The Story of Odile Pt6.

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.

This episode continues the evening, but it’s still not at the climax. There is plenty going on, though no actual sex… …

Tested, she fails

It was, in the literal sense of the word, incredible— impossible to believe; that the man in front of her, an openly grinning, uniformed servant, a complete stranger, could be about to put his fingers up her skirt, onto— into— her pussy— and more— that she would explicitly offer herself to him so that he could verify for himself her state of sexual readiness.

At the same time, possessed by this new, bizarre sensation, which transforms the promise of sexual liberties being taken with her into an opportunity to reaffirm her commitment to Andrew, it was equally impossible, when Claude turned her to face him, and stepped back, and— a handful of hair in his hard grip— pulled her face down to his waist, impossible to resist, so that she found herself letting him hold her face right into his groin, her lips against the bulge of his hard cock, only the thin fabric of his suit between them.

Impossible too, for her to forget her commitment to herself, to hold her hands out, up, behind her, fluttering weakly, all too obviously telling the tale of her inner turmoil, as she fought with her instinctive impulse to clasp them over her buttocks, to hold down the hem of her skirt, to protect her sex from what was about to be done to her, that incredible reality, that inevitable which simply could not be going to happen.

The unacceptable which did, though, immediately happen, as first, her ankles were kicked apart with shocking and painful brutality, so that she cried out in pain, and then, Claude’s hand tight in her hair— more pain— and her head was forced even further down, to be clamped between his hard muscled thighs, a degrading and frighteningly disempowering imposition. And then, unimaginably outrageous to her psyche, the crawlingly impossible sensation that the fingers of a stranger— a man whose face she could not even remember, so briefly had she scanned it, so distracted had she been— that man’s fingers were pushed, forceful; insultingly casual, into her sex, making her squeal, needing urgently to suppress those squeals, because behind the man, she had seen glazed doors, beyond which was a generously sized, richly appointed dining room, well-dressed diners at some of the tables.

Any of those, alerted by her noises of distress, would have been able to see just how shamefully she was being treated, and see just how docile, how helpless she was in accepting such treatment; commitment to Andrew or no, the thought of being seen like that, before having to walk through that room, right past those same people, was something she could not face.

Crude as the man’s manipulations were, Odile was horribly aware that, in order to have him stop, it was necessary for her to find a way to kindle arousal in herself. In point of fact, she was already a little moist, down there; his fingers made it clear to her, as it must, unthinkably, have been obvious to him— the exchange with Claude, before, having brought something in its wake. Hot and slick, though, had been Claude’s crude stipulation, and, she realised with a sick, falling feeling, it was up to the servant to satisfy himself as to her state— if he wanted to spend the next ten minutes mauling her pussy before pronouncing himself satisfied, that was in his power. No-one would ask her.

And thus her only recourse was to comply, to work with him, with his crude, inept fingers, dry skin, snaggy nails, delving inside her sex, already sore and tender from the unaccustomed intensity of her couplings with Andrew the night before, and the more recent excesses of the evening. She had to move for him, move with him, in order to minimise her discomfort, somehow seek something from his gropings that she could work with …

only … only it was too hard. too shaming, too painful, too degrading, too brutal.

Something broke in her, then, and she knew she could not do it. It wasn’t that she resiled from what had just been made explicit between her and Claude— not in her mind, not in her heart— but that her body simply could not. It wanted Andrew, it wanted intensity; it wanted fucking, even, yes— but shame, degradation, despair— no. No! Not like this!

If Claude had not had her, if he had not held her, clamped, between his thighs, her outstretched foot held so by the strangers’ heavy work shoe, she must have further shamed herself, perhaps destroyed Andrew’s interest in her, by twisting away, curling herself into a defensive ball on the floor, perhaps; but that immobilisation saved her.

Saved her? Madness! She thought, later; madness to consider Claude’s treatment of her as anything but brutality!

