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.
At last, we arrive at the final episode of Odile’s long day. The day through which she has been brought to understand just what being with Andrew might mean for her. Of course, as she keeps telling herself, the reality will provide so much more intensity than her inexperienced mind can imagine.
Despair
On the floor, in her room, naked, adrift in the unknown new reality that being with Andrew had thrust her into, feeling the chill of the night air where the bedclothes did not cover her, Odile found herself trembling all over again as she relived the otherworldly intensity of that terrible, glorious orgasm, feeling it echo through her body— having to accept that it had really been her, little Odile, who had become that creature of pure sensual experience, unable to distinguish between pleasure and pain, all sense of morality, of decency, of dignity stripped from her; an abandoned creature.
Picture: Odile on the floor
To live with the reality of what it meant to have been taken to that place at the behest of a man she still hardly knew— her abusive lover— by His servant, a man she has exchanged perhaps a hundred words with, that it had been done to her in the open corridor of her apartment block, that she had given herself so completely to the hard, shaming cruelty of it, had held herself open for it, thrust herself when Claude had commanded her to, let him take her to the brink of insanity, controlled herself to make it easy for him, and somehow achieved an orgasm that had been shattering— as destructive as it had been mind-bendingly transcendent; to accept that this was now her reality, a reality she had chosen, again and again, over safety; all that took continual mental effort.
Reliving the orgasm left her weak again, brought her to a place where what Andrew— her Monseigneur — had told her in the restaurant came back to her; hard and ugly, with a fearful ring of certainty to it; that at some point she would find herself sinking into self-hatred, despair— and, as He had predicted, now, in the cold night, alone, shattered by the implications of what she had allowed Claude to do to her, how she had responded to it, so very alone (for Andrew had made it all too clear that she was to cope by herself— that His interest in her suffering was as a matter of His passing entertainment, that He was not otherwise concerned), with nothing to distract her, unable to sleep, now that despair threatened to take her.
Self-pity and self hatred— mutually reinforcing— rose in her, then, as she reminded herself of the many points in the evening where she could have taken another path, pulled away, denied Him, taken the openings for retreat He had left her— how, instead, at each juncture, she had gone in the other direction— opened herself, offered herself, asked Him to make free with her, leaned in to His abusive and humiliating treatment of her, thanked Him, simpered for Him, wiggled her hips, her tits, her tongue tip for Him…
This was different from earlier, when the voice of sanity had tried to pull her back. There was no fierce insistence now, from the part of her that responded to Andrew, that needed His attention so badly. There was no resistance, to these intimations of future despair; rather, there was a niggling thought in her head that she should be open to letting despair take her, just as she had abandoned herself to the fit which had so weakened her. The queasy thought had formed in her head that despair, self hatred, too, would weaken her, make it easier for Him to suborn her. It had happened already, she saw— the paradoxical idea that she was safe with Him, with the very man who had told her He would debase and degrade her; surely that foolishness on her part stemmed from having lost faith in herself, from a desperate need for certainty that she could no longer provide for herself— having proved herself to be untrustworthy; a wanton, a weak and shameful whore, from a recognition that His plan for her was strong, and would be enforced upon her. Degraded she might be, but she would be in His possession, in His power, under His control.
Oh, but that would hurt. Not as sharp agony— not like having her pussy beaten in a public hallway— it would not be a pain that was colourful, intense, localised. No; it would be much, much worse, and much, much harder to bear; the pain of permanent loss, permanent degradation, permanent diminishment. Pain with no hope of an orgasm at its climax— not even a frightening, destructive orgasm. Hurt without end. Hurt that she would fully deserve, too. Pain that she would have offered herself up for.
There was a final scene, she remembered then, in that old film about a nun. She couldn’t remember the plotline, but at the end, the girl had been walled up, alive— placed, naked; chained, into a niche in the massive masonry of the convent, a screen of heavy stone and mortar erected in front of her until her face disappeared (the decisive moment of the scene had been the placing of the stone that hid her eyes— so close to her face that it had touched her nose— that the mason had had to force her head back— tie her hair more tightly into the chain at her neck in order to place it), until, at the last, there was no longer the slightest sign of there being a living person in that bland and heavy mass.
