You will want to have read the previous part of this story.
Looking back, later, on the days that followed, Essy cannot help but see them as her honeymoon.
A strange, confusing, sweet, mad interlude, during which nothing made any sense, and yet everything was somehow gilded, glowing; even the being scared and sore and humiliated parts.
He had taken her home from the Dorchester in a taxi.
Home to her house.
Not that it was a house; about halfway there she suddenly realised that there was no way he could be allowed in to her— well, to call it a loft apartment was to bend the language out of shape; she lived in an only half converted roof-space above an old industrial shed, full of rusting machinery, in an abandoned industrial estate scheduled for demolition until the property crash had bought it a reprieve, since when it seemed to have been forgotten. The only positives that could be said for her place was that it was cheap, and large. Otherwise, it was all bad.
It suited her fine, though or so she had told herself for years, but sitting next to him in the taxi— almost as if they were just old friends, not talking, but perfectly comfortable, somehow, despite everything— sitting next to him, not knowing what to do about the fact that he must not see the hellhole, the appalling disaster area that was where she lived, she realised it wasn’t fine. That the fact that she had told herself it was fine was a sure sign that the shell that Mark had cracked— the shell that was capable, confident, outgoing Essy— had been thin and brittle all along.
She had wanted to say something, explain, tell him … But somehow the Geas, the edict he had so casually thrown out, which had landed with such weight— that she would learn to control herself for him — both helped and hindered her.
It helped her quell her stress— control herself— at what he might think of her when he saw her squalor, and it also hindered her from speaking to him— at all, mostly— but certainly about anything that she did not feel certain he would be interested in knowing. That, too, was controlling herself— for him.
And so they had arrived, without her having spoken a word (in truth, she was beginning to find it hard to imagine ever speaking to him again; speaking freely at least— she had said so little to him since they had left the park, and in that time, she had been forcibly transformed into a new person. That new person had literally never spoken to him, unless in a delirious state, or in desperation, or as a direct response to him).
Maybe— the thought was in her, mad as it seemed, appalling as it seemed— maybe she would never speak to him again; not really. Not as they had that first morning, when she had shared so much about herself. Mad it might be, but there was a strange fascination to the sick, crazy idea which had come to her, without being sought— had just arrived, fully formed, in her mind; that she would have his penis in her mouth more times than she would talk to him. That the point of her mouth, for him, was to provide pleasure to his cock, not to make words.
How had that thought even come to her? She must be insane. But at the same time, she knew that she was going to be counting; keeping score— not because she thought it was a good idea, but because it was such a sick idea. What if it actually came to be so, even without her meaning it? Crazy; such thoughts were definitely bad for her mental health, for her fragile self-respect. But still, that didn’t make them go away, didn’t make it possible to shut her brain down; she just knew she was going to know the numbers currently, Penis 2, Essy, nil; that if they began to be true it would feel like fate…
It made things special, between them. That such mad things might be true. That he could have given her to some business associates, encouraged them to rape her, hurt her, had raped and beaten her himself, and seen her come for him, too; violated her again, humiliated her in public, and that they both knew that she had, after all these outrages, still offered herself to him.
If that wasn’t special, what was?
Put the other way around, if it wasn’t special, then what was she but a helpless, hopeless, pathetic victim?
She desperately, desperately, needed to be more than just a victim. Even … even if she was, very obviously, a victim, it was important to her that she wasn’t just a casual victim— that there was something special about her, something which continued to matter to him, something which had … what?
Seriously, what?
Was being vulnerable and stupid evidence of being special? It had to be something more— there was no specialness in being pathetic; weak, an easy target; she had to have more …
Was being pretty— sexually attractive— evidence of being special? She knew it couldn’t be; her time as a model had crushed such thoughts— there were many girls a hundred, a thousand times prettier than she, she knew it. And in any case, looks didn’t make anyone special— it was just a genetic lottery, and— another thing she had learned through modelling— nothing at all to do with the real character of a person; models could be as stupid, vindictive, spiteful, selfish, boring, perverse, irritating and petty as any other group you could think of; more so, in fact, since so many of them were so sure that their beauty entitled them to privilege without them having to bother to try to be worthy of it.