Nevertheless; she knew it was true; that he had indeed saved her; saved her from her own weakness, that he had been enforcing a boundary, more than her shame, with that hard, disabling headlock; she felt the gratitude; it was there, in her chest. She owed Claude, she acknowledged it to herself, and when, frightening though the inevitable prospect was, when Andrew, someday, gave him access to her … ACCESS TO MY CUNT * —she made herself say the words out loud, letting the tremor of fear and shame in her belly make her shiver, working, working, on herself, telling herself that she must learn to welcome that feeling; to let it have her, trying; failing— always failing— at this impossible task, but trying, nevertheless, as she had told herself she would— on that day when Claude at last took her, she would try to remember this gratitude, and … and give him what she could, in return. Even … even though, of course, he would in any case take exactly what he wanted from her, with cruel force if necessary, regardless of anything she might intend.*

She shivered at these dark, awful thoughts, so alien to her, and yet now so frequent; hugged herself, then froze; unwrapped her arms from her shoulders. She was not permitted— would not permit herself, she recalled— any comfort; any kindness. She was a whore, who had chosen degradation and shame of her own free will. Claude had told her; ‘Kindness will only delay your escape.’

I was a strange, dark trap he had laid for her, with those words. She should avoid kindness, since it would make it certain that she experienced the full hardship resulting from her stupid, stupid choices to the maximum, and thus, perhaps, one day, before it was too late (only; was it not already too late?), one day come to her senses— use her escape ticket. On the other hand, of course, denying herself kindness (and it had been her own decision to take this to mean even self-care— so, no to hugging herself) would, in the meantime, do exactly what it was intended to— maximise her suffering.

Such a cruel, and clever, such a beautifully crafted labyrinth she had allowed herself to be led into, that had first fascinated her, then confused her, so that she could not now see a way out— not any, at least, that did not begin with going further in. She felt unworthy of it. Andrew could simply have raped her, that first night, then dumped her in that Castle place. She was sure that she would have succumbed there, without any real attempt at escape, so helplessly open did her body seem to be to brutal treatment, to emotional cruelty, to harsh sexual humiliation.

All the more reason, then, to do all she could to ensure that Andrew got what he wanted from his games with her, to try to entertain him, to live up to his attention. To deserve this special treatment; as hard and cruel as it was, it was surely more than she deserved.

Now, she had to punish herself for the hug, and for allowing herself to wallow in self pity. She got herself in front of the tall mirror, where it stood on the floor, and knelt, spreading her thighs until it hurt her, then pushed some more, stretched her hands straight out behind her back, not touching each other, and lifted her bottom about 15 centimetres, the stuck her tongue, straight out, all the way. She would hold this pose until the pain got too great, and then hold it longer. All the time, she would look at her sex, spread as it was, and think about being fucked, try to get herself wet, tell herself again and again, that what mattered was what she saw in that mirror, how inviting it could be to Andrew, that he would want to put his cock into it; that what went on inside her head meant nothing. LOOK AT THAT CUNT — she made herself say it out loud.

She wanted to cry, but that, too, she had forbidden herself. If she was not to cry in front of Andrew, she needed to get herself out of the habit of crying; she had to practice. The thought of never allowing herself to cry again just made her want to cry, of course…

Trapped as she was, getting away was an impossibility, so she was forced to make some accommodation, and that meant she did little more than writhe, and moan, and jerk, push at the man feebly with her hands, all of which so quickly proved useless, and the retribution for even that— a hard and heavy slap across the buttocks— was so painful and frightening in its casual violence that she gave up almost at once, feeling hot tears replacing physical resistance, as the two men laughed at her, utterly unmoved by her distress, finding her attempts to get free entertaining;

“Tits jiggle about nicely; good tight arse on it, too. I’d give it a go, for sure”, said the flunkey.

“You clod— just because she’s a whore, doesn’t mean she’s a machine— have you no subtlety, no skill with these bitches? You have to work them, you know…”

That was Claude, talking about her! Talking about her to the stranger who (still) had his rough fingers between her sex lips! And although his words were critical, it was clear that he was expecting the other to find it funny— that it was she, the helpless whore, not the flunkey, who was the butt of his humour.

The man laughed, and very obviously tried something different between her legs— something equally inept, and painful, too, so that she gasped and squirmed, going up on tip-toes without planning to— anything to lessen the pain. She was too desperate, now, to cry; was using everything she had simply not to become hysterical.

“The thing is, viuex pote, M. Strauch is a man not known for his patience— and a man of great power, here, to boot. If I were you, I’d give up, now; get the lube out and give her a squirt, so we can send her in— because you’re getting nowhere, fast.”

Claude had rescued her, she realised— albeit in the most humiliating fashion, as the man, with a grunt, stepped away, fumbled at a drawer, then sprayed something cold and wet onto her sex. Lightly perfumed, it was slightly sticky— she’d never used a product for that before, but understood that she had been rendered ‘slick’, at least, if only by artificial means.

