The Story of Odile Pt10.

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.

It just gets deeper and more intense, but this is the last of the dining room….

“Thank you, Monseigneur.”

“Very good, pretty— entrancing, indeed. Look at you— all but naked, for these lucky people; displaying yourself so lewdly— your nipples so red— and so very hard … your pink little tongue, so suggestive. Hard not to think about your hot little cunt, so tantalisingly opened, only just hidden— and in the most provocative way.”

“You continue to surprise me, my dear Odile; we have fun, do we not?”

He was closed to her again; impervious, self-contained; his lopsided smile only there to acknowledge, to invite her to understand just how well he knew that, for Odile, the word ‘fun’ was another intentionally cruel tease; for her to have suffered the turmoil she had just been through, the inner wrenchings and grindings that controlling herself had entailed, the public shaming, all for no greater outcome than ‘fun’ for Andrew…

But she clung, inside her, to that flash of insight he had afforded her, even as he took her offered softness simply as an opportunity to take advantage— and surprised herself, too, finding it sweetly welcome, this little meanness, finding it shamefully easy to give him a submissive, self-demeaning response— simpering, jiggling her hips as if she were a little girl who had received a compliment from a favourite uncle— making her subordination to him obvious to the whole room; but feeling undeniably, warmly happy that she can do this for him— let him see just how in his thrall she was at that moment, just how much it meant to her to have pleased him, how deep her gratitude ran— to know that her willingness to collude with him in destroying her means something to him.

Too, it was strong in her, just as deep— and dark, too, the need to recover from her near breakdown, from the terror, the fear, the agony of it, still so recent in her. These violent pendulum swings, she is beginning to see, will be her lot, continually destabilising her— another form of abuse; manipulative, heartless, cruel and purposeful.

Glorious; glorious, to be the object of such careful, powerful treatment; to be deemed worthy of it; it took her breath away.

It had made an undeniable heat in her sex, too, despite the fact that the feeling of all those eyes on her, all those people, judging her, still made it very hard for her to breathe naturally.

Every feeling was intensified— just as he had told her it would be— intensified to the point where it was hard to separate suffering from joy, anguish from pleasure. Inside her, at her core, she knew that such intensity could not be maintained, that it could only be paid for by long hours; days, perhaps, of despair, self-hatred— that this was what she had condemned herself to, in return for that little flash, for this relentlessly cruel, addictively sweet attention.

Understood, too, that her fear of those inevitable, terrible lows would impel her to encourage him to keep pushing at her, to prolong, to deepen the intensity, and that this would be the impossible, dangerous spiral that Claude had bluntly told her of, in the bathroom, less than an hour ago; an infinity ago, a different girl ago.

Those dread thoughts, far from setting off another struggle, only made it still more lovely, to be his, despite the terrors that she knew awaited her, later, when, at last, he, and even Claude, frightening Claude, who was going to punish her— hurt her and shame her, when even he had finished with her; when she would be alone with herself and what she had done.

She had let her hips surge again, slow and sensuous, adding a small sideways wiggle into the movement, knowing how blatant this was, feeling the eyes on her still, even though the silence had been broken, all at once, with a hum of pent up exclamations, quickly eclipsed by not a few shouts of hard-edged laughter.

The shame was there, eating at her, insistent, gnawing, but she would not restrain herself, not then; not any more. She pushed her tongue out for him then, pushed it far out, curling downward, taking care not to be slutty, not to challenge, but to show her weakness, her need, to beg; she let the very tip curl slowly upward, before it flickered back between her expressively opened lips. This act triggered in her a wave of hot flushes, embarrassment and desire inextricably rushing with it.

She was staring at his groin, concentrated on thinking about how she had felt his cock surge for her, in the park, on what an astonishing thing it was to be allowed to be there, with him, doing this heartstopping thing for him, letting all these people see just what she would do for him.

She knew that she would not look at him, at his face, then; that to do so would be to ask something of him, expect something, another flash of attention, of intensity from him, something that it was not hers to ask. Only his to give, hers to earn, if she could do something extraordinary for him— help him to change her in some significant way, perhaps, degrade herself perhaps. It didn’t matter. Not then, at least; later, later, of course, she would have to deal with the fallout. But that was for later.

