You will want to have read the previous part of this story.
She had slept, eventually.
Inside the frame of the upturned side table, itself on top of the coffee table, legs and arms each tied to the upmost end of a table leg, splayed out on her back like a spatchcocked bird, head tied into a pillowcase, hanging down backwards, groin wide-splayed at the other end of the table; she had been abandoned.
The men had had a brief, bantering conversation in the small lobby of the suite; loud laughter, crude and cruel jokes very certainly at her expense, although she didn’t hear it all, then the door had shut, and things fell quiet— Charles and David presumably gone.
She waited— she was too deep in shock to do anything else— thoughtlessly assuming that Mark would come to her; to do what, she wasn’t even thinking, but he had directed every minute of her life since their eyes had met that morning, and so she waited.
Gradually, though, it had dawned on her that he had gone to bed, in the other room of the suite. That she had, truly, been abandoned. They had finished abusing her, and had simply gone on to whatever was next in their lives, giving no thought to how she was to continue her existence than they would have should she have been a chair.
Not even a piece of meat… the thought floated through her mind, vaguely (everything was— blissfully— vague; the reality of the past couple of hours was impossible to contemplate); you don’t just abandon meat— it needs to be looked after to stay useful. A chair, though, will just be there, as you left it; you don’t give it a second thought until you want to sit on it again.
Picture: Essy, abandoned
The silence, then; the quiet, the way the idea that she was not even meat to them, all began to eat away at the desperately clung-to numbness of her shock.
For it was not that she did not recall the atrocities, the abominations, the pain, the shame, the sneering, sniggering, greedy cruelty and the despair of the whole ordeal; every microsecond of it was urgently demanding to be reviewed, to be processed, to have its horror relived, its hurts at least paid attention to, even if soothing them seems unlikely to be possible.
All this is there, present, its promise of agony obvious; it’s just that the overwhelm has blurred everything, allowed that part of her which will, eventually, have to attend to it to shut down, stay in self-protection mode.
But now, in the quiet, the many discomforts of her position, the pain from so many, many insults to her tender flesh all demanding attention, the absence of distraction, it gets harder and harder to stay in the fog, to keep the thoughts—
thoughts of blows, of penetrations, of gagging convulsions, unable to breathe, fearing to die, of the taste and texture of strange come of different kinds, of the musk of her own back passage in her throat, of the searing shame, of the calculated, laughing cruelties, the shocking invasions, the degrading manipulations, the awful, awful helplessness which had built and built, as each instinctive, self-protective move had been rapidly, violently and comprehensively denied her, of the appalling sensation of having two rapists’ cocks working in her at once (the idea that this was even possible had filled her with horrified revulsion as soon as their purpose became clear - the reality was a hundred times more dreadful), of being jerked around like a rag doll in their frenzied, syncopated ruttings, of seeing Mark, watching, smiling his twisted smile at her, calmly enjoying himself; relaxed, comfortable, as if he did this every day, knowing that her breasts had been jouncing uncontrollably, evidence of the force with which she was being jackhammered, front and back, her face still covered in his sticky come, matted in her hair, uncontrollably panting and squealing her distress; the almost out-of-body weirdness of being made to come for them, quivering and moaning, her hips bucking wildly as she tried; tried so hard not to let this shameful thing happen, become part of who she is, not to let them see her overtaken by such a powerful, overwhelming intensity, delivered by their abusive hands, so crudely manipulating the most intimate folds of her body; there were so many, many moments…
— to keep these thoughts blurred, cloudy; as if they had happened to some other girl, some unfortunate wretch— to be pitied; agonised over, even, angry on behalf of, certainly— but not, definitely not ‘felt’.
It’s too frightening to let it be her, Essy; the girl who took control of her own life, who has built herself up from her crisis, who takes shit from no-one, who is positive and powerful, confident and outgoing, to let it be this Essy who, somehow so easily, has let herself become this victim. Who has been so softly, so smoothly suborned. Who has offered herself; willingly and smilingly collaborated in her own despoliation, failed, even to protest, to struggle, to defend herself in any but the mildest, most pathetic manner.
Waking, her neck, her thighs, her wrists, her shoulders all yelling their stress into her newly conscious mind, she dimly realises that she must have managed to fall asleep without processing, because that clamour is also waking; still raw, still needy.
