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.
The Punishment
In the restaurant, after her heartfelt offering of herself to Andrew— 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 — He had smiled at her, satisfied; enjoying himself, and said;
“You will reflect on those words, pretty, many times, in the middle of the night— alone, cold, sore, shamed. I wonder, will you regret them?”
“For my part, I promise that I will give you ample excuses for regret; that I will force you far beyond what you can imagine being able to bear. I will do this for only as long as I find it entertains me, of course. But I will say again, so that you may consider these words, too, in your times of despair; that, in my hands, I believe you can become something remarkable; a rare creature. What some would call a fireflower.”
That was the last he’d said to her; the last He had looked at her. He had turned away, leaving her, all but naked, kneeling, chest heaving, face stained with tears and mucus and sweat, nipples like stones, her throat, her sex, her anus all demanding attention, hot and swollen with hurt and excitation, in a state of mental turmoil that was unbearable, save that there was no option but to bear it, since she could not make herself faint, or die. She was indeed a nothing; abandoned, left to turn over, in her mind, those threatening, tantalising words, wondering what they might actually mean— both the promise of being driven to despair, and that of becoming something He might consider remarkable— a fireflower, whatever that might be.
It had been too much, threatened overwhelm again, so that she was grateful, even, for the approach of DuPuis, whose manner with her, whose eyes upon her she experienced as hateful, knowing what he had done with her, what he had seen her permit, that it was only a matter of time before he would be encouraged to rape her in truth, the bitter shame that this knowledge raised in her, the recognition that there was, in her at the same time, a small hunger to know what that would be like, to be used like that, in the knowledge that it would be Andrew’s pleasure to have her degraded so; the knowledge that she was so weak.
She had allowed herself to be brought to her feet, DuPuis taking a tight hold of her wrist (ignoring her useless hand, of course— did the whole place know what Andrew had said to her? How specifically His wishes controlled her?), denied herself, appalling as it seemed, denied herself any attempt to prevent the slip from falling to the ground, so that she was, at last, entirely naked, standing in front of a room full of strangers.
Scooping up the little pool of silk, DuPuis had stuffed a part of it into the back of her collar, so that it hung down her back. Then, without the slightest ceremony, he had pulled a cute little leather leash from his pocket, linked it to her collar (it was insultingly insubstantial— something one might use for a toy) then, with a humiliating sharp tug, he had given her notice that he was going to lead her, back to the side door.
And she, having nothing else she could do, did her best to walk as Andrew liked her, as she was led away, a naked, leashed whore, making sure her hips and breasts— her crimson-stained nipples— moved, so that they would attract the attention of men. Explicitly so that those men would think about fucking her.
The feeling was astonishing; she could hardly breathe; she was exalted by it; astonished and astounded at the fizzing aliveness of it; at the exact same time, she wanted to die, as the shame burned through her; she could not get the thought out of her head; what it would be like if one of those strangers, those unknown men, simply leaned forward as she passed, and put his hand between her legs, from behind; if he forced his fingers into her pussy, as Andrew had with Maya? However impossible the thought, it was, surely, an obvious implication of the situation? And, equally impossible, but equally obvious, it would be expected of her, as it had been of Maya, that she would stop, would adjust her position, in order to make it easy for the stranger to play with her sex, to pinch and tease her clitoris, if he wished, while the whole room watched. Appalled and exalted, too, at the thought that popped into her head, that it would be amazing, to have them all, watching her, encouraging a stranger to investigate her sex, to manipulate her clitoris, that she would do better than Maya— make Andrew proud— that she would open herself fully to it.
It didn’t happen, but she was trembling, uncontrollably, as they reached the glazed door.
From there, without speaking to or even glancing at her, DuPuis had led her along the corridor to the mean little lobby, where, still not speaking, but now looking at her very directly, watching her face, trying to catch her eyes, he had removed the ‘nothing’ tag. When she could not look him in the eye, could only manage to stare at the floor, defeated and empty, still trembling, feeling her vulnerability as if her skin were under some electrical charge, he had grunted, satisfied, sneering at her, wanting her to understand that he was enjoying her humiliation; to deepen it that way.