And so she concentrated, on one thing only— on telegraphing, as best she could, without giving him a disgust of her, how open her body was to what she had threatened herself with— to being fucked. To being fucking fucked. In her mouth, her cunt, her ass — or all three, for that matter.

And on hoping that she might please him.

She was degrading herself, humiliating herself, she knew. And she pushed herself to it, transfixed by her own willingness, her own neediness to give him everything she could possibly give.

“Very pretty, little one; very pretty. You shall have your reward, then.”

He did! He did approve! Little tears— not of happiness or of sadness precisely, but tears of simple emotional intensity, prickled her eyelids, and somehow, made her laugh; she was happy. She was! She was happy to be doing this for him, to be flaunting her sexual willingness so for him, and she did look up, then; briefly; not asking, but shyly offering, letting him see how he had her, how she was his— emotionally his. His toy, his plaything; and happy to be so.

The tiny, perfect little cake came into her view, surprising her— she had almost forgotten it, and she laughed again, as she saw that he wanted her to lean forward for it, that he was holding it out of reach, that he intended to make a show of her yet more, and; weak, pliable, pathetically eager to please, she played along, her movements deliberately neat, small, controlled; tentatively, humbly, she stretched her neck forward, her buttocks lifting, her her mouth opening.

Further and further forward he made her lean, and lower, too, before he let her touch the cake with her tongue; the sweetness of the icing was like a spark, almost, in her; shocking, igniting her need, her hunger; and she could not help a little lunge.

But he was ready for her, pulled back, and down, right down, too; teasing her.

With a sudden spasm, then, she was sure, she knew, that the slip had risen, that her sex had been thrust backward as she had leant forward— that she was flashing her pussy, pulled open by the splay of her thighs, and the spasm convulsed her, as she crossed yet another social boundary, another threshold of self-respect, of decency. She took herself in hand; this had to be faced; very deliberately then, she ducked her head and raised her behind, to take, as she remembered he had told her she must, a small, neat bite of the cake.

“That’s it, girl. Little, pretty nibbles, mind! This is all you’re getting, so make it last! Try, if you will, not to let your teeth even meet; don’t chew, but use your tongue, and your palate, to soften the crumbs; then swallow without closing your lips. Let me see you try.”

It was not hard; not really, to do as he wished; but not easy, either; and it was, somehow, deeply, deeply humbling, pathetic, to do this for him, while he watched, entertained, teasing her with the little cake, having her seek it out for each little bite, feeling her breasts sway, the hemline of the slip grazing her buttocks as she moved, so very, very high; and above all, the weakness, the very obvious, public humiliation of being willing to make herself eat like that for him; she could not help herself from giggling every now and then; not laughter, as before, but now almost tearful deflections, acknowledgements of what he was doing to her, what she was doing for him, how willingly, how carefully, she was performing for him, how shaming it was.

How much she appreciated his care, his attention, his languid, knowing cruelty as he teased her, as she grovelled and displayed herself.

The cake, too, was part of it; once there had been a taste in her mouth, she had found just how terribly, gnawingly hungry she had become; the sugar, almost stone hard at the surface, gooey on the inside, the vanilla and fruit essence and honeyed biscuit within were like an intense and lovely explosion in her mouth, so that she almost cried with the sensation of it; the pity of it, the whole moment; being so carefully, so obviously, so publicy infantilised, after such an evening.

He watched her as her mouth worked, the business of swallowing without closing her teeth, her lips producing a range of really very sexually suggestive movements and shapes, the business of swallowing at times threatening to have her gag, so that her lovely throat would convulse, visibly. His smile broadened.

As he had said to Odile, he had surprised himself with his strong response to the idea of using Maya harshly, of being maximally brutal with her— demonstrating to the girl, beyond all doubt, that she was helplessly ensnared by the idea of herself as a Castle slut. Although he was remarkably fit and healthy for a man of his age; although he took care to maintain himself in that condition, he was certainly no longer as able to perfom with vigour whenever the opportunity arose— as he had been when he had conquered Anne-Marie. But this Odile, this girl whom he had initially guessed would not last long (would either rapidly bore him, or run away— probably both) was proving to have unsuspected depths to her; poor Maya was going to get it very hard indeed, that night. And frankly, he was no longer much interested in the little hussy’s fate, either.