But there is something else; a warmth, a movement, at her spread, defenceless sex— something soft, pleasurable, clever … A tongue!
Her head, still tied into the thick starched cotton of the luxury pillowcase, jerks upwards— the screaming of her wrenched and tired neck muscles notwithstanding, in a futile attempt to look, to see, to understand what is being done to her. What she does find is that someone— Mark, presumably, is standing over her— thighs either side of her head. That person, she realises (she is shocked by how much she wants it to be Mark), is leaning forward, and carefully, cleverly, gently— almost lovingly— licking at her sex.
What’s more, the licking is working.
She doesn’t want to; really, doesn’t want to lubricate, get excited, eventually even orgasm, again, for this madman, this monster, this conman, this abuser, this rapist, this sadist. She really, really doesn’t want to.
But she had fought herself to a standstill, last night, refusing and refusing and refusing (in her mind, at least— physically, she had been appalled, despaired of her weakness, her passivity, by the ease with which they had obtained her compliance); she had, several times, been taken past the point of no return, had moaned and writhed and thrashed for them, hearing their jeering comments about how she must be a born whore to get turned on by the going over they’d given her, had got to the point where the oblivion of orgasm had been worth working towards, if it would blank out her mind from their disdain, her shame … in the end, she had been overborne by a mix of her body’s responses and a sneaking, subtle voice inside her which kept suggesting that perhaps— just perhaps— surrender might be worth trying— that it might; might just, be what she wanted…
And now, as last night, a particularly well timed flick of the tongue across her stiffening clitoris, as it passed on, firm, gently, luscious, along her tenderised labia, made her swoon with sensation, sigh out loud and long— (the tone of despairing shame just as evident as the timbre of helpless pleasure), and the voice of surrender, of submission reminded her just how wonderful it had been, the night before, to be taken away from the shame and pain and violation of it; to pass over into the land of pure sensation, where nothing mattered but intensity of feeling, giving in to her body, giving in to Mark, and she was unmoored again, her being now focused simply on the building heat between her legs, moving with whoever it was; hot tears on her cheeks, giving herself permission to cede control, to submit, to surrender, to accept … I’m tied up, they’ve beaten me, and raped me and raped me, I’m tired, sore, frightened, overwhelmed— I just don’t have it in me to fight this reaction of my body to this…
“oo-OOOHaaaaaghghg-hu!hau!hu!HU!”
And then, she was really lost, as her body made it clear that, now, now it wanted release, climax; really wanted it, and when the tongue stopped, her hips surged and she heard herself whining like a needy puppy-dog; somewhere in her a part of her mind saw just how far she down had been brought, in less than 24 hours, and concluded that all her apparent strength, determination, independence had in fact been a thin, fragile shell, built around her weakness; that the shell had been cracked— smashed, perhaps— that she was, in truth, broken. She let herself whine again, let her body make its neediness clear. It was shaming, but she was lost, in any case, and he might let her come.
All this made it easy for Mark, when, after loosening the tie that held the pillowcase around her neck, he rolled it back to expose her mouth, retying around her eyes. He pushed a thumb into the side of her slack mouth, directly between her gums, behind her back teeth, so that, head lolling back again, her jaws opened, and it was easy, then, for him to push his stiffening cock right into her mouth.
Tears spurted, but Essy did not resist, and when his calm, deep voice said, simply; “Make it good for me, sexy girl, and I’ll make it good for you. I’ll make you come when I’m ready to, then I’ll ram myself deep into your throat once you start bucking— I want to feel your orgasm and your gag reflex around my cock. If I feel teeth I’ll bite your clit, hard.”
And, simply, that was exactly how it went. And it was astonishing, and destructive, and glorious, all at the same time, to be coming down from a wild, intense orgasm, unable to breathe, come bubbling out of her nostrils, him grunting and snorting just as she was; animal noises, both of them— Mark clearly taken beyond his calm zone alongside her; to have him carry on thrusting hard and deep into her throat, violent and astonishing, utterly overwhelming but also seeming both right and needful; exactly what she wanted to know of him - that he could be beyond constraints with her at that moment, as the spasms in her belly gradually subsided, just letting it all happen to her, all the feelings; awful and wonderful, frightening and desperate, all at once, so that by the time he had pulled out of her, leaving her gasping and moaning, she was utterly limp, tears no longer spurting but softly streaming from her eyes, lost in overwhelm again.
