The Story of Odile Pt7.

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.

Nothing physical happens in this episode. It’s all in the mind. I’m still building towards the wild finale to the evening, but finding so much to explore on the way, that I’m going to try and get out shorter sections, every few days, until we get there….

Everything Andrew had said to her, just minutes ago, about diminishment, about undermining her own worth in her own eyes— all of that, which had been hard enough to hear, to think about, to accept as an idea, now crashed in on her as reality.

Having been seated again, on the hide seat, having had to accept that Dupuis, holding the chair, had seen her obediently, shamefully lift her skirts free of her buttocks as she sat, had directly felt the hot stickiness at her sex, her labia slipping against each other as she sat, he found herself feeling very small, dirty, and worthless indeed, and could do no more than perch, as elegantly as she could manage.

Almost immediately, she was overcome with a fear that she was not making the best of herself - for Andrew, and found it necessary to open her thighs, as he had had her do when she was naked, and they were alone together, hesitated, then had to make herself do it, so shameful did it seem; self-consciously positioned her wrists at either side of the chair back, close to the joint with the seat, palms upward, knowing that anyone seeing her sitting thus would at the least wonder why she would adopt such a position— and that, in this place at least (now that she had learnt a little about it), there would be many indeed who knew exactly what to think of her.

For Andrew had not acted the gentleman this time— and rarely would again— and why should he, for a self-acknowledged whore? thought Odile.

In very fact, she soon began to find it unsettling and embarrassing, on occasions when he did, for his own reasons, choose to treat her as if she were a respectable person, a woman of standing— found herself glancing, hurriedly, at him from under lowered lashes, blushing, hesitating, not confident that she had the right to accept even such perfunctory kindnesses; indeed, sometimes, he used such occasions to trap her, or to expose her vulnerabilities, in ways which put her in impossible quandaries, in order to shame her publicly, to have others understand just how degraded she had become, how meekly she would accept such treatment, how pathetically vulnerable she was, how easy it was to hurt her, now that she accepted cruelty as if it were her due— to make it clear to these others that they, too, had every right to entertain themselves thus, at her expense. And, of course, if such meanness excited them, that they should feel equally free to use her body to satisfy their lusts— in full expectation that she would do anything they desired to serve that lust— and shame her that way, too, if it should amuse.

Squirmingly, she realised, too, that, knowing what to think of her, with her provocative pose, her slip of a dress, her white ‘nothing’ pendant (whatever that meant, it was not proclaiming her a free and independent woman, that was for sure), many men in this room would be thinking that, sooner or later, she might be made sexually available to them. That, having said what she had to him earlier, if Andrew chose to make her ‘available’ in that way, she could have no grounds for complaint; more, even; she would feel obligated to submit, to respond to each man as if he were Andrew— or at least attempt to do so.

Possessed by these disturbing realisations, still inwardly churning with the aftermath of her intense arousal, all on top of an increasingly deep burden of emotional shock, deep humiliation and burning shame, she could not immediately suppress her noisy breathing, nor the tremors which, originating in her belly, visibly shook her whole body at random intervals.

She certainly could not meet Andrew’s gaze, but kept her eyes on the table in front of her, making herself pull her shoulders back, no matter how embarrasing it was, very deliberately offering him her breasts, her nipples still very stiff, taking care to let her breathing make them move for him, unsure whether she wanted to die, or wanted him to call Dupuis back so that she could be offered to the kitchen staff as a whore— which would only be her just deserts for having allowed a stranger to arouse her while Dupuis held her down: or was it that some part of her simply wanted that— to be rutted by greedy, callous strangers? Was that a real thought? or just taking things to extremes for emotional effect?

She was hopelessly lost— in no state to do any more than chase such thoughts in tangles through her disordered mind; the only solid thing she could cling to was Andrew.

The crazy fact that Andrew— the very reason she had been brought to this condition in the first place— should feel to her like her only safety was, once again, brought home to her with all its paradoxical danger. She had been so beautifully, so cleverly, so sweetly, so terrifyingly trapped by her monster, and this realisation brought a new, unlooked for, and devastating flush of sexual emotion, which could not be hidden, so that she sighed, from mingled distress and arousal; her best efforts at suppression only keeping the volume low, the tone soft, but wholly ineffective at disguising the rawness of her feelings as her whole body shifted and shook; driven by the raw neediness emanating from her sex.

