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.
In the night
She was in some sort of trance state— definitely not properly awake, but also not asleep. She knew there was no chance of sleeping— her body full of unrest, her mind coiling around itself, never settling. But there was no possibility of doing anything purposeful— or even distracting; her eyes wouldn’t focus, she hadn’t the energy to sit up, let alone stand.
She was in her room, she’d made it that far, after the enormity of what Claude had done to her, but she hadn’t made it to the bed, was curled up on the floor, having pulled the covers down onto herself.
She couldn’t keep her eyes closed, either; images of one impossible moment after another would rise up— so many of them, and all from the last couple of days— all in full technicolor, surround-sound, intense emotional replay mode; her whole body would jerk, or shudder, or freeze, or melt, and she’d have to open them again, only half-seeing in the dim light, searching for something familiar, comforting, reassuringly dull; her heart hammering, breath coming fast and shallow, throat tight.
It was wondrous— amazing, astonishing. That this was her life now— that this intensity, this untrammelled wildness, these sensations, this vulnerability, this lack of control, this arousal, that this was her reality, her lived experience, her seemingly certain future … So much of it! So many moments, so recent, so vivid, so specific— each unique, powerful, each by itself enough to drive her wild with … wild with everything: shame, lust, fear, guilt, need, weakness, urgency, anger, gratitude…
She reeled, for what seemed hours, lost in the wonder and terror and glory of it, until it became necessary, sore as she was down there, for her to seek relief, to feel some pressure at her sex. The need both fascinated and shocked her— it wasn’t like her to be driven to masturbate, and she really was sore. It seemed He had awakened something in her— a long buried need— which, having tasted satisfaction, demanded more.
The touch of her fingers at her sex, though, triggered something, and she paused, pulled back. Was it true? Was it really true, that— if she were to honour His wishes— that she should not touch herself, there? Claude had been specific— before seeing Him, she was to be wet. If she was not, she was to make herself so— but not with her hands— you will find something— the arm of a chair, a door knob, a table corner— to work yourself against.
She knew she was crazy— that this was all nonsense. At least, she told herself this. But she didn’t believe her pathetic little lie; this was serious; this was deep, this was yet another turning point in this longest and most atonishing of days. He wanted to control her access to her own sex.
She was suffused, then, with a portentous feeling that was at the same time deeply welcome, a feeling she knew she wanted to stay with; forever, if possible, although she knew, vaguely, but also with certainty, that it could not be so. The realisation brought out the underlying sadness; a soft ache, which also held a frank acknowledgement; that underneath it all lay a reality which was cold, ugly and cruel; a hard reality, already helplessly accepted, without the possibility of resistance or escape, a reality which would one day demand its due.
But right there, right then, it was tremblingly wonderful to be suspended between the sweet loveliness and the beautiful sadness of having discovered for herself that she was going to be unable to resist letting Him ruin her; the knowledge that, in some sense, she was already ruined, that her self-image had been shattered. That the truth of this would take her life— had already taken her life, even if she never saw Him again, even if she was given some insulting, tragic money payout.
A remembered sequence from some old black and white movie came to her then, of a young girl, a beautiful starlet, in a scene where she had decided, finally, that she was going to become a nun in a particularly strict order, that she would give herself to the church, to her god, would have to accept that she would never have a normal life, that she would allow herself to be possessed absolutely, by an otherworldly being, who would be all-powerful over her, that this power would be made real by His servants, who would know just what she was, just what she had become and would dedicate themselves to making certain that her submission was complete.