And it worked; she had, once again, the sensation of being truly worthless, as he had jerked her down, abruptly yanking on the leash at the same time as pushing his knee to the back of hers, so that, without any possibility of resistance, she was suddenly kneeling, naked, for that hateful man, and, worse, it seeming impossible to resist him, allowing him to pull her face into his groin, to rub her mouth against the telltale hardness of his cock, laughing softly at her writhing as she protested in the most feeble, hopeless way— making tiny meaningless noises, half pleading, half whining, her abject weakness shamefully present between them, so that she had to bite back sobs of despair.
He had put a hand in her hair, then, pulled her head back, pushed her cheek against the cold, damp wall, doubled the leash over and tied it to a heavy iron ring hanging there from an equally stout cleat, then stood back to take a last look, laughing out loud at her furtive, fearful look, before he had turned and walked away.
It had taken a few seconds for it to really hit her— that she had been collared, tied by a leash, like a dog, naked, on her knees, in a servants’ corridor, and only a few seconds more for her to realise that this, too, this sort of treatment— deliberately humiliating; lowering, disempowering, was also, somehow, obvious, inevitable; that it would be a large part of her future, to be restrained like this, controlled, rendered powerless, stationary, waiting for someone with the right, and the will, to do something with her, to her.
She had made herself laugh, then, as if in some attempt to convince herself that this was all normal— to be expected— that she was fine with it; fine with it all; that she could accept it, that she could handle it, but the laugh had appalled her; so small, so weak, so full of despair as it proclaimed her— it had died in the cold, damp quiet of the dark little space, muffled noises from the dining room just reaching her— evidence that other people were enjoying fine meals, good conversation, talking together as equals, having opinons; free to say what they wanted, use their hands as they wished, to leave when they chose, eat what they fancied… Able to laugh.
All things that were her right, too— normal things, ordinary expectations, enshrined in law, in custom, in culture, in religion.
Except, of course, that if she followed through on her commitment to Andrew— her deep emotional need to commit to him, and if he was as cruel and demanding as he had promised to be— and she knew, in her gut, that, if anything, he was more cruel, more ruthless than she could bear to imagine him — then she would never have any of those things again. Not by rights, at least; she would be entirely ruled by Andrew’s cruel desire.
And she was not fine with it— not at all. Left alone, tied, naked, on her knees, in the quiet, it was desperately, shockingly, awful that she had been treated so, that she should be there, so shamefully restrained; humiliated, chained, mistreated.
And she was not fine with the reality that she had asked to be treated so, that she had accepted— encouraged Andrew to feel free to treat her so— to have no compunction in doing terrible things to her.
Without knowing what it might mean, it was nevertheless inescapable that she had asked for this; more— that she would fight for this— but she was not fine with it.
She would never again be fine, she saw.
She had offered herself into the maelstrom, given herself up to her monster, her Monseigneur.
She was lost.
All that remained to her was to manage herself well as she suffered at His hands. And glory in the intensity of being in His hands.
Alone, intensely aware of her nakedness, her vulnerability, she had found herself carefully holding her hands, out of sight, not touching anything, holding them behind her, low down, loosely flapping; realising that her knees should be further apart, she found herself attending to this with urgency, as a matter of unacceptable failure on her part; setting her head, neck and shoulders all slightly back, so as to offer her throat, her breasts, lifting her buttocks a little; all so that she could intensify the sense of serving His desire, even in His absence, in the hope that it would bring a little meaning to the bleak humiliation of it all.
None of this made the novel experience of helpless waiting bearable; waiting, with no idea how long, no idea what might come next, with nothing to think about but her weakness, her foolishness, how simple she had made it for Andrew to bring her to this condition, how shameful it was that she had no strength, no will, no belief, really, in herself as a person who might free herself from this obviously destructive relationship; how stupidly fascinated she was by the idea of the impossible future that now seemed certain to engulf her. That she wanted to engulf her.
