You will want to have read the previous parts.
Note: there is no sex in this episode. The harshness rating reflects the subject matter of the dialogue.
Picture: Delicious in the park, in her tiny dress
If travelling on the bus from the beauty parlour, dressed as I was, feeling as vulnerable as I did, as frightened, as apprehensive, as needy, as weak as I was after a week of unimaginable trauma— if travelling on the bus had been an emotional rollercoaster, then the fifty or steps I walked after first catching sight of Lord D.— my de-facto owner; the ruler of my life, the invader of my thoughts, the remote-control despoiler of my body and ravager of my self-image— those steps were like the stages of a disaster movie— a total tear down of what it meant to be me in a world changed beyond recognition.
By the time I reached him, I felt certain that I was nothing, that I could expect nothing, that I was worth nothing, that there was nothing I could achieve that went beyond standing well, holding myself attractively, controlling my face, and focusing on him, sure that it was only in correctly interpreting his most fleeting desire that I had any hope at all, of anything. Even knowing that the maximum ambition of that hope was for him to find it worth his time to continue to have me turned into a degraded sex slave.
Every emotion had assailed me, during that walk; after a week I had only survived on the basis of continued and desperate, violent suppression of feelings, of thoughts; at the sight of him all suppression— save the savage demand I made on myself that I continue to walk, walk towards, him, walk elegantly, maintain a smooth, expressionless face— apart from that, all suppression became impossible.
Everything boiled up, all at once, and I felt it all to the maximum; violent, murderous rage at the appalling wrongs he had had visited upon me; breathless, fragile, pitiful hope that he might give me some smile or gesture of approbation; deep tearing grief at what I had allowed him to inflict upon me; stomach churning yearning for sexual annihilation, for cathartic fucking that would obliterate all thought (for, while I had been made to stimulate myself for my abusers’ entertainment, I had not been permitted to orgasm all week, when in the previous months with R. I had become used to several powerful orgasms a day, often more); weak, melting pleasure at being permitted to be here, with him, on such a delightful morning, in such lovely surroundings; and, deep underneath all of these, the seething, hateful, pathetic fear which had been instilled in me by the week of daily whippings and humiliations, visited on me by grinning young strangers, treating me as a job of work.
A job they enjoyed, savagely enough, to be sure— but still, for their careful intimate and cruel destruction of my self worth, of my hopes; their thorough efforts at deliberate erasure of any little attempt at dignity, self-protection, modesty, resistance— for all that to be just a matter of professional duty— a task to be completed, was something which ground away at me, relentlessly. Even though I forcibly stopped myself thinking about it whenever I could, it was still there, under the surface, working on me.
The fear.
The certainty that each day was going to bring terror, unacceptable humiliation, real, horrible pain— pain of many kinds.
The certainty that this was now my life, unless I exchanged it for something worse.
The unavoidable reality that this vile, degrading assault on my very sense of who I was, was changing me, changing me deeply, irrevocably; that I would never, could never, recover from the experiences I had volunteered myself, my body, for.
That he was making me his creature; that I was lost. That it would consume me; consume everything about me; reduce me to a body, confine all that was actually me, Chloe, to some small, self-constrained little hidey hole, locked away inside an eager, frightened, smiling, sex-object, whose only concern was to become what He wished of me; that Delicious Whore.
For, all the time when not being whipped, suppression of thought or not, my body was living with the appalling, impossible anticipation of the next whipping; the only respite from such dread coming at those times when when I was actually being whipped; whipped while bound, naked; whipped by grinning, laughing strangers who said crude, ugly things about how dirty I was, how slutty (and the shame of knowing these things were true), who made vile promises about how rough they would be with me, soon, when they’d be raping me in all my holes, how hard I was going to work to keep them happy, how eager I was going to be to satisfy every dirty fantasy of theirs, since they were the ones with the whips.
The fear in me grew, every day; terrible, debilitating fear at what cruelties would now be perpetrated upon my helpless body.