She was going to allow this hunger, this fierce and tremblingly urgent need in her, now, to lead her to something like that. She couldn’t see the detail, but that was what the despair would be.
So help her, she knew that, in some sense, it would be beautiful, even though it was going to be unbearably dreadful. Giving in to the inevitability of it felt like a drug. A cool and heavy but undeniably pleasant sensation flooded her.
She was going to be Andrew’s. The burden of Odile would be removed from her. Her life would consist, increasingly, of sensations, nothing more— of pain, of ecstasy, of despair, of desire, of loneliness, of helpless pleasure, of humiliation, of wild abandon, of terror. But those sensations would have no meaning; they would simply be experiences, imposed upon a body. Odile was going to cease to mean anything at all— to herself, at least (she trembled at the thought, the certainty, that, one day, she would cease to mean anything to Andrew, either). She would give herself, and He would impose despair upon her, for no greater end than His own entertainment, the pain of which would sublime away from her all hope, all agency, all willpower; she would become nothing.
That this was true, she accepted. That sometime, soon enough, she must let herself feel the fear, the despair, the self-hatred that were her due, that letting herself be overwhelmed in that way would make her more needy for His strength, and in turn, deepen her self-disgust, so that she would need Him all the more …
But she was not sure, right then, if she could risk letting herself go that way, simply let the despair take her; was not sure that she could bear the pain; so weak, so shocked, so lost as she was after all that had happened.
To lose herself
Since sleep was clearly still not an option, she begged herself to come up with something, some distraction from the awesome tragedy of what lay in her future. What came to her— immediately almost— was sex. She could not hope to achieve the intensity she had experienced with Claude, but even a small orgasm offered that release, that suspension of all thinking, that she heeded, if she was not to be smothered by despair. Nothing else made any sense, nothing was animal enough, physical enough, to stop her thinking.
But how? Masturbation— but she had denied herself twice already, since His wishes— transformed in her head into iron law— did not permit her to touch herself.
In fact, the whole idea of giving herself sexual pleasure felt like some sort of betrayal. In the park, in bed, He had not helped her to orgasm, as her lover was supposed to do, as she had learned from the magazines was her due as a modern woman; He had not even given her orgasms, as perhaps a previous generation might have hoped for; He had rather imposed orgasms upon her. She had not orgasmed for herself, but for Him, just as He wished her to, exactly when He wished her to, had experienced the kind of orgasm He intended for her. It had been that way too, with Claude— she had been forced to orgasm, in the most degrading and conflicted circumstances, through pain and humiliation and fear of discovery.
And, without question, these had been the most significant, the most important, the most overwhelming orgasms of her life. Nothing previous even began to compare, whether from her solo efforts or from the boys she had been with.
In point of fact, she saw that they were probably the most significant experiences of all her life. It was her body’s demand for more of that which lay at the heart of it all; her fateful weakness.
The logic of this, then, she saw, was not only that she be denied the right to touch herself sexually, but more, if she were to take Andrew seriously— and she was desperately, urgently certain that she did, that she must— then perhaps she should— accept that He was the one who ordained her orgasms, just as He did her clothes, when she ate, who she showed her body to, who she must permit to touch her sex parts, who to hurt her … who to fuck her, shame her, rape her, violate her …
Her hips moved at these thoughts, her belly curdled, her nipples hardened; unbidden, her tongue tip flickered at her lips; the need was there, between her legs again.
Her hands moved; she restrained them; she bit her lip, wailed a little; it was working, this distraction from self-hatred and despair into sexual excitement, but it could not last, unless …
If He … if He had bound her like this— so that, even alone, she was controlled, was serving Him, might that binding not sustain her?