When the outside door had opened, she was terrified, horrified, to be discovered so: naked, tied, legs apart, hands so obviously and peculiarly positioned, helpless; but there was, too, she could not deny it, a breathless anticipation, an intensification of feeling within her; almost a pride in being so obviously what she was being made to be— a degraded sex object.
It was both a torment and deliciously frightening to deny herself even the quickest look up, to keep her eyes on the floor, to hold her degrading pose, to accept her powerlessness, to intensify the feeling of vulnerability these brought through self imposed ignorance, even though it had her trembling, uncontrollably, knowing that this was made obvious by the jiggling of her nipples, very visibly stiff as they were— from either the cold, or the intense sexual charge of her situation, she could not tell.
It was one of the flunkeys from the courtyard, she had realised soon enough, the fabric of his coat damp and cold as he had casually grasped a handful of her hair behind one ear, pulling her head back, his other hand descending, first to take one of her breasts in a casually possessive grip, then to pass downward, between her thighs, his gloved fingers at her sex, her whole body revolting at the invasion, her mind, though, wrenchingly refusing her body’s urge to twist away, to clamp her thighs tight, to protect herself, to resist such violation. Holding herself open for Andrew’s sake. For Andrew who would never know.
He had made her look up, so that she saw him grinning as he hurt her with his clumsiness at her sex, saw him laugh at the shock of pain and shame in her eyes, at her whimper as he pushed harder at her most sensitive parts, for a second, just to make it clear that he could do as he wished with her there. Having dared all he could, he became suddenly brisk (as a matter of fact he had no authority with her at all; would have beeen reprimanded if it were known that he had touched her so— albeit probably alongside a grin and a salty remark), releasing her leash from the wall ring, he had hauled her to her feet and shoved her in front of him, deliberately rough, so that she all but stumbled through the door to the porte-cochère, out into the cold night, crying out in weak surprise as she did so.
As the cold, damp air shocked her body, reminded her again that she was shamefully naked, she saw Claude, recognised the car, which brought a surprising and lowering sense of relief, of reassurance, even. Ridiculous reassurance, given what she had intuited about the man’s future usage of her, given the punishment Andrew had promised her would come to her at his hands, very soon; but still, it was palpable, how glad she had felt to be handed over to him by the flunkey, to be once more with Andrew’s man; under his control, harsh and unrelenting as she knew it to be.
Over time, Odile would learn to understand this condition, would be shocked at how fast, how deeply it had become a fixed part of her— the deep unease in her when she was around people who knew how it was with her— just what might be done with her, how she might be abused (more: how it was considered important that she should be abused, regularly and with overt cruelty)— but not accompanied by any of Andrew’s household; how pathetically, humbly, grateful she finds herself, in those circumstances, for the arrival of Andrew, or Claude, or any one of His people, even if, as was so often the case, such an arrival was the sign that some intensification of her humiliation, of abuse, was imminent.
Still further in her future would come the gut wrenching, insanity-threatening realisation that this neediness would transfer itself, in the face of her wish to deny it, to whoever it was who had become her Owner; whoever it was, through Andrew’s decision, who had been granted dominion over her (no matter how many times she was passed from one to another— sold, gifted, simply appropriated— it remained in her mind, always, that it was Andrew who had procured and ordained her subjugation. A special turmoil was reserved for her as she discovered that when a later Owner made her available to Andrew, the conflicting ties of loyalty, fear, shame and vulnerability were almost impossible to resolve; the most severe punishment of her life— one which required a period of weeks to fully recover from, would be inflicted upon her as retribution for a meltdown in just such circumstances).
Claude was matter of fact, unhurried, as he had once more, dropped her silken slip over her head, twitched it into place, until she was nominally decent— well-dressed, even— save that all present knew she was naked under the thin fabric, knew that her most private places were freely accessible, knew that she was servile, submissive; easily, willingly aroused, open to usage; somehow her condition felt more obvious, more immediately impinged itself on her consciousness, like this, than it had done when she was naked.