The shame and fear and desire built and built, the feelings; the experience either glorious, or horribly terrifying— or both; she couldn’t tell (undeniably, though, the heat at her sex, the shivers in her lower belly, were intensifying, not abating, even as the thoughts of being made sexually available to the gentleman diners, or sent to serve the kitchen staff as a whore, burned in her poor brain - her powerlessness if that should be Andrew’s choice)— until the effort of keeping herself from becoming hysterical, losing all control, was all she could manage for some minutes.

When, eventually, she surfaced, having, through great effort, cooled herself down just enough to be able to think, she had no idea at all how much time had passed since she had been brought back to him; no idea, either, how obvious her crisis had been to Andrew— to any who might have been watching her— how deeply she had shamed herself in that semi-public space. She was trembling, lightly, very cold, suddenly; weak, frightened, tired— emotionally tattered.

Certainly some food had been delivered since she was last aware of the table— a plate of bread, a single bowl of clear soup, set squarely in front of Andrew, which he was working his way through.

The sight of food caused another spasm— she was ravenously hungry, she realised. The meaning of the single serving puzzled her for a second or two— until it became obvious; at no point had it been suggested that she make an order for food; clearly, he had not ordered for her, and so, it seemed, she was not going to receive any. The possibility of asking for some was, for some reason which could not be argued with, unavailable to her.

This simple, banal confirmation of her low status, of his intentional callousness, of her internalisation of it, hit her very hard indeed then; like a punch to the gut; utterly devastating; made it impossible for her to even breathe for some terrible time, so powerful was the impact; testing her once again.

Was she to take this, too? Such a cruel and needless public humiliation— the denial of something so basic, so ordinary, so necessary, as food itself? In one way or another, he had controlled— occupied— every moment of her time since late morning— many hours now— afforded her no opportunity for nourishment, despite the sexual, emotional and mental turmoil he had put her through, and now she was to watch him eat, while hunger growled inside her?

She almost lost herself again— in a paroxysm of internalised misery and self-hatred, until she caught herself up, short— and let self-hatred win. Lashing herself up into a little storm of self pity over this was pathetic; ridiculous! He was going to use her as a private whore— she had made it possible for him to dispose of her body in ways which were beyond outrageous, beyond transgressive— directly degrading. And the idea that she might not be permitted to eat with him was what she had chosen to get angry about?

She despised herself, then. She had been meaning to diet, in any case. This was simply cowardly displacement, silly and obvious.

If she accepted his right to offer her to strange men, to have them degrade her, to require her to join in with that degradation, to actively participate in her own humiliation, then, if she found— however insane it might seem— some meaning in offering herself to him in that way, then surely, she must also learn to find meaning in petty humiliations, too?

She saw, then, how the diminishing he had spoken of would be mostly her own work.

He, Andrew, need do almost nothing, now that he had made the process explicit, now that she had accepted it, both as an idea and in crude reality.

All this time, she was sure, he had not even glanced at her, not once.

He need do nothing at all— only not do things; simply, he could omit to order food for her, not acknowledge her, not look at her, pay her no attention at all; just carry on with his meal, reading his paper, open at the business section— clearly of interest to him, from his occasional noises of interest or mild amusement, and let her do the work of internalising the hurt of being so disrespected. Of diminishing herself.

And of course, assuming that she did so— that, right then and there, at that table, she would make herself accept that calculated, mean and dispiriting little insult— why then, it would never again be necessary even to consult her about whether she wished to eat or not. It would be settled between them that her needs in that regard were no concern of Andrew’s.

More, that she would suppress her own need for food, even, in favour of more important things— like his wish to read the paper in peace. She would not even feel able to raise the subject with him, not even in friendly conversation— if she was ever to have the joy of that with him again (another awful prospect loomed for her; what if he never again spoke to her in a casual way, about ordinary things? Would she be able to bear it?).

For she saw, without a second’s doubt, that she would try to accept it, if he chose to treat her that way. Already, she self-censored; checked herself, two, three times— sometimes more than that— before saying even simple, submissive things to him.

How could it be that that was so, after so few hours spent together? What did that matter? it was so. It simply was; settled between them, as the business of her having any right to food was now also settled.

If course she was going to accept it— she already had, if she would only understand herself a little— and probably many other things, too, now that she thought about it; Nadia, presumably, would now have charge of what she wore, how she presented herself— hair, make-up, perfume, everything; Claude, of where she went; one or other of them, depending on the circumstances, of whether her pussy was sufficiently hot and slick to be allowed into Andrew’s presence.