Unceremoniously, Claude straightened her up, turned her to face a mirror on the side wall and ordered her curtly to tidy her hair, while he twitched at her skirts. Odile was blinking back tears again, feeling the strangeness between her legs, almost unable to cope with the waves of shame and embarrassment that kept on coming, willing herself to at least warm up a little, down there, so that she wouldn’t have failed Andrew completely. She trembled at the thought of having to walk across that dining room.

The waitress

But then, there was no choice— the flunkey had opened the door, still grinning at her, looking at her breasts, making her conscious that her nipples showed so very clearly through the satin, and Claude, this time, slapped her buttock, so that she started forward involuntarily.

And then, automatically, she was walking; walking with direction, for she had seen Andrew, at a large table in a semi private alcove on the far side, talking to a girl who seemed to be a waitress, save that his hand, apparently, was between her legs; moving, purposeful, while the girl smiled at him, very sweetly— almost fondly, it seemed to Odile, as if to a lover.

The waitress’ outfit was simultaneously austere and outrageous; all black, very plain, it consisted of a cropped blouse with a low cut shawl neck and short flutter sleeves, over a black, tight-laced bodice that strongly lifted and emphasised her breasts, but did not cover them, a fact made obvious by— and simultaneously emphasising— the transparency of her blouse. The skirts hung from a waistband which was at the girl’s hips— her midriff, bare between the lower part of the bodice, when ended just below her navel, and that waistband, showed shockingly pale against the black fabric. The waistband hung loose and very low, suggestively so, supported, it seemed, by buttons on the garter straps hanging from the bodice. The skirts were formed of individual fabric strips, hanging free of each other, and cleverly arranged, such that a rather narrow band of relatively opaque strips formed a downward pointing ‘vee’ which, angling down from the hips, just served to obscure the girl’s sex in front, and the crack of her buttocks at the rear, while leaving the upper curve of her belly, below the waistband, and the pale skin of her upper thighs tantalisingly revealed through longer strips of fabric, gauzy like that of the blouse, which thinned out as they reached mid thigh, where the bodice straps could be seen to be supporting her sheer dark stockings. A choker, black, high, with a dangling pendant, matching heavy leather cuffs and high heels with ankle chains completed the outfit. Her hair was pinned up, under a prim, white ruffled hair band. That it was a uniform was clear; there were two other girls dressed similarly, on their feet, attending to diners— a buxom redhead and a slim blonde.

A cold grip took hold of Odile, inside, at the sight; she had told herself, known, understood, made herself confront the reality, that Andrew would not be hers; knew it for a fact. But she had not, in her short time with him, seen him do anything which even hinted at intimacy with another woman, and it hit her, hard.

It wasn’t jealousy— there was no outrage, no anger at the girl, no urge to compete; rather, it was the helpless fear which underlies jealousy. Fear of abandonment, of being supplanted, of being discarded. For the girl was gorgeous, full breasted, and apparently complaisant in the way that it seemed Andrew wished Odile to become, smiling at him, leaning forward to offer her cleavage as she allowed herself to be touched so obviously in the sight of all these diners.

These feelings got her across the room, had her concentrate on walking well, saved her from wondering what all those strangers might think of her, in her slip dress, its bedroom fabric, her breasts moving so obviously beneath it, the dark coloration of her nipples glowing through the pale cloth— she was interested only in Andrew, in being the best she could be for him, there being nothing else that could make any sense of all this, viciously suppressing all the other clamouring concerns in her head.

As she approached the table, he looked up; his hand was, very definitely, inside the girl’s skirt— more, he obviously had penetrated her sex; seemed, from the angle of his hand, to have his thumb on her clitoris— a grasp that Odile remembered well between her own legs, remembered how thoroughly held, possessed, it had made her feel, had only ever considered as a way he had been with her, a precious and delicious memory, but realising at that moment, with a feeling of utter, helpless futility, how idiotic she had been not to understand that such casual confidence with a girl’s sex parts must be borne of long and varied experience.

And yet, here, this lovely young woman, a waitress, in open view of other diners, was standing, carefully, so as to facilitate this intimate hold on her— had bent forward at the waist a little, angled her legs so as to lower herself for him. Close up, it could be seen that her pretty smile was not as simple as it had appeared from the other side of the room— that there was wariness in her eyes, that her lips were trembling.