The doormen were making sniggering comments again, and, surely, they were justified in thinking so little of her. Her breath caught in her throat; but Claude had his hands on her, in that casually controlling way that he had, putting her into the car, almost as if she were a dumb animal, rather than a person. Nothing mattered to her though, but giving him no reason to consider her anything but compliant, no matter how shaming it was, no matter that she was suddenly filled with despair at the thought of being punished by this callous and frightening man, of her pathetic weakness, as he made it clear that, for her, the seat was not an option, that she was to kneel on the floor, that her thighs were to be spread, her buttocks up off her heels, her hands behind her, shoulders back, her neck straight.
Only hours before, he had treated her with apparent respect; but now; now, she was nothing; nothing but a body; a whore for fucking, imminently to be punished for having failed to present herself in an acceptable state of sexual readiness.
And she surprised herself by finding that it was good— actually good— much better than the morning, when she had been so nervous, so unsure of Claude’s opinion of her, what he had known about her. Now, everything was clear; she was his master’s servile whore, with no rights to respect or dignity, to be ordered around at will. At the same time, she had no responsibilities whatsoever. She could choose to comply as sensually as she could, but if she did not, Claude would simply compel her, hurt her, force her, as needed; as was his absolute right, now that she had given herself to Andrew.
It was almost exciting, the thought of resisting, of trying to fight him a little, so that she would be manhandled, treated roughly, so that she would be physically subjugated, defeated, in plain view of the scornful flunkeys.
At the same time she understood that it was Andrew’s wish that she subjugate herself; saw, very clearly then, just how intense and powerful his methods would be on her, and the feeling of vertigo that overtook her then made her moan; soft and breathy, the sound full of sweetness, of submission, of wonder, but also cold despair.
In her abject dismay, she found herself terribly grateful to Claude, then— for the certainty of his hands, his confidence in setting her body as it was to be, as Andrew would want her, allowing her to lose herself in working her way in to the pose, paying attention to the set of her body, the sway of her breasts, the opening of her lips, to many details, all through the ride, losing herself in the business of learning how to hold herself, for Andrew’s — for her Monseigneur’s — pleasure, biting her lip to hold herself, just so.
When the car slowed, came to a stop, though, things changed again for Odile, quite quickly. They were in her street, she saw; cose to her door.
She was instantly horribly conscious that a neighbour, someone who could recognise her, might see her, in this strange position— kneeling, in an unnatural manner, in the back of a luxurious chauffeured limousine. Normality suddenly hit her; for the last — how long? Hours? Days? It seemed to have been forever, since Nadia had called her, that first time— since then, she has been in a world where Andrew was everything, where what He would do with her, wanted from her, what she could do for him, in order to be worthy of His attention— for that to have been everything. A world in which the unimaginable, the terrible, the glorious, the unacceptable, had become her reality.
But seeing the familiar, mundane, everyday sights of the place she lived— Mme Henri’s old Renault with the scraped and rusting side-panel, and on the other side of the street, dog mess in the gutter, the awkward shape of the tree on the corner by the postbox, the rubbish sacks out for morning collection— all these brought things into sharp and jarring focus.
Andrew’s world was incompatible with reality. With her reality, with her life. If they collided, if she had to be in both at once, she would be smashed; destroyed, ruined. Terror rose in her. Terror that could not be expressed, since attracting attention would bring on that very ruin. Somehow, she had to be perfect for Claude— for whatever it was that he was about to inflict upon her, accept and comply so immaculately, that no disturbance would arise, so that nothing would attract the slightest interest, in the hope that she could become Odile again— boring, safe, unsurprising, sensible little Odile, whose ‘Bonjour’ as she responded to those who recognised her was so completely without inflection that she remained invisible, part of the furniture— that she could slip back into normality without being noticed.
For Andrew was going to be gone— for some days, He had said— she would have to live with what she had done to herself for Him without giving out the slightest sign, the slightest hint that she had been discovered to be wanton, had offered herself up to be made into a whore, had degraded herself with such pathetic, helpless abandon.