He untied her then, gently, slowly, careful with her, and lifted her— feeling the strength of his body as he scooped her up, naked, sore, strained, holding her, curled up against his chest, as if she were a big dog, rather than a woman. He sat on the settee, still holding her, and she; she, in her weakness, her distress, her pain, her need, she buried her face— still blindfolded by the pillowcase, buried her face into his shoulder and cried. When his hand foraged between her thighs, seeking her sore and still trembling pussy, it seemed impossible not to open herself for him, offer him access, and indeed the way he cupped her, there, confident, firm, was as comforting as the other arm around her shoulders, and she cried herself into a further sleep, curled up like that; held; controlled, humping herself, every so softly, ever so slowly, against his hard hand, reliving the orgasm in her mind, with hazy but deep determination, doubling down on the proof that ecstatic oblivion was possible, was an escape from the frightening implications of what has been done to her. Anything else was too much.
She had wanted, so badly, for him to remove the blindfold, but had not been able to speak; had literally found it impossible to make her mouth open. She was nothing. He had made her nothing, had taken her and broken her. If he had wanted to remove it, he would have. If she wanted it gone, and he didn’t, he would get his way, and she would be denied. What was the point in humiliating herself by asking for something which would be refused her? And, in any case, she dared not even speak.
The next waking was better, and also, worse; she was dreaming— or was she not? In the dream, she was warm, and held; safe, but frightened. In that state, she found herself slowly— ever so slowly— grinding her sex, backwards and forwards, languorous and luxurious, as she had been when she fell asleep, but now against … against what? The back of a hand? Ah! Ohhh… A cock; a hard cock, the end of it nudging, now, at the entrance to her sex… Gods but she was sore, down there! Her throat caught with a soft shock of pain. Sore and sensitive and … and still, she did it again, and it was dirty and sexy and shameful and she needed it because in the back of her mind were dark, dark clouds and fears and she didn’t want to face them— not yet, not yet— and this, this was simple, and easy, and she was needful, and …
… and she was awake, and it was true.
Still naked, still in his arms, but no longer cradled— he had moved her, so that she was as if squatting over his groin as he sat on the settee, her feet alongside his thighs on either side, her sex bearing down on the length of his semi-stiff cock.
The dream had been better, but this was worse, because, now untied, she had no excuse for not throwing herself off him, for not making some effort to escape from this relentless sexualisation, this humiliation, this … oh god it was heart-stopping, the pulse of desire that jolted her then, that dissolved the tension from her spine, from her thighs, which her shame had insisted on, in preparation for escape; all gone, as he had moved beneath her, sending shock waves of sensation through her, her breath coming faster and faster, in heaves, fear and shame and desire and neediness all strong in her, feeling her stiffening nipples against the rough fabric of his jacket— he was fully dressed— feeling her pulse racing as he whispered in her ear;
“Just so, pretty, just so. You drive, this time; take me, take me any way that works for you— as fast or as slow as you’d like. I’ll follow your lead; don’t be afraid to tell me what you want; be greedy, be selfish, be demanding; expect everything. Take everything you want. Take me with you.”
Picture: Essy grinding on him
And she did, and he did, and it took as long as it took, and he was patient with her when she was overcome by shame, or fear, and sobbed, or pulled away; infinitely patient, it seemed, and when, through some insane transference process, she decided that she wanted to kiss him, kiss him on the lips, open her mouth to him, and then slip her hips so that… AAAAaaahhhh! Oh!Oh!Oh!Oh!Oh!Oh! Oooh! … he was in her, properly inside her, her hips moving increasingly purposefully, now, wanting him deep, wanting to be fucked, when that became real and she was really kissing him, and he was kissing her back and moving with her, even as she was sobbing her heart out with the tragedy of it, as she found herself remembering the look in his eyes as he had put the belt between her legs for the first time; how it had been to know that a man had deliberately thrashed her opened sex, intending her to feel pain and fear and weakness, and it wrecked her and ruined her and again, again, the only way through was to lose herself in being fucked, and she was too weak to feel it the way she wanted to and she panted in his ear then; “You . you … do … do me … take me … do me hard … don’t … don’t stop … hurt … hurt me … if … if you want.”