And it came to her that, if she had dedicated herself to Him, if she— like the little nun— had given herself over to Him, of her own accord, whether He was present or not …
The idea was insane, but intoxicating, made her tremble with … yes! … with desire. To lose herself in Him, completely…
It would be freedom, of a crazy sort. She saw it so clearly though; to be His, given over, completely controlled by His requirements, His desire, this could release her.
She had found His casual ordaining of their time together so shockingly welcome, she saw, because they wanted the same thing— they both wanted Him to find in her the freedom and opportunity to use a young woman as if she were nothing but a vehicle for His entertainment— for there to be no restriction at all in His usage of her; so that even if she was damaged or destroyed by Him, there would be no comeback. He would not even have to concern himself in the slightest with the possibility of her destruction; not have to notice if indeed He did destroy her; that if He did choose to notice, it would be because He found pleasure in her suffering.
More, even, that some part of her— even if not the part that was suffering, some part of her would find solace in having offered Him pleasure in such a fashion.
They were the same, then, she and Him— they both wanted Him to have access to her on such terms; both wanted Him to use her for His pleasure, without restraint. But they were different, too— she was the one who would be destroyed, and she would never have another like Him, while He would be enriched by her, one of many girls He had used in the same way before her, and others which He would use afterward, when he had forgotten her.
He was the user, and she would be the the loser.
And she was back, again, at the hard, ugly truth of it. That she was going to lose herself.
The silly, stupid, sad, sweet thing was that she wanted to lose, for Him. It would hurt her terribly, she knew, to be destroyed. He would want it to hurt her, and she would encourage Him to have what He wanted, and so it would be unbearable, and agonising, and shaming beyond imagining, but she would be doing her best to encourage Him, all the way, taking the fear, the pain, the humiliation as part of the sweetness, as best she could. Because it would free her.
Thinking like this was easy, she knew, disturbing as it was. Actually being destroyed, though— the moment by moment reality of it— would be unbearable. And yet she would have to bear it, on order to remain interesting to Him, in order to have the freedom He could give her.
The freedom to be a whore, and nothing else. Not even Odile, really. Except for the bits of Odile that were helpful to her in making herself His whore; the best whore she could be for Him.
The need between her legs surged, then; too strong to ignore any longer; a necessary escape for her tortured mind. But what could she do?
It came to her, then; Claude’s words, from earlier; the arm of a chair, a door knob, a table corner .
She was flushed; appalled at what had appeared in her mind. It would be shaming… dirty… pathetic… And … and it must be … must be for Andrew. She must make it not about her pleasure, but about serving Him…
The mirror!
The Mirror
Almost feverish, then, she was working; arranging the big mirror on its stand, pushing everything off the little stool— sweeping it all to the floor, careless, pulling it toward her. She knelt, facing herself in the mirror, looking at her naked body as she had never done before— looking at it through Andrew’s eyes, as if she was about to perform for Him (as indeed she was), wanting to make the show worthy of Him— ‘an encouragement to rape’— the phrase came into her mind… no; an intentional incitement to rape — something that might make a defence in a court of Law— a French court at least— a crime passionel.
She made herself slow down. This was not for her, it was for Him; she must do it right; first, she must strip herself of the slip dress. After several attempts to lift it over her head, using her wrists, not her fingers, she decided she could not manage that elegantly enough— not without use of her hands — and tried something different.
Picture: Odile strips for the mirror
Facing the mirror, using the backs of her wrists, she slowly lifted the hem of the dress to drag the fabric up her thighs, lifting smoothly, until her sex was exposed— the suggestively shaped trim of her pubes, the dark-stained labia shocking her all over again with their blatancy of their offer; it was as if the girl in the mirror was another person— some glamour model slut, the type of girl she despised.
But there was nothing she could do with that thought; things were as they were; the girl in the mirror was Andrew’s whore. She must be Andrew’s whore. It was settled. And she must … she must keep this up, or become insane. The heat in the groin would not let her stop, in any case.