She was desperate, then, to be upright, out of the car, through her front door, but she dared not initiate a move herself. This wasn’t something she’d been told, directly, but somehow, she knew; she must wait; always, wait, wait to be told what to do. In Monseigneur’s world, she would initiate nothing; she would always be instructed, controlled. This was certain.
It was certain, then, that, rather than think, she must wait; feeling, rather than seeing, Claude’s eyes on her, watching her from the driver’s compartment; watching for what? For her to lose her position, to give in the to terror that she was so urgently suppressing? To beg him for the punishment she had been told was coming— simply to bring forward the moment it would be over with, so that Claude would leave, to see if she could manage to become ordinary again before anyone recognises her? What?
She couldn’t think, beyond the realisation that he was playing some sort of a game with her, drawing out the wait, letting her experience her powerlessness, her vulnerability.
There was nothing; nothing she could do but attempt to endure. She could never win this game, she saw; all the cards were in his hand; she had nothing— nothing at all but her body, and her submission.
It was then that she saw that she had to lose. It made such sense; it was so simple, so alluring, the simplicity of it. That this was her job, in Andrew’s world— to lose— not just to be beaten, but to actively lose— to throw herself into defeat, to let him— Andrew— or whoever it was that was Andrew’s proxy, she saw— the stranger in the gallery, Nadia, the women in the salon, DuPuis, the flunkey who had mauled her sex— anyone at all, really— to let them see her making herself lose, in some manner entertaining to them, and at the same time more humiliating, more destructive, of her own dignity. And the road to losing was simple: to make it obvious that she was open, open at some deep level, welcoming even, to sexual violation.
Feeling the shame rise, not fighting it, letting it have her, letting it weaken her, seeing how that felt; intuiting, then, just how powerful it could be to do this; to let herself be suffused by her own judgement of herself as weak, pathetic, having let her body defeat her mind, then to use her mind to control her body— to suppress all defensive, self-preserving instincts; dismayed and fascinated by how seductive it was to be on the knife edge of being overwhelmed by the shame of it, to be pushing herself, whoring herself, for this man, whom she knew in no other way than that he was her master’s driver; letting him see her demean herself for his passing entertainment, noticing the question arise in her mind, frightening and seductive; what can I do that will make this man want to fuck me, to rape me, right now? knowing that was the question the game asked her to lose herself in; feeling herself, without having planned it, moving her knees a little further apart, pull her shoulders back tinily, push her chest out, shake her head just enough to set her nipples moving, flex her hips, push out her tongue tip to moisten her lips, making the movement dainty, flickering, indecisive— all small, normal micro movements, but orchestrated, unnecessary, carried out for the man who was watching her, knowing that he would see, would understand all too well, just why she had moved like that.
She could hardly breathe, then, feeling the blushes rise, feeling her own arousal build, not as hot lust, so much as a needy weakness, as the shame, the delicious despair pervades her body, making herself understand that it was she who was doing this to herself, making herself face the implications of it— that strange men are going to make free with her— force their cocks into her, manhandle her, hurt her, that she is going to learn to telegraph to them that she has lost the right to object to such treatment, that she considers it important that they know she has lost that right, that they know that they can abuse her at will.
It was insane to do this to herself, she knew. But it was also, deeply wonderful, to feel herself shaking when Claude opened the car door, to know how close to the edge she was, had let herself be taken— on the edge of hysteria as the thoughts chased each other round in her head. Again, she found herself trembling with gratitude at the way he managed her; confident, firm, giving her no choices, but not crude or shaming as he helped her move, on her knees, toward the door, then half lifted her, a strong hand under her forearm, lifting it behind her back, so that the threat of real pain at her shoulder made standing an urgent necessity, so that she was powerless to do anything beyond manage herself, hoping that her weakness was as seductively obvious as she could contrive within the constraints set for her.