A week; one week of his regime had rendered me thus— a mental and emotional wreck, painfully vulnerable, painfully aware of my own vulnerability, painfully aware of the fizzing sexual anticipation in me at being so vulnerable for him, the apprehension as to what might be done with me in the next hours, the knowledge that he could do anything he desired with me, that I was lost, unmoored from reality, that he was my reality, that this was heaven, that I lived in Hell.
During that walk, I rededicated myself to him twenty times, and also told myself I must scream his evil to the world, twenty times.
The difference between these two extremes? The dedications were whole body experiences— deeper by far than any experience of what I had imagined was love in the past (love has need in it, of course, but it is energised by the promise of happiness; these dedications were helplessly needy, abject prostrations, in full knowledge that, if I was acceptable to Lord D., it would be because I had made the promise of abusing me sufficiently obvious and attractive), while the urges to denounce him were mere emotional release, just futile little self-harm incidents, torturing myself with my powerlessness, my hopelessness, my complicity in my own debasement.
When I arrived at his table; escorted by Mâitre D’, who had approached me at the periphery of the little cluster of elegant tables outside the storied and famously overpriced Café au Parc to ask who I was— clearly unsure if this young woman, dressed as close to the boundary of sluttishness as was possible, yet clearly also wearing expensive couture, was of the class who could be permitted into his little empire, I was like a harp string, tautened beyond all reason, ready to fling itself apart, ruined, yet apparently perfect in its line, the purity of its note. I would have let Lord D. kill me at that moment, without protest. Would have welcomed it, almost, as a fitting tribute to the torment of my week, of that bus ride, of that walk, of the tornado of emotion— to be killed by my God at that moment, in that place, would have been almost perfect.
Instead, though, he did something worse.
As I approached, he stood, like a perfect gentleman, a pleasant, warm smile on his face, bowed his head and reached for my hand, lifted it to his lips, as he had when I first met him, and said, simply;
“Delicious, my dear. Simply delicious.”
He pulled back my chair, helped me sit— and thus was probably the only witness to my careful management of the skirts of the skimpy dress, so that I sat with the cold metal of the heavy chair directly pressing into my buttocks and thighs, gasping slightly at the sensation.
Regaining his chair, he sat back, relaxing, and simply looked at me— he had seated me to one side of the table, rather than opposite him, so that he had an excellent view of me, must have seen the micro-trembling which I was unable to suppress, seen how frightened I was, how on a knife edge. If he did, he didn’t care, for as the silence lengthened, the portentous, increasingly terrifying silence, he could see the strain on me intensifying, my hold on myself weakening, no matter how ruthlessly I imposed it.
He judged it well, only speaking a few seconds after I had concluded that I could do nothing, any more, to prevent myself from moaning my distress, my despair, my weakness, my desire. It had started so softly though, that it can only have been him who heard the uncontrollable, thrumming vibration of it, understood it for what it was, and then spoke, just at the point when it threatened to mutate into an animal howl of raw emotion.
“They haven’t whipped your breasts yet, have they? Or, between your legs, cut into your sex with the heavy rod?”
Probably nothing less violent, less shocking, less awful than this could have caught me, but he had judged me perfectly again, and it stopped everything, stopped me dead, as the dread words hit me, and I was stilled by the realisation that, no matter how extreme the sensation of having to live as this creature, this thing, this tormented, entranced, elevated, degraded thing, no matter how on the edge I was, there was, always, something more unimaginable that could be presented to me, something beyond, something so shocking that it would do this to me— have me, eyes round, jaw slack, staring into his eyes, against all that had been drummed into me, beaten into me, shamed into me, over the past week.
“guk”
That was the noise my throat made— a stupid, pathetic, ridiulous swallowing noise, which hurt in my throat. Quite loud, as my chest convulsed, and the soft folds between my legs cringed in on themselves as the meaning of the words, the inevitability of what they meant, seared into me. I was incapable of anything else.