This pretty innocent, with her hot, wanton core had really got him heated up, and he knew himself to be dangerous in this mood. Maybe he’d let himself really go— let himself ruin Maya— so much that she would have to be disappeared? It didn’t matter, he decided; she was lost, in any case. And at that time, there was, if anything, a glut of fillies being presented to the Members; he need not hold back out of respect for the needs of the Club. He would give himself free reign with the slut.

In his youth, he would have needed to display his surge of feral desire, then, but he had no need of that, not any more; he was altogether in control of himself, until he chose to let his demons free.

In fact, his smile was almost tender as he crooked his finger under Odile’s chin, and lifted, very gently, so that she had to meet his eyes, as she tried to be as dainty as she could possibly be; small, delicate movements, blushing to be so intently watched from so close, his face as calm as ever; self consciously putting out her tongue again, to collect a small crumb stuck to her lip, freezing, then, as he caught the tip of it between thumb and forefinger— very carefully, not hurting her at all— he simply held it, for just a few seconds, then tugged, very softly; left, right, up, down; far enough so that she had to really move her head, to follow him, from side to side, then up, down; very deliberately manipulated, like a puppet; letting him do it to her.

There was no purpose to it; he was simply showing them both that he could, that she would, that they both knew what he could do with her, what it implied about what he would do with her, how easy it would be for him; how easy she would make herself; the moment, the lived, intimate experience of it more powerful than a million words, than any rules, any punishment, any training; unforgettable; seared into Odile’s mind as intensely as the moment they had told her her parents were dead. Her breathing had become disordered, almost desperate, as he had toyed with her, but she let him do as he willed, stayed soft, though her eyes were flickering wildly, and small, fearful inarticulacies sounded in her throat.

He released her, and turned, to fetch the little glass, and her body was shaking, then, her heart beating, so violently in her chest that she felt she must faint, found her fingers, again, twisting and twitching weirdly, as she tried to dissipate the stress, to recover her poise, even if just a little; the lewd pose had become very difficult to maintain— both physically and emotionally; and yet she knew that she would not permit herself to release herself from it…

In the glass was something almost oily in its viscosity; intensely purple, clear; just a thimbleful. His other hand was in her hair, then, quite gentle, but very firm, as he tilted her head up and back, right back, until her neck hurt, and she could not stop her eyes from closing, and then it took every ounce of will power she could command to keep her hands still, her wrists holding the slip; they quivered, as the leaves of certain trees do, quite violently, uncontrollably, under the conflicting forces that assailed them. She felt her breasts, too, swaying free now, on display, and had to swallow a little sob.

“Well done, pretty, stay with me; let me have you.”

She was conscious, suddenly, that the room had fallen silent again; that they must all be watching this, watching him, doing this to a nothing; a young girl, who had already been shown to them to be a whore of some kind or another, now like putty in his hands as he bent her, further backwards still, standing over her, controlling her, so that she was bent backward at the waist; then, again, even further, until she felt her breasts fall outward, her chin higher than her forehead then, her breasts jiggling as she quivered, her breathing audible, through her mouth, panting noisily with the emotion of it — although it was no nameable emotion— just pure sensation.

“Easy, pretty, easy,” he had said, as if her were calming a horse; and it had worked.

She would hear herself called a ‘filly’, her and her sisters in servitude ‘the stable’, often enough in times to come, by older Castle members; and feel the kiss of riding crops and pony whips, too, in all her soft, and sensitive places; be made to scream and beg by them, and also be made to caress herself with them, bring herself to orgasm with those instruments, the design of which had been refined, over millenia, for the purpose of administering pain to thick-skinned horses— made to caress herself with them for the amusement of cruel strangers: be quieted, too, after many a gut-wrenchingly traumatic debauch, by such nothing words, so lazily and insultingly whispered to her by cheerful sadists, now sated, having exorcised their demons through untramelled abuse of her tenderness, wanting her to be sweet with them again; soft and loving, to smile at them through her tears and giggle at their playfully cruel teasings of the wounds they had just inflicted on her, all the time alert for the slightest sign that it was time; time to go to her knees, to seem, at least, no matter what the cost, sweetly and softly eager, to search out their lazy cocks with her lips, attentive, asking, begging, ready for a violent slap if she had moved too soon, ready to clean them of the mingled, sticky fluids, responding to any hint of a stiffening with skilful and encouraging suckings, taking them as deeply as they desired into her soft throat (always, always, bruised, tender, wrenched in one way or another, so popular a girl was she); utterly willing, infinitely patient, wholly selfless in bringing them back to full arousal, if she could, even when she was so sore everywhere that the very thought of renewed penetrations made tears come to her eyes, ready to open herself, make herself shamefully obvious, mutely encourage still more violence (or openly provoke it; ask directly to be made to scream and beg, if that was what it took, if that’s what she judged they would like), show them her fear, her terror, her desperation, give them her defeated tears, her horrified squeals, her anguished screams, if that was what would inspire them to fuck her again, to lose control with her again, to destroy her.