He pushed her against the car, then— pressing her belly against it, firm but not rough, her arm still bent high behind her back, her other hand carefully dangling, useless, her knees slack, thighs parted; feeling the cold metal on her hard nipples.
“You are very ripe, little whore; very ripe indeed. You are weak, and so you will be suborned by the strong— by my master. He owns you already, I can see it. Very soon, now, I am to hurt you. It will be bad. I will enjoy making you suffer. You will walk with me, now, though, perfectly normally. A rich man’s date being escorted to her door by an attentive servant. But you will think about me hurting you as we walk— think about you accepting the fact that I will take pleasure in hurting you, seeing you suffer, seeing you humiliated. That you are going to offer yourself up to it.”
He set an unhurried pace, and she was grateful, as his words burned into her, controlling herself desperately, grateful that he would allow her to appear as if everything was normal, just another evening, though her mind was boiling with conflicting emotions; desperate, stupid thoughts of escape, of seducing him so that he would release her, of going to her knees, right there, begging for mercy, offering him her mouth, her lips, her throat, for his cock, if he would only not hurt her, horrifying herself with her openness to these crazy thoughts, at how quickly she had been changed beyond recognition. All was quiet, they met no-one, but still her whole body was hyper-alert, listening for the smallest sound, the tiniest change in light that might mean she was going to be noticed, even though, as Claude had suggested, there was nothing obviously unusual about their little procession.
Nothing, that is, until they had reached her landing, lit only by the moonlight through the small window in the hallway which gave onto the tiny garden at the rear, when he took her wrist, gently enough, but clamping it beyond any thought of escape, then smoothly twisted it behind her again, up toward her shoulder-blades, so that she gave herself to him, knowing he could hurt her, having nothing in her save a wish to please him in hopes of merciful treatment.
His other hand pushed her then, so that she was turned, back toward the swinging door from the stairway, with its little glass panes, bending her down until her face was at the little knob wich served as a pull handle.
“In your mouth, please.” He spoke normally, shockingly loud in the quiet of the house— no other sound but a muffled television somewhere.
Her mind did not understand the words, what would be in her mouth?— but her body knew, awful as it was, and so she found that a knob that had always seemed on the small side, fiddly, to her hand, felt enormous, once behind her teeth, tasting slightly sour; the mingled sweat from countless hands, the sourness of some polish, the tang of metal.
But there was no time to think about anything beyond the shock of it as, once again, a boot at her ankles had her remembering that she must present herself for him, and she needed no other sign as she spread her feet apart, and forward a little, too, realising she must lift her ass, too, however shaming, lift until she felt her hips pushed up and back, her sex lips parting, her heart hammering, tears already prickling, breath coming as hard and fast as it could through her nose, panic rising, hands fluttering, hard to control, but maintaining them, nonetheless, in their weak, useless position, out and back (the one tiny thing she was permitted to do for herself), the knob already unbearable in her stretched mouth; her jaw tight, the thing so unrelentingly hard, distorting her mouth, making her drool, threatening to have her gag, trapping her tongue, its awfulness becoming all she could think about until Claude’s leather gloved hand was suddenly at her sex.
He wasn’t rough, or insensitive; almost gentle— if it were not for the casual assuredness of his exploration of her most protected, private parts, the astonishing discovery that she would work to hold herself open for him, despite her body and mind both urgently desiring her to shift, twist, clamp her thighs, kick out at him, pull herself off the accursed knob and spin round to slap him, hard, right across his face, scream at him…
… the discovery that she would in fact lift her hips even more obviously, in service of his ease of access, going up on tiptoe, shuffling her feet yet wider, dipping her chest, panting through her nose, panicky, horrified, but equally transfixed, her whole being now centred, not on the intrusion in her mouth, but in the unthinkable reality that this man is holding her stiffening clitoris between finger and thumb, is manipulating her there, not with any subtlety, but to immense, unignorable effect, making her wince and swoon both, shaking, hips flexing as wildly as she dare let them, desperately grateful to have been gagged since she was whining uncontrollably, the sound almost completely muffled, the muffling adding a fearful claustrophobia to the overwhelming whole of it— for this to be happening on the hallway outside her own front door, Mme Henri only metres away, immersed in her evening television.