I wanted to run, to hide, to cower, to beg, fall on my knees and plead, offer my mouth to his cock, distract him, soften him, appease him, in some vain, stupid hope that it might unsay those words, undo that future, save me from that terror, that shame, that destruction which, deep inside me, I knew was now inevitable; my whole body twisting in on itself in futile defense.
He remained silent, watching, interested, expressionless, while it seemed that I had forgotten how to breathe; waited, as long as it took— I have no idea how long, but it seemed an eternity, as I fought, fought for— for what? I had already lost everything. If he had ordained that I be gang fucked in that elegant little cafe, raped by the kitchen staff over the cast iron table, in front of all the snooty elegant ladies gathered there, it would have been done to me; I would not have been able to resist— so what what was I trying to regain?
I know, though; oh, I knew. What I wanted, so urgently, so desperately; what it became clear, in that instant, I would spend all my life working for, from that moment on; what woud obsess me; what would give him total ownership of me, was just this; one more moment; just one more moment of being allowed to be Delicious — dressed (no matter how scandalously), out in the world— sitting with him, my lord, in conversation— no matter how terrified, no matter what horrors I had permitted in order to be allowed there, all for one moment.
The taste of being Delicious, no matter how bitter, how shaming, was, still unbearably, gorgeously sweet, and I was willing to do anything to preserve it, for as many agonising seconds as possbile, before the agonising hours began.
I saw, for a second, then, just how deeply, irreparably I had allowed myself to be harmed by R., how that harm had made it possible for Lord D. to hurt me, damage me, pervert me, to a much greater extent, so terribly quickly; how lost I was, how much it had cost me, how much more it would cost me, and I almost fell off the chair— swayed, moaned a little moan (immediately caught, immediately transformed into the sexiest little noise I could attain), before, with terrible, self-destructive internal violence, I forced myself to straighten up, to soften up, to take a breath; another to relax my belly, my arms, soften myself, take another breath, looking down demurely now— eyes on his groin as I had been instructed, made myself speak softly, husky, humbleness in my voice, avoiding the word ‘no’, again as I had been taught— a word forever forbidden to me now;
“Not … not yet, Lord”
And somehow, the simple fact of saying those words— of accepting, implicitly, that yet would come, that I accepted yet, that I was consenting to heavy rods, cutting into my sex, brought on a great rush of pleasure, of gratitude, of joy, even, and I managed to smile for him, as he reached out and lazily caressed my jawline with the back of a finger, saying;
“Very good, pretty. You will tell, them, please, that they are to begin doing this to you daily, from Tuesday— I’ll send a photographer, Monday, to catch you as you are, before I do such a terrible thing to you.”
“Will you do that for me, pretty, hm?”
And still I manage to smile, as I answer, husky, but urgently sincere;
“Yes, Yes sir, of course, Lord.”
And then;
“I will help you now; offer you some little advice. Entertaining as it was, just now, to watch you struggling with yourself; with the last little scraps of self-worth you are clinging to, in the attempt to remain Delicious; entertaining as it was, it was too much. It is pleasant to see pain and suffering in your eyes, to know that it is hard, very hard for you to sit here so prettily, while vile things are proposed to you— it is something I enjoy, at least; but that took a little too long; your self control needs working on.”
His expression was mild and pleasant, as if he had been suggesting something trivial that I might like to try, but his eyes, on mine, were implacable; like a basalt cliff face, and I could feel myself crumpling;
“Just so, pretty. I also need to point out, it seems, that you are failing again, daring to look your betters in the face.”
“Overall, then, things are going well, but you are not yet quite ready.”
And he had picked up his magazine, then, and recommenced reading, as if he were alone.
The taste of ashes, of acid, was in Chloe’s throat, as she sat; lost, frightened, ashamed, needy.