Odile had no way of processing the tumbling thoughts these observations provoked, and, having no other option, simply suppressed them, in favour of paying attention to Andrew, whose face had turned toward her;

“Ah, Odile! Prettily flushed, I see. I approve! You will attend a little, while I finish my conversation with Maya, here.”

“Maya, as I was saying, You are deluding yourself if you think you are here only for the excellent wages and uncomplicated fuckings. I fully concurred with Anne-Marie’s assessment of you at the end of your short sojourn at the Castle last year, and— do you know?— there have been times when we disagreed, and on those occasions, of course one of us was wrong. But when we have agreed, we have never— not once— been mistaken; details might differ, of course, but on our overall judgements, never, ever wrong.”

“In your case, we both predicted that you would be unable to stay away, and that, once you returned, there was only one likely outcome, which, shall we say, would entail the loss to the world of a promising psychologist, balanced by a gain for our members of a most entertaining and delightfully vulnerable sex toy.”

“And here you are! Prettier than ever, wearing this provocative outfit, opening your pussy to me so sweetly, and responding rather avidly, too. Really, my dear, if you mean what you say, then— once you have conveyed my order to the kitchen, bien sûr; I do not care to wait for my supper— then you must change into your street clothes and leave, never to return. I will engage to supply a bursary that will support your studies, without obligation— you will apply to Madame duClos and she will determine what is needed.”

“On the other hand, my lovely, should I see you here again— which I would lay odds I will— you may rest assured that I will arrange with Anne-Marie to expedite your full capitulation, and that you will be given no further opportunities to deny your destiny— which is to give yourself— give this delightful, tender little cunt, and all your other lovely appurtenances, too— to us, more fully than you can even conceive might be possible, so that you can be be degraded, and hurt, and brought low; to suffer the fate that has been fascinating you, filling your dreams and nightmares all these months. Only, of course, the reality will be deeper, and harder, and more terrifying than you can have imagined, even in your darkest cauchemar.”

“Off you go now, girly— think hard, be brave— and see if you can prove us wrong!”

The girl’s eyes had become very large and round, and her smile was all but gone, but she moved beautifully and spoke softly as he loosened his hold on her;

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. I … I will.”

She turned, and took a few steps, before coming back, her cheeks suddenly very pink;

“Even … No … No matter what, Sir; when, when I am free of this place, I … I will always consider you to have … rights over me, Sir. Over … over this body— to … to use it as you will, whenever you might wish, with a promise of my most eager, grateful, humble efforts to satisfy your smallest desire … Sir.”

Andrew laughed at her then; relaxed— entertained, no more, despite all the urgent passion she had freighted her words with, her obvious raw emotional vulnerability.

“Foolish little whore, promising that which there is no need to promise, and which you will not, in any case, be able to to deliver on, since, once you are back here, enslaved, chained, helpless, I will desire of you such things as it will be impossible for you to contemplate— indeed, you will scream and beg for my forbearance, for my mercy, for reprieve; which will not be granted, and you will often wish yourself dead rather than required to comply with what will be demanded of you, enforced upon you— and not just by me.”

“Run, now, run, silly girl— if only you can!”

There were tears in her eyes then, and she did indeed break into a near trot as she moved toward the door which Odile presumed must give onto the kitchens.

Never mind Maya, the exchange she had heard had filled Odile with dread; the implications were that it was not just Andrew she was involved with, but something wider— this place, something called ‘The Castle’, a woman called Anne-Marie… This impression that there was some sort of institution centred on sexual subjugation of lovely young women, in which Andrew was deeply involved, was horribly frightening.

What had been personal, between her and Andrew— never mind that she had guessed he had taken other girls along a similar path— now took on a much more sinister aspect, one that she could not even begin to think about, so hard and so fast had new and disturbing challenges come, that day. It was all she could do to maintain at least a measure of control, as Andrew, turning to her, smiling at her happily, as naturally as if he had been discussing a choice of wine with the waitress, rather than threatening her with her destiny as a sex toy.

Andrew lays it out

“Odile, I apologise. A very needy and confused young woman. Please …”

And he stood, gentleman-like, and set a chair for her. As she sat, he leaned in and said;

“It would please me, pretty, if you would make sure to lift your skirts free of your behind as you sit—so that you don’t crease your dress, to be sure, but also, so that I may know that you are feeling your nakedness down there as you sit. This cow-hide, I think you will find, is hard to ignore.”