She felt herself freezing up when his hand left her; the enormity of the situation, of her terrible vulnerability, overcoming all else, until he did something so unthinkable that she almost choked on the doorknob, as her throat opened to scream her horror.
He had smacked her, hard, with the flat of his gloved hand, across the fullness of her sex— catching both her tender labia and her exposed clitoris; an energetic, purposeful slap, clearly intended to hurt.
Picture: Claude toys with, then slaps her pussy
Her whole body bucked and writhed in urgent rejection of this outrage, her very being denying it, sure that it must not be allowed, not be permitted … except … except that she had not clamped her legs, had not pulled herself off the doorknob, not protected herself with her hands, had not reacted against him as he reached forward, to pull at the straps of her flimsy dress;
“Let’s free these pretty tits, see them swaying while I hurt you.”
He pulled and pinched at her nipples for a time, then, as the agony of her pathetic inability to protest, to resist, burned into her, closing her eyes at the ignominy of it, feeling the undercurrent in her belly of certainty that this will be just the start of it, that she was going to be taken somewhere unimaginable, that she was lost, lost all over again.
For the how many-th time that evening?
“It goes like this, pretty. I play with your cunt— your tender little nubbin, put my fingers in you— yes, even like that— show you what it means for your pussy to belong to someone else. Your job is to come. Really come for me— and don’t even think about faking. Kicker is, every now and then, I’m going to slap you— like that, hurt you there. Harder, the longer you keep me. It will hurt, believe me. You’ll be grateful for that doorknob to keep you quiet, although you’ll also come to hate it, I’m pretty sure.”
“You need to make yourself come, or it’s going to get very messed up out here. So, whatever dirty thing it was that you managed to do in your head when DuPuis took you to the hallway again, you’d better find that, and go deep with it. I will go between hurting and playing around with your cunt until you make yourself come on my fingers, or we get interrupted, whichever comes first.”
He doesn’t wait, but gets straight to it, hitting her twice again, hard, surprising her; the awfulness of her weakness, her permitting it, accepting it, all burned into her soul, before he was back at her throbbing clitoris, businesslike, matter-of-fact, and irresistibly skilful. It was appalling, but also, it was, undeniably, good.
Yes, good. More than good, to know that her Monseigneur was going to push her so hard, be so extreme. It meant that He was serious about her. Her hips moved, helplessly; she could feel slow fires kindling, deep inside her, feel her breath getting short, as the sensations from her sex became of immense importance.
Just as it had in the corridor, the memory of Andrew’s hand, working at Maya’s sex, the way the girl had let it affect her, no matter that there was an audience of strangers to see her wanton submission to such casual manipulations, to let it be obvious to all how aroused she was, that memory acted on her. Remembering too, her own walk back across the room to Andrew, her sex on fire, pulsing with desire, with the need to be fucked, walking; naked, leashed, her breasts and hips twitching for the eyes of strangers…
Oh, but now his hand had gone— just as she had begun to move with him, move for him, offer her sex to his leather clad fingers… it was coming!
And it had indeed come, the short, sharp smacks, slamming into her softest, most vulnerable flesh, offered to him so shamefully … and again … and again … and yet again; not playful in the least, not sexy, but intended to hurt, to dismay, to make her suffer.
And then his fingers had been back at her, relentless, pinching at her hard clit, hurting her like this, too, the fact of her holding herself open for him, still, enormous in her dazed mind.
Remembering, later, she saw that it had only been those first two slaps which had been really hard— after that, he had been more gentle— that it was the psychology of it that Andrew had wanted to impose upon her. Had imposed upon her, to devastating effect.
