidently, Claude had experience of this— the implication being, Odile realised, with an internal convulsion of horror (although, in her heart, she had to accept that she had known it all along, and only pretended not to), that there were other girls before her who had been brought along the path, over the precipice, whose fascination with Andrew had led them to allow such liberties, such abuses— and, all too obviously, things much worse, which she had no way of imagining.

And she did not run.

She did not want to run. She was desperate not to have to run, to be able to make herself stay, even though she knew she should not.

It wasn’t that the grim future which Claude was promising was anything but frightening or obviously dangerous for her. It was, simply, that she dared not lose …

… lose what, though? A future of shame and whoredom? No, that was not what she stayed for. She didn’t know, really, couldn’t think straight; it was, though, certainly something to do with that experience of calm, the feeling of safety which she had felt in the car, something she had never had in her life, something that she knew now that she would go to great lengths to have even a chance at more of; something that she knew no-one else but Andrew would be able to give her. For there was no-one else who could demand such extraordinary things of her. From whom she would accept such extraordinary demands.

Running away from him would impose a terrible loss, a permanent loss, a loss that she could not choose, even if she didn’t fully understand what that loss would be, even if the cost of not losing was to lose herself in so many other ways. It was like a yawning pit in front of her, the risk of that loss, a prospect the more awful for not being understood.

And then, after a long, frozen moment, trapped, on the cusp of an impossible choice, Odile’s body, as so often that day, quite simply, without any great effort, made the choice for her.

As if in a trance, she began to move, to stand upright, unclenched her fists, uncovered her breasts, and, quivering, but trying for elegance, for some shred of dignity in her submission, in her acceptance of shame, moved her hands behind her hips, shifted her feet to open her thighs a little, and stepped forward, breath coming sharply, but not panicking, bowed her head, accepting.

She would be Andrew’s whore. She would accept it. In return for that fleeting, paradoxical feeling of safety, which, after all, was in some mad way connected with being treated like a whore.

She would let Andrew have her.

And deciding, choosing this, was right— she knew immediately, because she felt it then, in her chest— warmth, a receding of fear, an increase in calm— even though the choice included Claude’s promise of merciless abuse, there it was— that calm; so fragile, so eagerly welcomed, so precious, even with the heavy burden of fear and shame and degradation set in the balance against it; even with the weight of shame intensified through the lurking knowledge that, all along, there is something dangerously welcome, too, about the idea of sexual submission, of being powerless to resist being made into a whore.

She felt herself smile; a pathetic, weak smile, small, lips trembling, a smile of helplessness, a smile of defeat; but a real smile, nevertheless, accompanied by a real; “Thank you”, her third expressed gratitude in the face of offered mistreatment of the day; softly said, but huskily sincere.

She allowed Claude to lift the slip over her head, then, navigate past her useless hands, and dress her. His hands so close, so intimate, nevertheless did not so much as brush her breasts, her buttocks. She had a premonition, then, which became more than true, that she would have sleepless hours wondering why Claude had not yet taken the opportunity to maul her, caress her, fuck her; whether, after all, the servant found her unappealing, uninteresting, repellent.

She moved again, then. If she was to be Andrew’s whore, then she must present herself to his man, offer herself to Claude, just as if her were in fact Andrew. For if she was Andrew’s whore, then any man that fucked her must surely be Andrew, as far as she was concerned, and therefore to be welcomed by her body as she would welcome the man himself. And so she refined her pose, moved her hips, spread her legs wider, lifted herself onto her tip toes, pulled her shoulders back to set her breasts moving. Her heart was hammering in her chest, she could feel the blush mounting, but it was, right— she knew it was right, for, despite her body’s response, there was an equal soft swell of calmness, of certainty, of safety.

Safety, in being Andrew’s whore; ever more fully his whore.

Claude, of course, knew this game very well; the threat, in the girl’s mind; the threat of Claude, the doubt at the apparent indifference of Claude, the helpless anticipation of Claude’s violence, was one that Andrew and his chauffeur had played before, and greatly enjoyed.

Trembling again as she once again walked in front of him, feeling his gaze at her buttocks, the slip once again riding up with every step as her hips switch, exaggerated by the high heels, she allowed him to guide her through another door, which led to a sort of short corridor, very plain, gloomy, with window slots giving onto the much grander member’s lobby, high-ceilinged, brightly lit, a surprising vision, too - a girl, in a very scanty, exaggeratedly sexy version of a maid’s outfit, standing on a low plinth, her pose a study in overt erotic seduction (see Castle Maids for some pictures and text on this). A smartly dressed man there, older, noticed them, and, ducking through a curtain, appeared at the end of the corridor, where it widened into a smaller lobby;

“M. Strauch’s nothing”, said Claude, without emphasis.

Odile could not meet the man’s look; could only manage to stand there, feeling horribly vulnerable, feeling his gaze run over her, presenting herself for him. It was one thing to move under Claude’s eyes, another to feel compelled to move for this stranger.

“Very tasty” was all the man said, after a long moment, before reaching up to attach something to her collar, at the front— some small pendant, it seemed— she hadn’t seen; then, having settled it into position, he ducked back into the larger space.