Which it proved to be, as, having complied without even considering any other option, she felt the short, bristly hairs on her sex lips, more puffy now than ever, after the rough manipulations in the hallway. She could not help herself from shuffling in her seat, looking for a position of more comfort, or from issuing a soft cry, when chance had one of the bristles poke sharply at a sensitive spot.

Andrew gave a small laugh, entertained; “Just so”, as he regained his seat, then;

“Give me your hand, will you, lovely? Let me look at you.”

Which he did, smiling softly, his gaze gentle, interested, patient, holding her wrist, not her hand, and holding it out to the side, up in the air— setting her breasts in motion, she realised, with a erotic twinge of mingled embarrassment and deep pleasure, and she was lost in him again, meeting his eyes through a wave of shyness, as it came to her what he would see in hers; what she had been through, what had been changed in her, in relation to him, during the short period since he had left her with Claude.

It seemed almost a lifetime ago, so weighty were those changes, the new understandings, the shocking, shaming new experiences, the revealed depth of her weaknesses, her vulnerability to him, which she had been forced to accept in that time, and indeed he looked at her for what seemed an eternity, as she squirmed, continually dropping her gaze, then reestablishing it, half-giggling in her confusion several times, the seat cover, her softly shifting breasts not letting her forget how nearly naked she was, until, suddenly, she was happy again.

Happy, not because she had forgotten it all in the pleasure of being the object of his attention (although that, too, was wonderful to her), no; happy in the knowledge that he wanted to do to her what he had promised to do to that Maya. That she would be fucked by Claude one day, that she would be whored to strangers, perhaps even made to work as a waitress in this restaurant, be sent to The Castle. Happy to know that he wanted her that way.

The fascinating and disturbing mix of fear and sexual expectation rose in her again, as it had in the corridor, and she blushed, deeply, as she remembered her failure there— failure to get herself wet for him.

The emotional tumult of it all caught up with her, and she half sobbed, half laughed for a second, and a tear fell from one eye onto her cheek. She smiled, wide and propitating, then, in a flurry of embarassment, shame, fear, and sexual trembling, her voice a husky semi whisper;

“I … I’m sorry … so … so silly of me …”

He reached out then, with his other hand, and held her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes again;

“Pretty Odile, there is one gift I can give you, I hope; and that is freedom from guilt. With me, you need never be sorry. Never. You can do me no wrong, you can do me no harm, and so need never apologise. You will do what you wish, and if I want something different, I will tell you so, and take it from you if you cannot give it. It is I who am the monster, and you the innocent. You will never have to say you are sorry to me.”

Thinking about this later, she realised that, far from a kindness, this statement simply laid out how little she meant to him— for how could anything which mattered to him not be able to cause him harm? He was telling her that she was nothing to him. Nothing more than an amusement, at least. She hugged herself, then; desolated, sad, of course, but also filled with renewed determination to continue to amuse him; at whatever cost.

“Which does not mean that it is not lovely to see you blush, to see you wriggling in shame. Truly, that was a lucky encounter, in front of Herr Klimt’s elegant pornography.”

“I am happy, too, to see that I have made good on my promise of earlier— to see that I have, now, truly hurt you. Yes, I imagine that your tight little asshole will be terribly sore, but that will heal— it is not my meaning.”

“What Claude did with you, back there; the label of ‘nothing’; your acceptance of those, they are the hurts I am pleased to have caused you. For those will be permanent degradations. Ones which you accepted. You are a lesser person, now, than you were a half hour ago— and we all three know it of you— Claude, myself, and you. The self-respect you had, which you did not even think about, so ordinary was it— that you would expect to have a name, that your tender little pussy was special, and private to you, that you would never have sex unless at your own choosing, that your state of arousal, too, was private— all of those are lost to you now— no longer absolutes, but negotiable; no longer negotiable, even, so long as you are with me, but taken from you, denied you.”

“And I see in your eyes that you feel it, you know it to be so. That you have allowed me to hurt you in that way. More, that you have already accepted that I will hurt you in that way again. That you have accepted that it is my right to hurt you in that way— as well, of course, as in the ordinary physical way.”