And hadn’t Andrew praised how she looked? Maybe she, plain little Odile, could be as sexy, as fascinating to men, as much an encouragement to thoughts of unrestrained fucking as those girls who had their pictures in the porn magazines, those websites… Except that, in her case, she would be made available to them for real. The thought made her quiver.
She dragged the dress, then, higher still, showing her belly button. Bringing her left wrist across her body to keep the skirts up, she used her right to push the shoulder straps off; first on the right, then the left, shimmying a little, to achieve two things— the top of the dress to slip down, baring her breasts, and, at the same time, shamefully, but also gratifyingly, to set those breasts moving, the stained nipples already stiff, attracting the eye.
How have I become so much a wanton, and so fast? I used to think that it took an effort to get myself in the mood; that even then it was easily shattered, that I needed calm, and peace, and loving consideration, and time— yet now, here I am, after a day without peace, a day of outrageous, abusive assaults on my calm, total and abusive lack of consideration, never mind love, and I’m practicing getting men to lose control, so that they may rape me, and my hips are grinding, and I’m getting wetter by the second!
Picture: Odile and the mirror
Simply letting go of the dress, then, rendered her naked as it fell to the floor around her knees. She had been clumsy, she knew, but she knew, too, that she could practise, would work to get better at these things, in her need to please Andrew.
She forced herself, again, to slow down; made herself look at the body in the mirror, look at that needy nothing, look at it critically— thinking, too, of Nadia’s appraising, unabashed examinations of her, a lifetime before— in reality only 12 hours ago— looking at her body, then, judging herself; coldly, deliberately assessing herself as if she were one of those shameless women in the photographs; seeing clearly that she needed more exercise, to lose weight, to attend to her posture. She had made such resolutions before, of course. But this was different, she knew. This was for Andrew, for her need, not some vague aspiration.
The stool
Picture: The low stool
And then, again, the need in her surged, and, as appalled as she was fascinated, she spread her thighs, opening her sex, and lowered herself, until her sex touched the rough fabric top of the stool, making her cry out immediately, so tender was she there, her poor sex having been subjected to unprecedented usage over the previous 24 hours; repeated fuckings, crude maulings, relentless slapping. But her recoil lasted a few seconds only, overcome by urgent need, and she mashed herself down, hard, hearing herself cry out, thinking of her flatmate, asleep, no doubt, biting herself off, already thrusting again, spreading her knees more widely so that her weight bore more fully onto her sex. She felt more pain than arousal, at first, but her body’s needs were not to be resisted, and she willed herself, as she had when being made wet earlier, made herself think of Andrew and how He had used her sex, how glorious it was, how overwhelming, how demanding He was of her arousal …
… and she was gone, humping, moaning to herself, feeling the pain, letting it be part of everything, as it had been when Claude had brought her to that terrible, shaming climax, feeling the contribution to the whole sensation of degraded, wanton abandonment intensified by her steadfast maintenance of her arms in that deliberate uselessness, spread apart, half behind her; leaning forward just enough so that her breasts swayed wildly with the surging of her hips— not for her own sake, but for Andrew’s, letting her tongue tip dangle from half-opened lips, doing everything she could to express her submission to it, to everything. Everything for Andrew.
He’s made me come through pain, He’ll want to do that again. If He wants it of me, I need to learn how to give it to Him, whenever He wants it.
Then, shortly afterward; Dear Jesus, it is me that wants it!
She couldn’t get there, though; the upholstered top was too soft, no matter how she rammed herself onto it, and she whined in her need, until, from nowhere, the dirty thought came to her, and she came to a stunned halt, at the awfulness of it, at the knowledge that, having thought of it, there was no way she could avoid making it real, no matter how dirty.
She slumped, then, for some time; who knew how long, trapped between the knowledge of what she must do next and her inability to imagine herself actually doing it, until her body took control, bringing her upright, fixing her posture, flexing her hips, watching how her sex opened in the mirror, knowing she wanted to do this for Him (for anyone He asks her to show herself to, she reminded herself, doubling down on herself, making herself pay attention to what it is she is doing to herself; after all, what is the point of becoming nothing but sensation, if she does not make herself experience every sensation to the maximum?).
