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.
Oh my. This dining room scene is just too rich. Another episode of intense psychodrama, but no actual sex.
He looked up again, and when he did, his expression was so bland, so casual, almost as if he were not expecting to see her there, that she was gripped with a fear that he had taken a disgust of her, at her cruel little outburst, her stupid giggling fit; his voice, too, was calm and normal, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened between them, as if the animal wildness of the past thirty hours had never happened; for a brief instant she asked herself if she could have imagined it all…
“In a little while, you will be collected, and Claude will take you home.”
His matter-of-fact calm as he said this wrenched at her. It was incredibly hard— after she had shamed herself so desperately for him, let him say and do such terrible things to her, had let other people do such shaming and degrading things to her on his behalf— so very hard to be dismissed so casually; dismissed, knowing he was going to spend the night with another girl.
It took a couple of seconds, then, before she remembered; she was being silly; all this had already been decided; agreed, dealt with. It was over.
He would treat her just as he wished, and she; she would smile and be pleased. She knew this, had already understood it; all of that, from her, was to be, simply and casually, taken for granted by him. That was the basis of it all, now. That she was nothing.
She would have to learn, she saw; learn to be nothing. This too would be hard.
It was not that he did not see what it had cost her— she was absolutely certain that he knew very well how incredibly demanding this day had been for her— that it indeed it had been his intention and his pleasure to make it so.
But had she not just asked him, and accepted his answering commitment with fierce gratitude, never to consider the cost to her of anything that might give him pleasure? She knew it: of course she did. How, then, was she failing him, failing herself, so soon? Why was she not joyfully accepting this harshness, this brutally casual dismissal, as proof of his constancy, of reassurance as to his reliability?
Her role, her position, her meaning in whatever it was that connected them (it certainly couldn’t be described as a ‘relationship’) was to accept, or be forced to accept, unless she wished to exercise her escape option.
There was no middle way, no blurring of the edges. There never would be. This was not a game.
In fact, she saw, it would be quite the opposite— that the edges had been becoming sharper, more well defined, more rigidly enforced, with each interaction between Andrew and her since that first remark of his at the Klimt exhibition. Every new step, whether in conversation, or in body language, or in bed together— every step had been a hard, sharp, binary test; ‘Will you fail me, pretty? Turn and run? Or; will you allow me to take something more from you; never to return it?’ She was being tested; tested again. Would always be on test. Would one day fail; no matter how she tried; one day, even her best, her very all, would bore him, and that would be the end for her. Not for him— he would simply move on, leaving her, ruined, desolate. It was inevitable.
But that didn’t matter, now, did it? Here was a test. Did she want to pass it, or did she want the moment he abandoned her to come right away?
It didn’t matter what she thought she wanted, even. There was that, inside her, she was learning, which was working in lock-step with Andrew, which would not allow her to even consider failing him; no matter what the cost. It knew what it wanted, and was every bit as ruthless as he— if anything, was more rigorous in its requirements; for it demanded, not just compliance, but pretty, and servile compliance; yes and overt sexual offering, too, to the maximum extent possible, so as to keep him interested.
It came to her, then, with a happiness that was almost terrifying, so sharp and clean and simple was it, that this inner power— which had been propelling her, all along, demanding that she do everything she could to maintain Andrew’s interest, give him everything she could— that this power was, simply, her inner self. Which saw Andrew as offering the fulfilment of her deepest needs.
It was powerful, because it knew her; it was her; these things which, to grown-up, socialised Odile, looked like destruction— loss of her dignity, of her self-respect, her social standing, her rights over her own body— all these things were, to that inner self, in comparison to what it hungered for, no more than cheap trinkets, distractions, superficial concerns— well worth sacrificing to achieve what it had always needed, had almost given up hope of ever achieving. And her inner self, awakened by Andrew’s greed, his equal lack of concern for what society thought, was not going to stop until it had what it wanted.