“It is lovely to watch you as these truths burn into you. To watch you taking the hurt. No— no tears now. Control yourself. When I want tears I will force them from you. You’re to constrain them at all other times. The odd teardrop may be acceptable, Sobbing, never. Smile at me, now— a pretty smile— tell me you understand, that you are happy to be hurt by me.”

It was agony. The calm, casual, careful cruelty of his words; the brutal, cold laying out of just those aspects of the time between the car door opening and her sitting at this table which she had tried not to think about too much, that was terrible enough; but then, layered onto all that, the certainty in her that she is indeed going to let him do more to her. That it’s not that she hasn’t the nerve to escape, but that some part of her, the more it hears about degradation, diminishment, subjugation, pain, some part of her is transfixed. Transfixed in horror, perhaps, but the equal need in her to at least experience what those words feel like when they are real in her life, when they are real between Andrew and her, as the necessary and indivisible counterparts to that feeling of safety; to be unable to hide from him this weakness, this corruption in her; more, to welcome in her heart that he understands just how weak, how vulnerable, how pathetic she is, is profoundly disturbing.

He watched her for another eternity, as she trembled, and blanched, and flushed again; as she blinked away tears, as she made herself smile, as her hips worked, as her breasts moved. Trapped; not by him, but by that weakness, that neediness, that corruption.

It felt like a rape.

He would not release her, until she had shown him that she had let it all run through her, until it had burned itself out, until she had been lessened.

It was like torture.

She had begged him, with her eyes, with her smile, to soften this for her, but he was impassive, watching her; interested, but not avid, unresponsive, and it was not until she, surprising herself, arrived, once again that evening, at gratitude, and heard herself say to him;

“Thank you. Thank you for … for hurting me, that way. I … I accept your right— and … and my own desire … for … for you to hurt me that way— and … and … and the other way, too— ph… physically, I mean, at … at your pleasure.”

It was not until then that he nodded at her, seriously;

“Very good. You understand. A little, at least. If you can stay with me, I think you may have it in you to become a remarkable thing. Truly, an object. An absolute nothing. We shall see. It is difficult to achieve. You will almost certainly be unable to stay the course— you will either run away, or lose yourself entirely. For myself, I can promise that I will do what is required— every decency will be stripped from you; no mercy, no kindness will be shown.”

It made no sense at all, but after that speech, it seemed as if it were Andrew who was oppressed— he was looking into the middle distance, not at her, and he was not smiling, his mouth a little tight— while Odile, knowing it made no sense, felt liberated; as if his earlier pronouncement that she need never feel sorry again had been brought to pass by his grim and objectively terrifying words. He thought she could become remarkable! He would help her to become so! What was decency, mercy, even, in the balance against that?

Her smile came back, soft and happy, and, yet again, her body said the words it wanted him to hear;

“And I know just what you can do to me next. I … I failed to get myself hot and slick for you— the man’s fingers hurt me and … and I went cold— Claude had him use some spray. But … but that’s not acceptable. You … you could send me back, get him to do me again, and this time, I must not fail you; I’m not to be allowed in your company unless I’m ready to … to be f…fucked, isn’t that so?”

She was blushing hotly— she had only got halfway through what she was saying before she realised just how slutty it sounded, and begun to falter, but she was pleased she had said it, and pleased, too, at the rush of desire that flooded her as he looked at her then. She was his whore, and now— now, she was indeed ready to be fucked, her hips moving again, she found herself opening her mouth, licking her lips, before realising how cliché ‘provocative’ it was to do such a thing, and blushed, deeply.

But none of this took the edge off her happiness, or her sexual excitement— if anything, she was getting hotter, and she bit her lip— she must not become hysterical, or attract too much attention from other diners, but she could lick her lips for him again, slowly and intentionally this time, her tongue-tip flickering delicately, from upper to lower lip.

It worked— he had grinned at her;

“I will have you punished for this forwardness, pretty, and then we’ll see if you can smile and act saucy. But you’re correct; your failure, too, will deserve punishment, but right now you need to make good.”

Manipulated, again, she becomes a whore

Andrew looked up and across the room, raised a finger, and the Maitre D’ immediately cut short the conversation he was having with the redhead waitress and came over.

“Dupuis, this nothing did not get herself into the proper condition before coming to me. She’ll be punished later, but the situation is to be remedied. Take her away, and see to it, will you?”