And he had; stood with her weight in his arms, gravity driving him deep into her so that she yelled, then throwing her back over the arm of the settee, her hips uppermost, legs akimbo, head back, still blindfolded, and she had flung her arms back, expressing her submission to his pile-driving cock at the burning centre of her existence, and bucked and writhed and cried out until he was done with her, and she was done herself, and it had destroyed her and she had welcomed the destruction.
The third waking was calm, and soft, and quiet. Comfortable in the big bed, alone in it, wearing a fluffy robe, not tied up, blindfold gone, the smell of coffee and vanilla and fresh flowers; a trolley by the bed with the source of those smells, and Mark, sitting calmly in the easy chair, watching her, smiling just a little.
They had simply stared at each other, for some time, then, his face unchanging, hers the subject of a host of fleeting, urgent emotions, each rapidly overtaken by another; fixated on him, on his face, on his eyes, wanting, desperately, to know what it was that he thought of her, after … after …
Unable to even guess at his thoughts; weakness, neediness, fear all rising inside her, until her shame, her weakness overcame her and she could no longer meet his gaze.
She was acutely aware of her nakedness beneath the robe. It felt unnatural, somehow, that she was covered before him, after everything. She sat up; the robe opened, a little; she did not pull it closed. For some insane reason she found herself needing the offer of her breasts to please him, needing him to like her breasts, to know that she was offering them to him. Knowing how crazy this was made no difference; she opened her shoulders; slow, soft, deliberate, blushing, letting him see, feeling her pulse at her neck, her breathing slowing.
She thought she could feel his eyes on her, but could not look up. Silence, her nipples crinkling towards stiffness the focus of her attention, knowing she was behaving like a whore, not understanding why. Frightened by herself, knowing that this was all wrong, not knowing how to break his spell. Knowing she must, not wanting to, Around and around.
Still, she made no move to cover herself, or to make her display less obvious. Simply, she didn’t want to.
She found that she could not speak. Things would come to her, things she needed to ask, to tell him, to have him hear; but when she looked up, caught his eye, readied her mouth, it would suddenly seem that, whatever it was, was too foolish, too trivial, to selfish, too petty, too risky, of no consequence. And so she said nothing, and, blushing, looked down again, pink with confusion and embarrassment, knowing that her blushes, as they always had, would extend down, across the tops of her breasts to her nipples; both appalled and made weak by the idea that this abuser should learn this little secret about her.
In the end, it was him that made the first move; he picked up the coffee, and gently offered the cup to her lips.
A voice in her told her that this was her chance; that she must reject him, reject his confusingly caring manner— after such atrocities, such liberties, such abominations— must assert herself, and leave.
Her lips stayed closed, and he backed off a millimetre or two with the proffered cup, but no more, waited, patient, inscrutable, smiling; his eyes soft but focused.
It was easy, suddenly; easy, natural and correct. No matter what else, Essy found herself thinking; she could always give in. Let him do things to her; be treated like this. She wanted it, the simplicity of it, the ease of it, of letting him be the order of her life. And it was; simple and good, she found, to smile, soft and gentle at him, to open her lips, to take a sip, to allow the warmth and richness of the coffee to flood her, and to realise she was ravenous. Ravenous for food, and also, ravenous for Mark. for him looking at her, paying attention to her, for him ordaining the way things went. Even … even last night …
That was crazy thinking, she knew … but …
She parked it, and took another sip of coffee, a bite of the offered flaky croissant, felt the robe fall open as she leaned in to take the bite, her breasts fall free, and did nothing to stop it; looked up at him, a shy smile on her lips, to see him grin, and slowly pulled the robe back from her shoulders, offering him her nakedness, and when he reached to pull back the cover, she made it easy for him, lifting her knee to spread her thighs, make her pussy obvious, accessible, open to him; liking the way his eyes wandered over her body.
She simply waited, until he looked her in the face again, and smiled;
“You were lovely before, but you are lovelier, now; Now that you know what it is to be forced; raped, beaten, abused.”