The highest form of self-care, it considered, was to give itself into Andrew’s hands; give Odile into his hands; give her body into his hands. It (and she must, must, for her own sanity, begin to identify herself with this core— give it her name, allow it to own Odile; so that it could give Odile to Andrew). From this point of view, the loss of these things which were thought to be precious beyond compare: freedom, agency, decency; the imposition of things which were supposed to be utterly intolerable— pain and suffering, sexual humiliation and abuse, fear, distress, all this was to be accepted with gratitude, if it got what it wanted.
If it got Odile what Odile wanted.
There was something lovely, and also terrifying in this understanding, she knew, beautiful; but also powerful, wild, unmanageable - like a tornado , so that seeing it for the first time, clearly, filled her with both soft yearning and trembling apprehension.
Her earlier naming of this need as ‘safety’ (which had seemed paradoxical as it required her to say ‘Yes’ to Andrew hurting her), was nothing so limp, nothing so bourgeois; it was active in her; strongly so— not just a need, but an almost animal drive for fulfilment, which would not be denied, now that it saw a possibility of achieving its desire.
All these tumultuous, enormous feelings! All this thinking about sexual violence and degradation, mental and physical cruelty, pain and humiliation— not as abstractions, as she wrote about them in relation to the art she studied, or the often strange perversions of the artists whose lives she knew so much about— but as things she knew were to be inflicted upon her; not as a singular event, either; promised her as an intensifying process, explicitly intended to diminish her as a human being!
And he, he; the man who would cause all this; who promised this, who desired this of her; the man who would hurt her, and have her whore herself, demean and shame herself; he was still looking at her as if she were a stranger; yet again, she must prove herself worthy of his interest.
Claude had spoken truly; it was the hardest thing she had ever had to do; it would continue to get harder; she was more terrified of failing at it than she was of being degraded, shamed and hurt; she was almost certain that she would fail— that becoming what he required of her would be beyond her.
Ashes, then; grey, bitter ashes was all she could expect from all this; and yet there was no escape. The ‘all or nothing’ way out that he had so tightly defined was too final, too awful to contemplate. Already, after so short a time with him, so few glimpses into what giving herself might really mean, the thought of losing his interest, his attention, had become unthinkable.
She was where she needed to be. What she needed to do, was to be, as perfectly as she could, what he desired of her.
When she saw it like that, she knew, and she wanted it so badly. She bit her lip, hard, until she could command her voice, and spoke softly, if not calmly, channeling the softness and the yearning for him; far from letting him see how hard it was to be dismissed, she must show him how happy she was that he felt free to treat her that way.
There was more, much more to it that she needed to understand, but he was waiting, and she could not risk his displeasure.
“Yes … yes …”
She stopped. She had been going to address him as M’sieu, as if … as if she were a servant, or … or a slave. Somehow it had seemed necessary, obvious, normal; but then she had caught herself, been shocked, and been unable to say it.
She looked up, then, met his gaze fully for the first time in very many minutes, and trembled; for there it was, again, that careful, patient, all-seeing attention; she felt her heart fill with weak emotion; she looked her fill, for a few, lovely seconds (all she dared; all she could manage), before she lowered her gaze, certain now, and started again, knowing that she was, already, his slave, knowing that M’sieu was not enough, her voice trembling with emotion, very, very soft; only just more than a whisper, but very clear, for all that;
“Yes, Monseigneur; thank you Monseigneur.”
And it was a deep pleasure to her to hear herself saying that word, to see the brief, unemphatic inclination of his head; accepting it, without surprise, or gratitude, no special pleasure. Taking it as his due, taking her for granted. Which, too, she told herself, she would learn to take pleasure in.
And that; that was the treasure that lay in those ashes; the whole body sensation of rightness that she got from knowing she could do something to please him.