It was appalling to be spoken of so— and about such a subject— but it was extraordinary, too. She was a whore. She was being spoken of as a whore, whose sexual readiness was a pragmatic requirement of her usefulness. In that sense, everything was as it should be— it was entirely appropriate that Andrew should ignore her, and turn to the evening paper; she should be happy to be signalled at with a brusque finger, to follow the man, it was appropriate that other diners should notice that something slightly out of the ordinary was going on, and turn in their seats to stare at her, to lean toward each other to say judgemental things about her which she was not meant to hear; appropriate that all her effort should be going into walking elegantly, holding her hands in that eye-catching way, so that if Andrew should choose to look at her, he would not be disapppointed— so that the other diners should see that Andrew had with him a sexually inviting young woman, one who walked for the benefit of watchers, one who was so debased that she could be led around the room by a servant.

All of this was approporiate, but also, heart-stoppingly shaming, for Odile. As in the corridor, though, she found a way to have these feelings feed her excited state, knowing now, from Andrew’s cool description of the processes whereby she would be reduced to the status of a mere object, that she was pushing herself another step along that road— the first stage of which seemed to be to become a willing and submissive— but still elegant— whore.

In the side passage, the attendant was discovered to be round the corner from the doorway, smoking and teasing the blonde waitress— he had her holding her blouse open while he pinched and tugged at her nipples, hard, making her squeak in pain, although she made no other complaint, so that he had free reign with her, as if he had a perfect right to tease her so.

And it seemed that perhaps he did indeed have such rights, for his boss’ expressed disapproval concerned the abandonment of his post, and the cigarette, rather than the sexual abuse of another member of staff.

The girl scurried off, blushing, without being spoken to, while the Maitre D’ briefly— and very crudely— explained what was to be done.

Without a word, gesture, or look at her, Odile found herself summarily pushed into the required position— bent at the waist, made to spread her legs— this time, she didn’t wait to be kicked, but spread herself as soon as she could. Her skirt was casually flipped up around her midriff— this time a hand in her hair was the only restraint as the clumsy fingers again jabbed directly, without the slightest finesse, into her tender sex.

Her reaction to this was, as it had been the first time, a decidedly unsexy upwelling of outrage at being so brusquely and painfully manhandled by strangers, and she yelped in complaint. This was ignored, apart from a brusque and shockingly painful slap to her buttock, in favour of a brisk exchange, in gutter slang, between the two men, to the effect that;

“She’s soaking already, the dirty slut”

“So what! She’s to be whining like a bitch in heat, positively dripping. Right quickly, too— unless you want to upset the big man?”

“Last time, she went frigid on me, the cow!”

“Well try harder, fool— unless you want me to have to do it for you?”

“OK, Boss, keep your hair on! I’ll do her.”

That was her, Odile, they were talking about. And their language, too was appropriate, she told herself. A whore’s job was not to be picky about who, or how, but to be fuckable. And a whore certainly did not deserve to be talked about with any respect.

Her job, there and then, was to find a way to let the shameful, uncomfortable, frightening situation get her hotter. After all, it was her that had suggested it to Andrew. What could she have been thinking of?

And then it came to her, quite clearly— almost cold, almost cruel.

She had failed before, and would fail this time, if she thought about herself; her own arousal. That was not why she was there. She was there to serve Andrew. As his whore. It was not for herself that she would be wet, but for Andrew; not for her pleasure, but to please him. Her pleasure was irrelevant.

And the picture which had come into her mind was Maya, earlier, shamed, frightened and desperate, but still holding herelf carefully for Andrew’s hand, moving for him; whoring herself for Andrew. And here she was, in similar circumstances; she must whore herself.

And then she was moving for the man, as if he were Andrew; offering her body to him, her hips flexing for him, arching her back. They wanted to hear her? Well she could encourage them; she began cooing softly, trying to make the sound as sexy as possible, rewarded by a sneering remark, and more vigorous rubbing.

It hurt her, quite sharply, so that it was hard for her to bite down on a shout of protest.

A wave of shame and despair hit her then, at the crude and sordid shamefulness of it all, and she felt she must fail, agonised at the prospect, outraged, briefly, at Andrew for having pushed and directed her into this situation; for, however much she knew her own complicity, she knew, too, that he had manipulated her, that he had intended her to be taken like this, that her corruption had been planned.