Claude’s touch on her shoulder, matter-of-fact, set her on her way again, swallowing all her questions about what the place was, what that ‘nothing’ word meant, what the pendant was.

Whores accept. Accept and serve. They don’t ask, don’t question. Think about where my hands are, walk prettily, set the hips twitching. He’s taking you to Andrew. Be happy.

And she was, then, happy; quite suddenly. Genuinely happy, a little giddy with the access of it.

I’m dressed more gorgeously than I ever dreamt of, having the best, most pleasurable sex of my life, going to amazing places, have an incredible job offer, I get to act sexy all the time, have people look at me as if I’m some Victoria’s Secret model, and I’m going to have dinner with the astonishing, addictive man who makes all this possible for me— and even better, I’m going to have more of it— he wants to do more of this to me. Me! Little Odile! And he wants me!

This fizzy uplift was turned, abruptly, by what happened next. The turning, too, though, was a novelty, for, despite the shocking nature of what Claude had said, her mood was such that she transitioned, almost immediately, into a state of heightened sexual tension— not warm, easy desire at all, but rather powerfully conflicted, breathless anticipation; a state, a feeling that she was to learn to cultivate, to school herself into; indeed, to become dangerously, helplessly addicted to.

As the passage turned right into a short section, with a left turn only metres ahead, he had stopped her, had her turn.

In her happiness, she had smiled, a little, made bold with her pose, preening a little for the chauffeur, blatant; going a little pink, at the cheeks, to be sure, at her open display, at the obviousness of her sexual intent, showing herself thus to this servant who had promised her no mercy. She knew, though, as she did it, that she was pleased with herself, whatever shame it might mean in the future. Her happiness had peaked, a little, then, at the knowledge that she was capable of this— of deliberately inciting a man who had told her he would enjoy enforcing sexual cruelty onto her; the belief flowering in her that she might, perhaps, be able to be— to become— more as Andrew wished her to be.

And then he had said it;

“You are to be wet— your cunt is to be hot and slick— when you present yourself to Monsieur. If you are alone, this is your responsibility. If someone is with you, then that person is to check you. If necessary, your cunt must be worked, until you are in an acceptable state of arousal. You are not permitted to use your hands. If alone, you will find something— the arm of a chair, a door knob, a table corner— to work yourself against. If accompanied, the person with you will take charge.”

“Around this corner is a member of staff. He will do the necessary on Monsieur’s behalf, or I can. It’s up to you. I wanted to prepare you for this.”

This little anouncement could have broken her mood completely, could have horrified her. Indeed, it should have done so; even twenty four hours previously, these words would have had her coldly angry, retreating; righteously outraged, demanding a taxi home.

But now, tonight, she feels the shock, to be sure— just the same shock— but her reaction to that shock itself shocking. She takes the impact of it, lets it hit her, feels her belly tighten, her chest freeze, momentarily … … and then lets herself roll with it, as if it were a wave— something powerful, but which will pass; which need not be responded to or fought against. Instead, as one can with a wave, she deliberately lets its energy take her; lifts her feet— metaphorically speaking— from the floor, and lets its force, its weight, its impact, take her somewhere new.

Somewhere where her body, again, knows what it wants, and speaks for her, thus;

“I’d like that. For Andrew to know that I will always be … that way … for him. And … and I am learning to … understand what it means to make my hands useless, and that … that is good, too. But … but I don’t undertand how it can be … can be up to me who does this to me. Surely, M. Claude, I am …”

And here emotion took her for a second— an emotion she could not name, such a soft, warm mixture it was of sadness, happiness, shame and delight at the idea of surrendering herself thus. It took her a little while; her head drooped, then lifted; she looked, for a brief moment, into Claude’s eyes, searching, questioning, seeking affirmation, but gave up immediately, remembering that he had offered her no hope, that all this was on her, that it was her that must degrade herself, her that must learn to love her degradation, if she was to be Andrew’s. Her trembling became visible, but at no point did she lose her happiness, her inner lightness, until with her next words, it underwent that lurching transition that she was to learn to lean into, to yearn for, to seek out, as, uttering the words;

“I am in your hands, completely?” she was overtaken by a rush of anticipation, of mingled dread and desire, of fear and yearning, her nipples hard, her breath short, her belly roiling in her, as she repeated, certain now, pulling herself back upright, her shoulders back, her hips upthrust, hands behind her, palms up;

“I … I am in your hands.”

And she was breathless with it, on fire with it, simultaneously appalled and eager, her whole body focused on this thing that would happen, that would be terrible and wonderful in equal degree— that a stranger would prepare her for her man, for her master.

At Claude’s sign, then; sensing, rather than seeing his twisted grin, she turned and walked again, more determined than ever to walk like … like … to walk like a whore. There; it was in her mind. She must walk like a whore, because she was a whore, and she wanted to be a good whore; the whore that Andrew wanted.

And she felt nothing but an uplift in anticipation, in need, in sexual tension when Claude said, simply;

“This nothing’s to be readied for M. Strauch before you take her to him. Get her good and hot, now.”

Read the next part of The Story of Odile here.