“Since you failed me earlier, you will be punished tonight. You will not normally be punished for specific failings, but it is important that you understand that you are subject to such treatment, should it serve my pleasure, or my purpose with you. Since I will be with Maya, Claude will punish you, on my instruction. He will find you prettily compliant and accepting as he hurts and shames you; there will be no trouble— no resistance— do you understand?”
And here was an opportunity to please him again— no matter the awfulness of the idea that the chauffeur would be hurting her, shaming her.
“Yes, Monseigneur; thank you Monseigneur.”
She was trembling again, but there was more;
“You won’t see me for some days, now, but Nadia will be in touch. You’ll obey her, in all things— as if she were speaking with my voice.”
There was no questioning inflection. It wasn’t an order, even; he was simply stating facts.
It took her a little time, a second or so; her eyes closed (he saw a tremor pulsing in her neck); a little wince, a tightening at the jaw— but it passed, and then, very carefully, she smiled; a broad, meek smile, making her acceptance explicit, and her voice was a little stronger, although her whole body trembled at this casual annexation of her life;
“Yes, of course. Yes, Monseigneur; thank you Monseigneur.”
He was silent, watching her, enjoying her as this novel idea— that she would be obeying his assistant in all things, impinged itself into her reality, seeing how bravely she faced it, how carefully she controlled itself as some part of her made her face the implications of her consent, remembering how cooly controlling the young woman had been, in the clinic, what she had accepted there, as if in a daze. To be subject to that, for some unspecified number of days, without seeing him.
She felt herself welcoming it, made herself smile again, the fact that he would have his people control her deeply satisfying as evidence that his interest in her was still strong.
And he; he had smiled at her then; as casually as ever.
Perhaps, if she had seen some flash of triumph, of greed, of relief in his eyes— any sign at all that this taking of a young woman, so much less powerful than him, this deliberate, ruthless and rapid establishment of psychological and physical dominion over her, achieved with such laid-back aggression, was anything that he had doubts about— perhaps, she sometimes wondered— just perhaps, she might have saved herself.
But his calm, encouraging smile— as if briefly sharing some small, unimportant pleasure, nothing more, made everything seem to glow, to become perfect, and her acceptances became part of that, impossible to question without destroying the perfection of his pleasure in her, and her gratitude to him.
She would dream of how they had been, of those few moments, with the afterburn of her arousal still strong in her body, the profound mental and emotional exhaustion that had overtaken her (unsurprising after a day of wild emotional extremes), smoothing the edges of everything, the warm pleasure she felt inside her — so simply, so delightfully— at being able to have him as her acknowledged master, for him to have made it so smoothly inevitable for her that she would step yet deeper into his maze— the dread implications of that somehow irrevocable step— the implications of the requirements she had so simply, so unquestioningly accepted— not fully understood, for sure, but still, the destructive violence inherent in them, the lurking, moving fear, the certainty that she was going to be harmed, deep in her belly, as if it were alive, all a necessary part of the mood.
It was like that rare, lazy feeling on a late summer afternoon, after a perfect day, when you felt you could melt into the world, if only everything would stay, just as it was at that instant, forever— the feeling only intensified by the threatening power of the thunderstorm that would be the inevitable follow-on, and it only got stronger when the pretty blonde waitress appeared, with a tiny plate, on which sat a small, exquisite cake that was almost a work of art, and a tiny glass, no bigger than a thimble, filled with some intensely purple liquid, viscous yet clear.
This girl’s smile was no less eager, for Andrew, than Maya’s; clearly, Andrew was connected with this place. But he had ignored her completely, as, with a little bobbed curtsey, she had set her cargo down.
He had half turned, picked up the little plate, and showed it to Odile, grinning at her, as if sharing a sweet little joke;
“You see; I decided to feed you, after all.”
And she made herself take it, take the teasing humiliation, made herself accept it as she would a caress; smiled as she blushed, feeling her whole being filled with yearning; not so much for the cake, although she was salivating, too, and her stomach growled at the promise of food— no; rather for a kindness from him, no matter how teasingly delivered.