Right at that moment, though, Dupuis, at her head, decided, for some reason of his own, to push down, hard, on her head, down to the level of her knees, almost doubling her over. It hurt, it made her frightened she would lose her footing, it split her sex wider, and, as a result, unintended by him, the flunkey’s finger — two fingers— penetrated her sex, rather deeply.

Through the whole day of erotic charge, nothing had entered her sex; it had worked and worked, as her hips flexed, so many times, in anticipation, but received nothing. Perhaps it was this that changed things.

Whatever, she moaned, then, helplessly, and something flipped inside her— she felt it, like a floodgate opening,

The movement of her hips changed, became urgent, needy; and the sounds changed too, louder, until she was whining for them; shamed, but gratefully so, by the new rush of warmth and damp at her sex, until she felt possessed by sexual need, humiliated and exalted in equal measure.

“Well I’ll be damned! Now she’s a gusher!”

For the first time in her life, a stranger was in her sex. He was not raping her— she had offered herself, and her body, of its own accord, had responded, had welcomed him, opened for him.

Another hurt. She could never not know this about herself; that she could get herself hot for a strange man, for whom she had no feelings, find herself hoping he would fuck her, needing to make him understand that this was so; encourage him, offer herself, move her hips so as to make it obvious how ready her sex was. Not for a lover, but for a fuck; happy to present herself as a warm, wet hole; a body that would move for him, serve his pleasure, without reserve; happy to be used.

And she knew herself for a whore.

“Enfin! Now, I deliver her.”

Pulled upright again by her hair, Odile was barely able to control herself. She had been so fully taken over by the sexual heat building in her that everything became an aspect of that heat; her walk, her breathing, the tone of her cheeks, her mouth had to be open, since she needed to pant, and her tongue tip needed to wet her drying lips.

She allowed the Maitre D’ to lead her back across the dining room, pulling her along by the pendant which he had earlier affixed to her collar. She knew that she should be thinking about what the people would see, what they would understand had been done with her in those short minutes, that they would be judging her. Later, later, she would cringe and shrink at these thoughts, but there, then, all she cared about was Andrew, that she needed him; that he should see her like this, that she should be an invitation to ravishment, that she should hold her hands well.

It would be much later that Andrew suggested to her, quite casually, it seemed, that she might consciously consider how to present herself, in all circumstances, as ‘an unmistakable incitement to rape’.

As so often, when Andrew put something into words for her, this was both terrible to hear, and also deeply confirmatory (as if she had been in need of such clarity to help her move on), immediately becoming an inescapable part of her world; both making sense of her and condemning her.

It was at the same time heartstoppingly exciting and desperately shaming to understand that from that moment she would consider herself to be bound by this expectation, that she would begin to measure herself in terms of the regularity with which she was, indeed, raped— in particular, by strangers who had no prior knowledge of the freedom with which she could be used, of what she was. That it would also matter to her how violently she was raped— her assumption being that those who used real force with her had no idea that her acceptance of rape could be taken for granted and had thus considered it necessary to overpower her, to terrify her. These rapes, it was inescapable to conclude, were the ones that she had, indeed incited to overcome all societies prohibitions against rape. These were her only real successes.

The outcome of this was simple but shockingly powerful: over time, Odile began to believe that violent rapes by strangers were something she needed, in order to keep feelings of unworthiness at bay. She was well aware that this was a dangerous belief, bordering on craziness. But, by then, she couldn’t help herself. This was one of several reasons why her keepers at that point restricted her freedom considerably. The side effect whereby Odile’s feeling of unworthiness grew in her was an unexpected benefit. Anne-Marie had her discuss, out loud, in front of some of the senior members and a few other girls, just how it could be that the opportunities this new vulnerability provided should be most thoroughly exploited.

Looking up, Andrew laughed at her;

“Oh yes, that’s what a slut in urgent need of a rough fucking looks like— well done, Dupuis! She can’t even seem to focus properly! That’s the standard, pretty, from now on— you’re to be this far gone when you offer yourself to me, or I’ll know the reason why!”

And she had smiled for him, although she could not meet his eyes, smiled meekly, softly, hopefully; even as her heart was breaking, and she was blinking back tears of despair.

For it was one thing to tell herself she was a whore, and quite another to discover that it was so, for it to be made obvious to others. For her to display herself, be displayed, in front of all these people, as a whore.

To know that she was going to let him do more to her. That she was helpless. That she would let him. That she wanted him to.

Read the next part of The Story of Odile here.