And then, deliberately, carefully, making it as elegant as she can, she tipped the stool over with her right elbow; over, onto its side, and then, over again, until it was upside-down, in front of the mirror, the thick wooden legs jutting upward.
Picture: The stool, legs upward
Odile was horrified and breathless at what she was about to do, frozen for a while at the enormity of it, the squareness of the leg, the way the end of it was rough, ingrained with dirt… and then it didn’t matter, because she was doing it; pushing her moist, tender sex lips against the dumb lump of wood, pushing against it, feeling so … so … so … full of wonder, and tears, and laughter, and shame. Such deep, deep, dreadful shame; not hard, sharp, angry, self-hating shame; no. Just softness and pain and a reason to give up on herself and give herself to Andrew, because she was, truly, a nothing; a dirty whore who was … yes … yes, she was … was pushing her sore, puffy, tenderised cunt onto a hard, dead piece of wood, so that it would fuck her, because she needed to be fucked and there was no-one to fuck her, and she wasn’t allowed to use her hands and she needed it and she was a whore and …
…and it hurt too much and she was crying, big tears on her cheek; No sobs, just tears at the awfulness of it, and how hard it was and how weak she was, and how frightened and how ashamed, and she was suspended in time, trembling, hearing herself whining; a quiet, desperate noise of despair, of overwhelm, as, for a long moment, faced with the what she had nearly done to herself, she considered letting herself off the hook; of renouncing the intensity, the wildness of being Andrew’s nothing…
This time, there was no strong reaction, no demand from her body; just patience; this was not a rebellion, a fightback for decency, dignity, reason and respectability, no; it was just a gathering of feelings, to be experienced along with all the other sensations— the feeling of getting herself ready to do something from which there could be no retreat… Of readying herself until, with a a small sob, and a great and nameless flood of emotion, she pushed herself back down, wriggled herself, forcefully, living the hurt, the dirtiness of it, working, working, until— there! it was aligned— as much as it ever would be— and she thrust; violent with herself, relentless, until, appalling as it was, it was finally, really, deeply, unmistakably, in her; really in her, like nothing ever before; so strange and rough and …
… oh fucking jesus she was fucking herself on the leg of a stool and it was square and the corners hurt her and the straightness of it hurt and bent her out of shape and she had to go so slowly and so carefully and actually she could not stop herself going so fast and so rough and it felt so fucking big and so hard and so strange and so wrong and it was fucking her and she was fucking it and it was so dirty and …
Picture: Fucking herself on the stool
… and she was pushing … pushing … because she needed to get it further into her, so that she could mash her sore little clitoris against the cross piece and …
Picture: Mashing her clit on the stool
… oh, christ, but it hurt so bad, and her clit was on fire and she had to swallow her scream and she was lifting herself back so that she could ram herself down again and then she was grinding, grinding, ruining herself, sobbing now; losing herself and …
… and yes, Yes, she was going to be able to orgasm again, for— what was it, the fourth, or fifth, or sixth time in 24 hours, and each one so … so fucking … beyond … and all the while, her hands were banished, made strange to her, and she was agonised by it, and amazed by the power of it, and the power of Him, and she made a choice, then, and opened herself, opened herself right up, open to the despair, to the full weight of it, to the terrible shame of it, to the hatred of herself, to the wonder of being destroyed, and it took her over the edge…
… and she forgot to keep quiet, that time, forgot everything, as her hips bucked wildly and she jerked herself without restraint against the insensate, hard-cornered lump of wood in her cunt, mashed her bruised and burning clit against the hard edged cross-piece, and sought to make the feeling, the devastation, the transcendence, last, last forever as she ground herself into oblivion, quivering and trembling, out of control; all but shrieking with the intensity of it, the wildness of it, the horror of it, until she was lost…