The words were like a bucket of cold water, ripping through the languor of the moment, but she let them wash over her, refusing to abandon the preciousness of it; it wasn’t that she could pretend that those things had not happened, that she had not submitted to his demands of her, that he had not done those things to her. These thoughts made her quiver; memories of many grinding moments of despair and horror very raw, very tender, very close to the surface, but at that moment, his voice so calm, the mood so gentle, his manner so soft, there was a strong desire in her to let it flow, and so, without fighting the feelings, the memories; without denying them their very real horror, she decided to let them be; to accept them for what they were; simply chose not to let them connect with anger, or immediate fear, or shame. Just accept that that had been her, last night; raped, beaten, abused.
At this man’s hands.
And she let herself quiver, and she let the memories surface, and watched them, acknowledging that terrible things had been done to her. Letting the memories be, without bringing them into her mind.
And, thus, from letting horror simply be, the facts of her having been so cruelly treated, of her having let them make her orgasm for them, all this reality simply open between them, she discovered that she could take pleasure from his words; wondering at it, but feeling it very strongly; genuine, warm pleasure; to be complimented by him was to be sincerely complimented, and the truth was, as it was.
She had been violated, raped and abused; it was true. He had ordained it, intensified it, managed every moment of it. Now he was saying he found her to be lovelier because if it. These were all facts.
He knew she was weak, knew she was a wanton. She knew he was a sadist and a cruel abuser. He knew that she was vulnerable to him. She was sure that he would not stop now. Somehow, it was good that this was so. It was more honest than any relationship she had ever had.
And she liked him looking at her. Liked him knowing that he could use her. That he would use her. She did. It was as simple as that.
She felt weak, and humble, and needy, and grateful. There was no anger, no hatred, no rejection. Things were as they were, and he liked her naked, and she liked him looking, and she was in his power and that was how things were.
She accepted more coffee, more croissant; the quivering subsided, and the hurts of her body were somehow warm, not sharp, somehow part of it, of the deep and lazy weakness she felt; the unaccustomed idea that she was not responsible, that someone else, someone strong and certain, was in charge, allowing her a relaxation she had not felt for … for years, she realised.
He fed her whole breakfast to her. She did not use her hands; not once, nor did she speak - or feel the desire to speak. The scrambled eggs were like nothing she had ever tasted before, so hungry was she; food spilled down her chest; he picked egg from her naked thigh, so close to her sex that her hips surged, involuntarily; she giggled, but did not flinch, or make any effort to help herself, or conceal her body’s response to him.
Nor did she speak, even when, after the food was finished, after he had watched her, holding herself open for him, for a while, after she had felt herself owned by his gaze, after she had found that she revelled in it. In presenting herself, as vulnerable as she felt (all the fear, all the hurt, all the shame combining to produce a weakness that was strangely delightful), after she had made herself accept that she wanted him to understand how weak she was, how helpless in the face of his treatment of her, she found, all unexpected, a deep and delicious loveliness.
Of being naked, for him, weak, defenceless, having been raped, and beaten, and degraded at his hands.
However weird it was— and she knew, in the back of her mind, that it was, seriously, weird— those moments, then and there, were among the loveliest she had known since before she had started modelling.
There were tears in her eyes, for sure, but they weren’t angry or despairing tears; not this time, and she had looked him in the eyes, then, wanting him to see how it was with her, wanting to offer herself to him, to acknowledge to him that, however hateful last night had been, that she was grateful for this moment.
And thus, the thought floated through her mind— to be wondered at, but not unravelled— thus, she must, logically, be grateful for last night. The idea was mad, horrible … and so she didn’t interrogate it; just accepted it.
I am grateful for last night.
As the weirdness, and the pains of her body, and the lurking agonies of her memory, and the languorous deliciousness of everything flowed together, it came very naturally, as if he were suggesting they take a walk or something perfectly ordinary, when he had said;
“I want your ass, now. You’ve been ripped there; I’ll hurt you; it will be bad.”
She froze, but for only a second or two, before she realised that, however her heart was quaking, her belly tightening, her pulse accelerating, however little she wanted it, that this was exactly what should happen next, and heard herself make a little noise, tinged with fear, but certainly not a refusal;
“Mhhmm”; in point of fact, it was a clear indication— if she could hear it in her voice, then so could he— an indication of consent; of her consent to be hurt in the service of his sexual pleasure.