Shocking, how easy it was, for her to let this become fact in her mind. How easy it would be to allow it. How pleasant, even; safe, it felt, to just tell herself that she had already accepted it all. How ridiculous, even, to imagine that these things were not already considered settled, as far as Andrew was concerned— if he bothered himself to think about them at all; after all, he could rely on Claude and Nadia to manage her life for him, in the service of his pleasure.

She understood, all too clearly, how these settlements— and others like them, no doubt— would work on her; again, without him even having to think about it. She could already see that little things like this being denied food— quite as much as big things like the treatment she had endured in the corridor— would cause her distress, late at night, when she was alone, that her weak acceptance of such intentional and disempowering disrespect would confirm each further reduction in self esteem, each degradation of her self-image.

She experienced a wild surge of resistance, then— a revulsion at the idea that she would go willingly into the future she had just understood.

And she watched it pass. Made herself ignore it. Let it wash itself out, until it was spent.

Deliberately, she held herself in check, until the emotion — so wild and demanding in its initial effect— simply ebbed away; refused to respond to the feelings, almost gritting her teeth, so hard was it to make herself ignore that part of her which wanted to protect her, to reject all this cruelty, this damage, this madness. Thus inflicting upon herself yet another diminishment, she realised.

And yet, she did. Ignore her better self, intentionally, in favour of degradation. She felt the knowledge of what she had done eat into her; half savagely exultant, half stunned.

It had hurt her; but next time, she knew, it would be easier, to ignore the call to sanity.

At the base of it, what counted was very simple: Andrew promised safety, and wild fucking.

And her body wanted safety— and it wanted to be ruthlessly fucked— whatever the cost to her mind.

Odile, too, poor, sad, suffering Odile, who had worked so hard at life, achieved so much, but accounted herself so little, she yearned for her body to have those things; things she had never really known.

She would die, she felt, if Andrew ’s interest in her faded— or at least find life unbearable. And— it was fruitless to deny it, when simply thinking about being made into a whore made her heart trip-hammer in her chest, made her breathing deepen and slow, made her lips quiver, her nipples harden— she wanted the fucking, too.

Even if it were louts like those doormen, or cold, frightening Claude, or the gentleman diners, or the kitchen staff. Perhaps, even, especially if it were them, if she only knew that it was as Andrew’s whore that she was being made available to them.

Ha. Eventually, she saw, it was inevitable; obvious— it would be all of them. All of them, any of them; fucking her. And she, she would be opening herself to them; offering herself, working herself against them; seeking to please them, just as she sought, so earnestly, so eagerly, so humbly, to please Andrew, even if, at the same time, she was dying inside, fighting back the tears.

She couldn’t tell if she was sad or happy to think such crazy thoughts. But, of course, it didn’t really matter what her feelings were; not any more… Andrew was what mattered. What he wanted mattered. That would be what would happen. Because he had purpose, vision, confidence; drive; willpower, aggression, emotional control; untrammelled greed.

All the things she had none of.

Around and around, again and again, these thoughts, these emotions, these grinding realities, each time the same result, only a little more deeply entrenched. Always, always, the immediate, insistent neediness, the unwillingness not to have it all, even at the cost of a degraded future. Increasingly, disturbingly, if she let herself think about it, the promise of the degraded future was being incorporated into the immediate need, however insane that was.

Peace asserted itself, then, without anouncing itself beforehand— she was, simply, all-of-a-sudden, sure; even though she knew it could only be temporary she understood, then, very clearly, what he was doing to her, how he was deliberately pushing her into crisis after crisis; destabilising her, that he would not stop, that she would have to go through this internal strife again and again; this too, she realised, she was at peace with; grateful for, even— for it showed, did it not, that he was interested in her? That he was paying attention to her, That he was enjoying her? — she was going to accept this shame, accept every shame, in return for what he promised.

He was going to have her.

Always, and again, the resolution of her mental turmoil, achieved by defeating herself, brought a sense of calm.

She had defeated herself. Again. Made herself Andrew’s, just a little more; herself, just a little less.

She was Andrew’s; his to use, his to use, his to hurt, his to degrade— and she relished the sensation of safety those words brought, however nonsensical it might be; smiling, now, at the paradox; grateful for it, for now. Grateful at the knowledge that she was his to abuse.

Her body relaxed; she felt herself, warm, and soft, and open; vulnerable. Happy to be so. Happy for him to see how vulnerable she was. Hopeful that he would take advantage of her.

Read the next part of The Story of Odile here.