The girl in her shift, in her small room, looking at herself in a mirror, looking at her body, touching herself, softly, innocently, but still, still, touching herself, looking at herself, knowing that she was saying goodbye to something, the camera focusing in on her face, in the mirror, in her eyes the doubts, the certainty in her that no-one would step in, to dissuade her from the sacrifice, no-one would stop her from throwing her life away— that rather, past some point, even should she ask to be set free, His servants would enforce upon her what she had chosen, with careful, patient, but relentless insistence, as cruel as they felt it necessary to be, immovable by tears, by begging, by any change of heart, however earnestly, however desperately explained…
Odile began to weep, then; soft, very easily, just a slow, warm dripping, a balm to her, a comfort, rather than a suffering, and she smiled, too, also easily, also without intensity, just a small, tender, hopeless, accepting, little smile, her lips swelling, as slowly, she let her own arms hug herself, knowing, as she did so, that this was, as with the girl in the film, a saying goodbye, the knowledge deep in her that, if she was to be Andrew’s, to belong to her Monseigneur in the way that He would want her to, that she would have to, in the future— forever, in reality— deny herself even such small self-kindnesses, since He required of her that she make strangers of her own hands, make them as useless to herself as she can.
Slowly, wondering at herself, she allowed herself to accept this monstrous idea— that she was not to touch her sex with her own hands— not for pleasure, at least. The implications were towering, heart-stopping, insane. But she did it anyway, pulling her hands away, feeling her body yearning already for their touch, making herself experience the emotional fallout of accepting His control of her, even there, alone in her room, even then, late at night, in the dark, after all He had done to her. She was quivering with it, with the dangerousness of it— for she knew, inside her, that she would find it hard, forever, to go against Him on this, that, once she might let it take hold of her, that she would make herself serve His wishes in that way, as if it were some sacred vow, that she would find a difficult but certain glory in denying herself in that way, whether He or His servants were present or not, whether He knew or not. Whether He even cared … or not.
The stark power of the edict, the careful, cold, clever cruelty of it, of what she could see it would do to her, how stupid she would feel; how helpless, how pathetic it would make her, how the experience of diminishing herself thus, repeatedly, consistently— how it would change her, weaken her, humiliate her constantly, make all sorts of little normalities impossible; quite likely eventually, through habituation, unnatural-seeming, so that she would have rendered herself less than human, less than a full person…
She saw all this, with a dawning wonder that was as seductive as it was disturbing, the twin aspects combining to make her tremble at the extent of His power over her, the speed and subtlety of His invasion of her, the strength of the determination within her to make herself deliver to Him the Odile He wished her to become, tragic; exalted in her tragedy, even as it so dreadfully degraded and hurt the Odile that she had worked so hard to be able to be.
She was trembling, and along with the trembling, unasked-for, but insistent, was, resurgent, a building sexual need, her hips surging, slow, gentle, but also unstoppable, the twisting deep in her belly the source of it all; the hurts at her groin, fore and aft, feeding, rather than deterring her mounting fervour, the desire in her— very direct— to be fucked, fucked by Him; fucked hard, violently even (because, it became clear to her then, that her only recompense for the immense hurt she would inflict upon herself to please Him would be to know that she had excited him, made Him lust for her. To know that the fucking, astonishing and glorious and brain-destroyingly intense as it might be, would be the product of His lust for her, of the fact that she had successfully colluded with Him in making herself, as perfectly she could be, the thing which would drive Him to violate her, to rape her).
She was panting then, and weeping harder, too, as she processed this insight, her physical hurts confirming it, confirming that sex with Him would always be a violation— a violation of her, a violation which she would always be humbly, carefully, shamefully working for.
Trembling became shaking, as it had in the restaurant, and once again, the feeling that she might lose control assailed her. Earlier, she had worked, worked desperately, to contain herself, to suppress the overwhelm, not to let the feelings overtake her. But that had been in His presence, in front of strangers (it horrified and fascinated her equally— that all those people had watched her as she had allowed Him to demean her; had seen her demean herself for His entertainment).
There, in her own room, alone, she could not muster the strength to resist the shaking, the fears, the anguish; simply could not do it, even though the idea of letting it have her was terrifying.