The implications shook her, but she let this shock, too, just be, just flow through her, and when he took her hand and pulled, lightly, she followed, lithe and elegant and sweet, as if there were nothing in prospect but joy and pleasure; went to her knees as he opened his trousers, and carefully, softly, kissed the tip of his cock, as if it were the tenderest, most lovely thing in the world, rather than a promise of pain.
“It will take time, pretty. You have taken much from me; you’ll have to give, now, until I am hard enough to drive into you, back there.”
It felt right; right to take the time to get him hard, to build his need, his desire for her, right to kneel in front of him, to do what she could to show him that she was happy to serve him so, to demonstrate what there was of her technique, humbly and carefully, alert for signs from him as to what was better, until she found herself willingly doing what until last night she had never done, and then only through being forced, and welcomed him, brought him, as deeply as she could, into her throat, finding the denial to her of breath somehow important— delightful, even, as she held herself down on him, feeling the convulsions in her chest as if they belonged to some other girl, almost savagely refusing to let herself pant and gasp when she finally had to back off from him, controlling herself, smiling for him (although she could not look him in the eye, so deeply shy had she become of him, knowing that he knew her for a wanton, a weak and helpless slut). Back down again, refusing, this time, to let herself up until he had done with her, feeling him jerk and grunt, until he threw her off him with a shout, hugging to herself the feeling that she had brought him beyond his own self control, really given him something, as he grasped her shoulders, unbearably hard— she carried the bruises for ten days— lifted her and planted her, face down, onto the bed, collected her slim wrists in one iron fist, before hooking the other hand under her left thigh and pulling it right up, the knee cracking her chin. He had taken his time to line himself up at her asshole, horrible ripples of fear and apprehension racking her groin and belly as she was suddenly faced with the hurt that was coming to her, that she had readied him to deliver to her, the knowledge that she was powerless to resist, didn’t even want to resist, pathetic as that might be, tears gathering in anticipation.
And it was awful; really, truly, relentlessly awful; without the slightest flash of relief, as he had pushed himself hard into her, opening the tear that had been inflicted on her the night before, she crying out her pain, her buttocks and hips switchbacking defensively, uncontrollable as her body rejected the violation, to no avail; he had speared her; heavier than her, stronger than her, full of conviction and desire and certainty, as he wrecked her at will.
She could not deny the feeling of exultation in her at the evidence that she had given him real pleasure, his tight grunts of laughter rapidly increasing in intensity until she felt him spurting, deep in her belly, while she wailed her own shame and pain, as vile language, uttered with vicious despite, almost forced itself from him;
“Take it … You … Filthy … Gutter … Trash … Whore … Take … Take … It … All … … CUNT!”
Alongside the pleasure, then, she felt, such a deep, deep wound, the damage done to her; irreparable, because it was, simply, truth. The truth of her deliberate and careful collaboration with him in his imposure on her of such cruel and selfish violation, the proof of his pleasure in causing her pain, the certainty that her own experience of this act of union was of no interest at all to him beyond his enjoyment at her evident suffering; everything else irrelevant— her service, her sweetness, her offering of herself in such intimate shaming ways simply taken for granted.
She had still not spoken to him, when, half an hour later, after she had let him bathe her, standing in a shallow bath, laving her with hand towels soaked in warm water, attending to her whole body with care and detailed attention, matter-of-fact between her legs, with her breasts, as if she were a horse, or a dog, she had thought, she gradually coming to compliance, rather than simple stiff obedience, beginning to move to accommodate him without hesitation or reserve, feeling held, controlled, managed, and just letting it happen to her, knowing she couldn’t fight, that she would lose if she tried, that, shameful as it was, she found it calming, to be so comprehensively managed.
He had left her to sob, face down on the bed, without a word; gone to clean himself up, for he was immaculate again when he returned, ten minutes later, to take her hand, lead her to the bathroom.
Wordlessly, without a hint of reproach, naked, her legs still shaky, glad of his support, she had allowed him to control her.
Wrapping a robe around her, then, he had said;
“I’ve arranged for someone from the Hotel salon to be with you for an hour or so. They’ll bring clothes, since you no longer have any. They’ll bring you to me, and we’ll have a late lunch on the terrace. You are owed much, but an explanation, of sorts, at least. And I have this, too.”
He showed her the little clutch, with her ‘phone, keys, money in it, and again, she could not speak; simply stared after him as he left, smiling normally at her as he closed the door, as if everything was perfectly normal.