And these men (and, sometimes, women, too), would congratulate themselves with the soubriquet ‘cunt whisperer’, believing that it had been their insincerely honeyed murmurings which inspired such extraordinarily self-abnegating service.

Only she (and Anne-Marie, of course, who knew everything) knew better; that it was Andrew, always Andrew, that she gave herself to, every time, Andrew, remembered from this night, so early in her time with him, that she responded to; Andrew who owned her so completely that she would give herself that way, again and again, to anyone she was made to offer herself to. She had told Andrew that this was so, that she had never forgotten that first time, but even he had not believed it to be possible, and took it as amusing flattery, no matter how she insisted (although insisting was hard, of course; almost never permitted to speak, even if you had become surprisingly eloquent with cute little moans and whinnies, in combination with entertaining, unemphatic, shameful little jigglings of hips, nipples and buttocks).

“Now then pretty, open wide; there’s only a little of it, and I’ll go carefully, don’t you worry; be soft, please, and we’ll make this a cute little moment to remember, hm?

And again, his patronising sweet-talk had worked, had inspired in her a powerful desire to please; she had steadied herself, and worked with him as he poured the intensely sweet, intensely perfumed, powerfully alcoholic syrup in a thin, slow, continuous stream, onto her tongue. The effort it took her to make sure that there was no choking, no spluttering, no coughing or retching, was immense. Her throat pulsed, very obviously, as she was forced to swallow again, and again, until, as the stream of purple liqueur thinned and broke into droplets, Odile lost control, and choked a little, let out a short cry of fear, which had fulfilled itself, almost immediately, as the continued stream of drips took her inexorably, into racking, horrendous coughing, as the drops were sucked into her airways, her arms shaking terribly, her breasts, too.

Having put the glass down, far from seeking to help her in her coughing fit, he used both hands, then, to hold her back— enforced and maintained her in her pose as the choking shook and racked her, let it take its course, remorseless and calmly callous in his control, his confidence, his mastery, as the all but naked girl, so pitifully exposed, so helplessly in the grip of the fit, jerked and wailed and spluttered, hiccupped and snorted, her eyes streaming with tears, all her focus on keeping her arms as limp as possible, her legs spread, though she no longer remembered, in her agony, why that mattered to her.

As soon as it became clear that the choking was abating, that the diners would not be put into the terrible position of being unwilling witnesses to a death, applause began to break out— initially from those who were Castle Members, for whom this had been an unexpected pleasure, a bravura performance by an acknowledged master procurer and legendary chair of the Big Table, then from their guests, and lastly, from those remaining of the simple diners, who had imagined that they were real risk-takers, coming to this exclusive restaurant, about which such dark and salacious rumours abounded— these latter applauding more from relief of tension than from genuine appreciation.

Many stood, to signal their respect and appreciation, although there was also movement in the room, chairs scraping; clearly, some had discovered that they were not quite as cool or edgy as they had imagined themselves, and were making their excuses and leaving.

Andrew paid them no attention, but stayed, fixated, with Odile, holding her shaking, trembling body in its position, as she snuffled, occasionally snorted, wept softly; distraught, humiliated, conquered yet again.

When, after a minute or more, as she began to breathe more normally, she opened her eyes; looking for him, desperate as never before, as she began to remember who she was, where she was, he was there, holding her, looking at her in that same calm way. She moved her lips, as if about to speak, but he shushed her, gently, putting a finger to her mouth, stilling her, and said;

“You need to attend to your position, lovely girl; I have you, as I want you, but you must make yourself beautiful, now; desirable; fuckable, before anything. You will always need to do this. You know what to do— remember, in the park? But, certainly, you must manage yourself, open your cunt, offer it; have it ask to be fucked. That must always come first.”