Ah, how powerful he was, how effortless it was for him to manipulate her; she was like a leaf, carried along by a raging torrent, with nothing; no foundation but that torrent itself, no joy but to conform more perfectly to its irresistible urges.
Unthinking, her hunger rising in her, her hand half rose, as if she were about to take the cake from him, but he had raised a warning finger, waggled it comically, teasing again, as he grinned at her, laughing;
“Ah but no, pretty! You disappoint me! No hands, remember? You are to be helpless, no? The epitome of lovely, vulnerable helplessness. Perhaps, indeed, you would kneel for me, and show all these people how beautifully willing you are?”
And there had been no question, then, but to make herself smile for him— even as her heart had begun thumping again, and, after the smallest, confused, appalled hesitation, to kneel, too; go down as elegantly as she could manage, to make her hands useless, prettily useless, for him.
And the joy of pleasing him had come again— fed by the intense self-consciousness that kneeling, like this, in a dining room, would very definitely look strange, attract attention, be judged. She was, really, demonstrating something, as he wished her to; and not just to one or two servants, but to a roomful of strangers. Making it clear to them that she, although she had been sitting at a table, like they were, she was in fact of the same class as Maya, a girl who, as Odile had noted, watching, had allowed more than one man other than Andrew, and a woman, too, to take liberties with her body with helpless complaisance.
Her joy was chilled, though, when she had flicked a look up at Andrew, through her lashes, to gauge his response, and found him, still smiling, but also, still expectant. More was needed from her to satisfy him— but he was not telling her what.
Another test.
As soon as she accepted it, she saw what she must do— she must do more than kneel like a nun at prayer— humble, but closed-in. Rather, her kneeling must be an offer, an explicit request, to be fucked. Ravished. An offer of her body; an offer of her mouth.
Burning with embarrassment, then; sure that everyone one in the room must be watching her, judging her (as she, surely, would judge any girl she saw kneeling like that), she remembered what he had requested of her when she sat, and decided to pull her skirts free from where they were, trapped under her buttocks, and she had lifted her body up. Immediately, it was obvious that she must stay up like that— emphasising her rear, the short skirts of the slip now hanging free.
But they were too long; on the chair, her buttocks had been naked against the prickly hide, and the slip had ridden high up on her thighs in front, too; kneeling as she was, the hem of the slip was brushing her ankles; it must be hitched up, she decided, she must make herself obvious.
After all, these people had seen her led across the room, smelling of her own excitement, after offering herself up to be mauled by servants; she was his, now, she belonged to her Monseigneur; she might as well let her body do what it wanted to do, even as she became faint with the the shame of it.
Reaching back, she remembered, with a little start, that he had told her, several times now, that her hands were to be expressively useless (and had begun to understand, in herself, just how powerful this small requirement would be, if adhered to). How to hitch the slip up, then without using them?
It was obvious, she found, as her body simply continued the movement, improvising— the backs of her wrists, pressing onto the fabric, under the curve of her buttocks, one wrist above the other, so that her hands did not touch, provided enough traction to drag the fabric up, until her mind screamed at her that she must stop, or show her sex to the whole room, until her wrists were at the small of her back, hands, palm out, elegantly useless enough, she hoped. And there, she understood, they must stay— since the smooth silk would slip back down again imediately if the pressure from her wrists lessened.
It was not enough; she had parted her thighs, in the chair— she must do so now— spread her knees more widely; and then again, more widely still, until she was almost overcome with the shame of it, her pulse sounding in her ears like the smash of ocean breakers against a harbour wall; she felt a desire, then, and gave in to it, helpless; let her hips surge for him, slow and needy, feeling herself getting hot between the legs, even as her cheeks burned, as she; shy, prim little Odile, found herself wanting to show him, show the room, just how her body wanted him (for a hush had fallen on the room, spread by some loudly whispered comments; she was indeed being watched, as she made it clear just how much of a whore she was).