There was nothing to but sit. She had not been commanded, was not being looked at or touched. Nothing had been ordered for her. Lord D. did not look up, did not speak; his whole body language made it clear he was complete unto himself; there was nothing to indicate that he was aware of her presence, even.
She sat, continually conscious that, should he look up, she must be just as he would like her to be; aware that this was madness; doing it anyway. Doubling down on it, in fact; To be ready must mean ready to be Delicious, and her life no longer held any other meaning. She must present as ready at all times.
After some unkown time; a time which began as fearfully uncertain shame, cycling into a trance-like state of in-the-zone concentration on her presentation of herself as Delicious, then cycled back into shame and fear, succeeded by a flash of rage— instantly suppressed, but terrifying— which cycled into trance again; eventually, a waitress appeared, to ask Lord D. if he required anything else, anything for the ‘young lady’.
It was painful beyond belief to see the normal, human, friendly expression of Lord D.’s face as he smiled, briefly;
“No, thank you very much. The young lady is not staying.”
He did not even glance at Chloe, but allowed himself a look out at the park, lovely in the afternoon sunshine, then went back to his magazine.
Had she been dismissed? A pain grew in her heart. Tears threatened. Oh, but she was so ruined; so terribly, terribly weakened, for it to be possible for him to inflict such torment on her without the slightest effort!
Surely? Surely … she could— there would be nothing to stop her … surely, she could just stand up, and walk away. Walk away from him. Just leave; get on a plane; go to another city. Start over. Couldn’t she? There was nothing, nothing at all which said that she had to put up with this madness.
She looked at the bangles; those permanent fixtures on her body, which proclaimed her his property. Those bangles she had developed a love/hate relationship with. They could be removed, somehow, even if they had to be sawn from her. She had money in the bank, a passport in a drawer in her flat. She could go; put an end to this torment.
The twinge that affected her whole body, then, as she had to accept that she was not standing up; that she was not going to; that she was not going to save herself, accepted that she was not going to get away; not now, not ever; that twinge felt as if the inside of her chest was distorting itself, was so intense that she felt she might swoon, swayed in her chair, lips trembling, jaw clamped to keep from moaning her pain out loud.
Several women at other tables, alerted by some emotional vibrations, turned to look at her, then, stared at her, and she made herself relax— or appear to— made herself smile, as if being ignored for tens of minutes by her table-mate were perfectly normal and pleasant.
Lord D. was unchanged.
Another period of soul twisting waiting followed, and Chloe realised that this, too, was training, was intentional. She must understand that she was of no interest beyond her sexual use, except as an ornament. She must be prepared— and capable— of being nothing but an ornament, a decorative element— for as long as was required of her.
He shifted in his chair, signalled the waitress, spoke to her as pleasantly as before, ordered an aperitif, once more confirmed that there was to be nothing for Chloe; no, not even water, thanks.
He tapped something on his phone, then looked over at her, her gaze where it should have been throughout, on his groin;
“The boys will pick you up in the van, from the corner of the square, when they’re ready.”
“Go there now, stand and wait. Smile at any man who looks at you, of whatever kind or class; let them know, with your body, your expression, that you are thinking about how it would be to be fucked by them; make sure that you are, in fact, thinking about them fucking you. If they speak to you, explain that you cannot go with them. Keep your eyes on their crotch; don’t look at them. Speak in a soft and low voice. Answer any other questions truthfully, but do not give names or addresses. If they ask your name, tell them that you have none— that you are a sex slave. If they express any wish to use you, tell them that you are not yet being made available, but that in future, you will be; all your holes. Tell them that if they wish, they should write their phone number on your arm; that they might get lucky.”
“If that gets you raped, so be it. You may struggle all you like, but do not do anything that would attract the attention of the police. Special bonus: while being raped by strangers, you are not just permitted, but encouraged to orgasm; of course, you must make it obvious to your rapist that you are coming for him, thank him like the slut you are.”
“Go, now.”
Picture: Delicious in the square, vulnerable