It took her long, long seconds to process these words, to make them come into sense, to remember what she was, in what place, what had been done to her, how she had come to dream such a scene; for, surely, this could not be anything but a dream?

Then, when it became impossible to persist with this desperate, defensive self-deception, she began to sob, to gasp, to sigh, and again, he was with her; gentle and friendly; but at the same time serious, immovably certain;

“No, no, pretty; you may not speak; you may not cry. Not now. No more. It is time for Claude to take you home, where you will be punished.”

And somehow, then, the idea that she was still to be subjected to something that would be considered to be punishment, after what she had just experienced, struck Odile as delightfully, beautifully funny, and she laughed a little; a soft laugh, full of pain; hoarse, shy, girlish, even as tears hung in her eyes. And Andrew laughed with her, in his calm way, and she laughed again, and, greatly daring, said, smiling at him, weak and humble;

“Slavegirls are always getting … punished. Being … being whipped, aren’t they? Will … will that happen to me, too?”

He had grinned then, but not a kind grin, not a friendly one; he was enjoying himself and she felt his cock against her body, very stiff and straight, and quivered;

“That depends, pretty, on whether they remember to address their owner with respect; if they can be obedient and display themselves as they are required to, with their little cunts begging to be fucked, and their little tongue tips waggling, so as to remind anyone who wants that they have clever, willing mouths, too, not to mention warm, tight throats for raping. If, as well as those sorts of things, their pussies are juicy and hot, and their tight little nipples are set just so that they jiggle in an eyecatching way, some slavegirls might find that they get fucked more often than they are whipped.”

“Of course, slavegirls are whipped mostly for other reasons than punishment, in any case; firstly, to crush foolish dreams that they might deserve any consideration, to remind them that they are always subject to vicious and arbitrary cruelty, and secondly, for fun; to hear them scream, and cry and beg, watch them jerk and try to hide from the blows— desperate, but in vain— and then, not the least consideration at all, to mark their lovely bodies with indisputable evidence of their condition. To be honest, those are the reasons that matter. If a man can’t get his slavegirl to obey him without punishing her, he doesn’t deserve her.”

Odile, round-eyed, trying to deal with the long, slow explosion of fearful horror within her that these words have produced, looked at him, transfixed, for a long, long moment after this, her soft smile only there because she is stunned, then blinked hard, several times, somehow convincing herself that she can think about the horror later, an urgent desire gripping her;

“If … if I can have a moment to speak, before, before attending to my … my fuckability, Mon … Monseigneur?”

She waited, then; the answer mattered to her; she would only speak if he permitted her to, she wanted him to understand.

Amused, and pleased, then, he smiled at her;

“No. I have already told you, little whore; that is your first duty. But I will be here, when you have achieved something like acceptability. I want DuPuis to dream of being permitted to rape you, tonight. He is watching, you know, from the other side of the room, though he pretends to be polishing the glasses; trying to see your open cunt, in fact.”

Her smile disappeared, for a second or two, and she bit her lip; she could not meet his eyes them, as she went away, into her head somewhere, to think, seriously, earnestly, deliberately about what, only a few hours ago, would have been the unthinkable; about how to make sure that DuPuis would want to rape her.

But it was only a few seconds more, before she began, uncertainly at first, then, with gradually increasing determination, to adjust her position, to regain her poise, straightening up.

It was hard, then; much harder than it had been before, suffused as she had then been with desire to show her gratitude. But, neverthleless, she was urgently certain, at least, that she wanted to achieve acceptability.

She was terribly, terribly grateful that Andrew occupied most of her field of vision, so close to her, so that, although the fact that she was displaying herself so lewdly in a room full of strangers was insistently present in her mind, she could not actually see many of them; that, she felt, would have driven her to madness.

After a few more seconds, she reconsidered her tongue, and, very obviously, as before; deliberately, slow, almost lovingly, she made herself offer her mouth, her tongue, her throat.

Andrew had grinned at her, then;

“You’ve a lot to learn, little whore, but you have the soul for it, very clearly. Imagine, me being able to smell it on you, that first day; just a hint of it, under all that clever repression.”

“Now, what was it you wanted to say, pretty?”

“Just … just, thank you, Monseigneur. And … and… please… Please, r… rape me. Rape me all the time. I … I think that, maybe, I … I might be happy … happy to … to become a slut for … for you.”

Read the next part of The Story of Odile here.