But there was more; more that she needed to do, that she wanted to do; for she was caught up in the glory of it, of the idea of herself as doing everything she could for him, refusing to hold back.
For, once a whore, why not be the most desirable whore she could be?
So she opened her mouth for him, put out her tongue tip, soft, making herself be slow, tilted her head back— just a little; offering her opened lips, making herself remember just how it was to take his cock there, how frightening, how dirty it made her feel, how softly vulnerable she had made herself for him, how unrestrained he had been as he thrust into her throat; how she had had to make herself nothing, nothing but a receiver of his lust, in order to suppress the reflexes of survival. How glorious it had been, to be nothing, nothing but service to his pleasure.
He laughed then, and casually, two-fingered, pushed the spaghetti straps of the slip, one after the other, off her shoulders, until the slip hung, just, held only by the upward tilt of her breasts, by her tight nipples. The new, sudden vulnerability was like a icy knife inside her, lancing upward from her groin, so that she could not breathe for a long, strangled moment.
His fingers had moved on, to caress the line of her jaw, very softly, and she had let her head go, laid her cheek into his hand, let herself relax, enough so that she had given control of her head to him, let it be obvious to the room how completely she was willing to give herself; holding nothing back.
He leaned forward then, and spoke quietly, privately to her, so that her heart felt as if it would burst with the intermingled intensity of pleasure and shame;
“You will never be a slut, little Odile, but, I will have you make a helpless, degraded wanton of yourself for me, and, of course, most will not understand the distinction.”
Another surge at her sex; she let it move her, without restraint, heard herself breathe;
“Fuck me Monseigneur, Fuck me, please. Fuck me hard; break me. Break me now. I … I want it.”
He laughed again;
“Oh no, pretty; a delicious morsel like you must be savoured, just like this little cake; devoured slowly, one controlled bite at a time, to prolong and maximise the pleasure for me, and to induce the maximum emotional intensity in you. We will go slowly, you and I; you will be kept as close to the edge, for as long as possible, carefully held in tension between technical freedom— recourse to M’me DuClos still possible to you— and the final crushing of all hope. It will be fun— for me at least. For you, it will often be unbearable, I hope— and yet you will have no option but to bear it, or run away. You may, however, be able to comfort yourself with the thought that you will have experienced, over a prolonged period, greater emotional intensity than many people ever experience, even momentarily.”
She was shaking, once again having to bite her tongue to hold back the torrent of dire and glorious emotion this speech had unleashed in her; she wanted to scream, she wanted to grab him in her arms, make him dance with her, make him fuck her, wanted to kiss his feet; the slip fell free of her breasts, and she hardly noticed, so consumed was she by the terrible, tragic, hallucinatory vision of her future he had set out. She twitched, but otherwise made no move to recover that small scrap of dignity.
He gave her nothing; straightened, watched her attempt to regain control of herself, manage to breathe, suppress her tears, keep herself quiet, maintain her pose.
It was impossible, and there were two eruptions, both much appreciated by both Andrew and the various Castle members present— for they knew that those moments when the fabric of a girl’s life was carefully, after a well-managed build-up, brought right to the breaking point, but finely judged so that, after looking into the abyss, the pretty would bring herself back, back into the world, so that she had, once more, to live as as if the claims of normality had a hold on her— that those moments were both highly arousing to a connoisseur of psychological distress, and, equally, a measure of the skill of the seducer.
The first one was simple— a desperate, low cry— not loud, entirely without anger, but tormented, full of helpless despair, accompanied by a tight, shuddering shaking of her head, from side to side, as if attempting to deny something that was inevitable; rather slow, the product of intense tension between the demand that she break free of this madness, and equally intense efforts at suppression of that demand.