She simply could not contain it, though, and so experienced, for the first time in her life, what it was to lose herself to a fit. Frightened at first, then frankly terrified, she struggled against it, worked to regulate her breathing, to suppress the jerking of her hips, the urgent, breathy moaning coming unbidden from her mouth, until, with a certainty, it came to her that it would suit him, entertain him, that she should be weakened, disabled, frightened like this, and with mingled relief and horror, abandoned herself to the violence of the experience; leaned into it even, forcing herself again to open her mind to the knowledge that sex, for her, would henceforth always be some sort of defeat, always be violent, always a humiliation, always degrading— both physically and mentally— and that she would work for, dedicate herself to, inciting such destructive usage.
Forcing herself, throughout the terror of the fit, to keep her arms away from her body, to let her hands flap uselessly from her wrists, concentrating on this, was a terrible thing, because she could feel it feeding the anguish, the tremors and jerks that wracked her, as she slammed her head against the floor, repeatedly, until she decided that even this should not be permitted her.
In the end, she made herself endure the physical terror that had gripped her, on her knees and elbows then, head down but not touching the floor, legs spread wide, elbows splayed, too, finding herself wondering, if He were watching, would He find it entertaining, perhaps even put His cock into her while she hyperventilated, wallowing in the searing intensity of these dark thoughts as she shivered, and jerked, and keened…
As the worst of it passed, she found herself crying, and laughing, too, laughing at herself, how pathetic she was, how weak, how easily, how thoroughly she had been suborned by a man she hardly knows. But the laughter was weak, too, because the self-disgust it provoked in her did not lead toward rejection of the prospect His harsh dominion has painted in her mind, but rather to needy urgency for that dominion— frightening, degrading as it might be— a need for safety, if nothing else, for the removal of uncertainty, almost more than for the reward of being fucked, perhaps…
It rose in her again, then, unbidden, unwanted, but nevertheless an aspect of herself; rose up to tell her her that she could not survive such an experience, could not bear it, must not let herself be taken down such a dark and dangerous path. That she must surely resist, must stop this madness.
The violence of the reaction within her against this insistent voice of sanity was stark: its refusal, its vehemence, as she ruthlessly suppressed her own instinct for self-preservation. Too late! she told herself, urgently, angrily— you went through all this already: it’s over. Some powerful, obstinate part of her had already chosen. Chosen pain, and shame, and violation, chosen getting fucked, chosen offering herself to be fucked, chosen working at becoming a whore for Him, chosen putting herself into His power, chosen all that; chosen the rushing, fearful loss of herself over safety, over decency, over a future, over normality. It wants it all; everything He promises, everything her imagination threatens her with. It demands it. It will not be dissuaded.
The truth of it, the certainty of it, rises within her. There is no question of not facing, not bearing this future, however it makes her chest rise and fall with fearful anticipation.
That she, Odile, demanded it of herself; that she, Odile, would not allow herself to be diverted from Andrew’s path, whatever it might cost her.
She was lost; the better part of herself, the hard-working, planning part of herself, that part has been defeated.
More; that she was, almost breathlessly, fiercely, exultant at this defeat; memories of the previous evening boiling up in her mind again, her throat constricting, her hips spreading, working slowly but powerfully.
He was going to do it to her. All of it. Truly, He would be her monster.
He would make her a whore, in front of strangers. He would fuck her as whores got fucked; selfishly, casually, without thought for her feelings, her pleasure or her wellbeing. And, yes, she knew it, He would offer her to others to be used in the same heartless fashion. He would degrade, violate, humiliate, demean, and hurt her.
And she? She was going to taste life, in all its wildness. And yes, it might destroy her, but that was a risk she was determined to take, if the prize was to feel like this. As if anything, everything is possible. Alive. Free. Unlimited.
Going backward then, would not be going back to how she had been, but rather to be condemned to going forward, having tasted just a little bit of freedom, to live her whole life in the knowledge that she had missed her chance at really experiencing it.
She wanted to be fucked, then; right then; hard. Laid down on her face and rutted, violently, His hands crushing her wrists, helpless. Since He wasn’t there, the next best thing would to be masturbate, thinking about being fucked like that, as He had fucked her that day, and her hand slid under her, her hips surging to meet it, until she laughed, stricken.
Her hand! She must not use it! But she needed it! Needed release— even though her sex was so terribly tender…