Oh, but it had been devastating. The shock of being hit, there, had driven all thought of orgasm from her mind, so appalling was the idea of it, even, never mind the pain. But then Claude had started in on her again, utterly un-loverlike, but still somehow so skilful, seemingly understanding just exactly what her body needed at each juncture, that she found herself responding again, moving for him, for herself, flexing her hips, softer vibrations in her throat, until … again, the sudden withdrawal … the wait … the agonising, unbearable, evil wait, while she fought herself, hard, tears on her cheeks, then, holding herself so … so that … SMACK! … wait … SMACK! … wait … SMACK!
Oh the despair, the tears, the pathetic, ridiculous self-pity of it…
Oh the unendurable shame of it as she was so quickly moving for his hand again, opening her sex to his probing fingers, jerking herself tinily to intensify the sensation of his grip on her clitoris, utterly unable to distinguish between the knowledge that she must get herself to orgasm to end the beating, and the urgency in her body for a release of sexual tension that had been at fever pitch already, and was now a crawling, twisting need, deep in her belly … and then, again … withdrawal … sickening, rending anticipation … unendurable …the shocking SMACK! … wait … SMACK! … wait— the periods unpredictable, the number unpredictable— two, or four, or three, occasionally one, once five— or was it seven— she was lost, gone, away somewhere. In hell, perhaps, on fire, certainly, and then, then, after a smacking which had been noticeably more painful— he was turning up the heat again— she found that she was not having to build up from nothing, but was in fact still writhing with desire through the smacks, welcoming his gruff order;
“Open yourself wider, now, feet even closer to the door.”
The position was itself horridly uncomfortable now, her neck awkwardly bent, her jaw muscles on fire, back teeth on one side screaming with pain, jammed against the hard metal of the handle, her sex obscenely splayed, but higher, too, her body bent double; more smacks, immediately, harder again, she again almost deliberately opening herself to them, taking the slap at her clitoris as stimulation, so that when his hand came back to her she was almost hungry for him, until she knew that she was gone, away.
Picture: Claude goes at it
She was going to orgasm for this Claude, this stranger, this servant, this cold abuser. And she had let it take her, not tried— as she had desperately wished to— to disguise the impact, the intensity of her orgasm— had writhed and shaken through the tidal wave of sensation until her knees had wobbled, and Claude had held her, unceremoniously pulled her off the door handle, all her weight on her sex as he simply lifted her crotch up, fingers deep in her pussy, fat thumb pushed into her tight, sore asshole, the other hand with a fistful of her hair, her feet off the floor; utterly helpless, utterly dominated as she had jerked and flopped in the throes of it, as her legs jittered and her feet curled, spasming, her hands too; tears coursing down her cheeks, her throat hoarse with stifled shrieks, her jaw sill on fire with the pain of distortion, even though shr is free of the the dreadful knob, racking convulsions in her belly as an orgasm that was unlike anything she had ever experienced ripped through her— not pleasurable, not at all, really, but an overwhelming, disempowering, out-of-body experience that smashed everything about her, beyond anything.
When she was aware of herself again, after how long, she never knew, she was on the floor, in a heap, her dress once more nothing but an excuse for a belt at her midriff, legs splayed, sex hot, messy, sore, spasming, arms akimbo, breasts trembling and heaving as she panted for air, Claude’s boots filling her field of vision.
She had been changed, she knew; changed again.
The knowledge, ineradicable, burnt into her, that she was a girl who could come— have a devastating orgasm— from having her cunt alternately slapped and toyed with, in a public hallway, gagged, by a man she hardly knew— her lover’s chauffeur— that knowledge would never not be significant in her mind.
The thought came to her that her position was shameful, obscene, that she must not let Claude see her like this, splayed open. Then following on immediately, came the lurch of realisation;
She was Odile, the dirty whore, now. She would always know herself for a dirty whore. Andrew’s whore. She had no idea, at that moment, whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. It simply was. Her position was just right.
After lifting her, he had deposited her, gently enough, on the floor inside her flat. He had left, then, without a word, or a backward glance, locked the nightlock from the outside, then pushed the keys under the door.
She remembered nothing of how she had made it to her room.