Her fingers writhed, jerkily, at random, but her wrists remained perfectly in position, as if pinned by nails. Andrew alone saw how delightfully these juddering motions set her breasts to jiggling, made her stiff, dark-stained nipples move, how tears jewelled her tightly closed eyelids, how violently her teeth had clenched onto her tongue, the tip still held between opened lips, as she had silenced herself.
She recovered— clearly at great cost; gathered herself, reset her pose— the slip had fallen, bunched around her waist, so that only a narrow band of crumpled silk lay between her and full public nakedness. That there was turmoil within her still was evident, as her widespread thighs, under tension, would not stop flexing— small, random surges making her buttocks rise and fall, eyecatching, the hem of the slip only just hiding her sex.
The room was still; the girl’s desperate, ragged breathing audible to all present, and the silence held, as if they knew that there must be something else to come.
They were not disappointed, as a minute or so later, from an almost inaudible whisper, breathy, her voice, repeating a single phrase, had gradually become louder, until it was possible, by listening carefully, to understand her half whispered mantra, talking to herself in tones of shocked insistence, as if she were trying to force her own mind to fully accept an impossible, unbearable truth;
“They’re all going to fuck me. They’re all going to fucking fuck me. Hard. Hard into my mouth and hard into my ass and hard into my cunt.”
“They’re all going to fuck me. They’re all going to fucking fuck me. Hard. Hard into my mouth and hard into my ass and hard into my cunt.”
“They’re all going to fuck me. They’re all going to fucking fuck me. Hard. Hard into my mouth and hard into my ass and hard into my cunt. …”
As the volume had increased, her hips had begin to almost bounce, in time with the repreated phrases;
“They’re all going to fuck me. They’re all going to fucking fuck me. Hard. Hard into my mouth and hard into my ass and hard into my cunt.”
“They’re all going to fuck me. They’re all going to fucking fuck me. Hard. Hard into my mouth and hard into my ass and hard into my cunt.”
And then a tinge of madness had come into the voice, as the phrases collapsed, until all that could be heard, in a monotonous rhythm, still becoming slowly louder, more vehement, speeding up, was;
“all … fuck … … fucking fuck … mouth … ass … cunt.”
“all … fuck … … fucking fuck … mouth … ass … cunt.”
Until the girl, as if she had, suddenly, realised that she was saying these words out loud, stopped dead, opened her eyes, lifted her head and looked Andrew straight, her face full of emotion— of horror, almost— her cheeks flaming red, her lips quivering, her jaw working.
The expression in his eyes, although his usual half smile was all that his face had to show, seared into her; fierce, hard, cold; gleaming almost, when her own eyes were soft, pleading; desperate for even the slightest hint of empathy.
“Please …”
Her one word was audible to everyone; weak, hopeless, helpless.
As was his answer, after a perfect pause; calm, unemphatic, but with no space in it at all;
“No.”
Her whole body jerked at that, as if he had slapped her, and then, slowly, slowly, she softened. It became evident that she had regained control of herself; she re-inhabited her pose, opening her thighs yet more widely, setting her shoulders to emphasise her breasts, now that they were exposed, relaxing her tightly clenched jaw, flexing her hips slowly, lifting her wrists— and the hemline of the slip— still higher.
Showing him that she had submitted.
Still traumatised, still finding breathing hard, but with an amazing, unfolding, tender, frightened joy in her; for she had understood that gleam— had felt certain, then, that he was, in his cold way, for that moment at least, completely fixated on her; that in overcoming her torment, the wild madness that had threatened to overtake her, to explode from her, that would have had her screaming at him, attacking him, ripping at his face with her nails— that in defeating her own better nature, that part of her which wanted to carry on being being decent, Odile, a private being, with dignity, and just a little, little pride at being herself, in the face of the world, however limiting being Odile might be— that in defeating herself she had done something for him, something that he valued, something that was rare.
And then, very clearly, very softly, acknowledging to him the great gift he had given her by letting her see into him like that; humble, heartfelt, she spoke;
“Thank you, Monseigneur.”