She clung to it; needed it to be true, that there was something he saw in her, something which was to do with who she actually was— something about Essy— something he was particularly interested by, even if she could not discover what it was.
She needed, with desperate intensity, to be more than just a random pickup, a weak, stupid girl who would allow herself to be fooled, then beaten and raped, before being, inevitably, discarded.
Which seemed to mean, that she would double down on this madness, on her insistence that what was happening between him and her was something special, something with meaning, if for no other reason than to convince herself it was her, somehow, that was the director of her fate?
It was all crazy. There was no point trying to make sense of it. None. Life didn’t make sense.
What made sense was feelings; and, however terrible the actual, factual things he had done to her, the feelings she was having were, without question, ones she had never felt before, never so intensely, and the thought of never feeling like that again; to have experienced a new flavour in the world, an incredible, wild, intense savour, but then to renounce it, never to taste it again— that would be a loss; more, she realised, experiencing her inner reaction to the thought— it would be a tragedy.
She wanted more; she did … even … even … she made herself form the thought— if only to test herself; did she really mean it? Could it be so? Yes, it seemed that she really did; at least here, now, sitting on a taxi with him, safe; she meant it; she wanted more even if it means getting raped and hurt. There, she has said the words to herself, in her mind, as if she meant them.
She felt sick.
She felt wonderful.
He did things to her which made her feel that way; both of them, at the same time, and … and that was what she wanted, it seemed.
That was it.
She wanted him to do that to her.
So she could have those feelings.
And so she was going to let him … No; she was going to encourage him; to do those things to her.
Really?
Yes.
Yes, I am.
She had shifted in her seat, then, feeling hot and bothered, feeling it directly, in her sex, had half-turned toward him, very obviously squirming; offering herself to him in her need, wanting him to see it for what it was, looking up at his face momentarily, before dropping her eyes, not strong enough to meet his detached amusement, but not stopping with her move, caught by the intersection of what he had done to her and the feelings she needed more of; reliving the terrible, intolerable vulnerability of being splayed, tied fast, struggling helplessly, knowing a leather belt was about to slash, hard, right between her legs; of being forcibly held open, despite her whole body’s violent rejection of it, in the knowledge that a hateful invasion by a stranger’s disgusting cock was coming— the cock of a man she loathed with all her being— a man who was going to get to bring himself off inside her, spurt his hateful come into her soft pussy, her tight-stretched throat, her burning ass; the searing intensity of her shame as he had opened her jeans to the waiter, exposed her as a slut in public; her body’s complicity in all these things, as her nipples hardened, almost painfully quickly, as her hips had pulsed— physically thrust forward, not once, but several times, unmissable; he must be aware of it, of what it meant about her— is this it, is this what’s special about me? That I’m a nymphomaniac? — not wanting to hide it from him despite the humiliation of being so direct, and he had indeed noticed; his head had turned, and straightway he had put his whole hand, very directly— casually, but with total certainty of intent— put it directly between her legs, and taken possession of her cunt; hard, steady, owning her; owning her there— just where she was supposed to be most private, most protective of herself; and she? she had, equally straightforwardly, opened her thighs, had encouraged him, made good on her offer, with gratitude, had pushed her pelvis forward, soft and loose and willing, giving herself, giving her pussy without reserve, horrified and delighted both at the idea that the driver might notice; might understand just how much she was in thrall to this man, just how open she was to him.
“Little whore” he had said, in a normal voice— the driver must surely have heard that? But the man didn’t turn.
And her hips had rolled for him, for all that she was sore, that her sex felt as if it was on fire, her inner lips raw from repeated, prolonged, jackhammer ruttings. From having been violently gang-raped, at Mark’s hands.
And that was where wanting to be special had gotten her.
She didn’t notice anything much, then, until the cab had slowed— lost in her own swirling thoughts— and then, with an uncomfortable jump, she had realised that they were there. Her belly had flipped inside her; it was going to happen; he was going to find out just how shitty her life really was. And she had said nothing; not a word; he was going to see her squalor; in any case he had her keys; he was in control of her down to that level; as well as— as he had repeatedly proven in the last 24 hours— between her legs.
Her shame over the state of her place had found no excuse, though, in him; he had walked up the crumbling old iron stairs as if it were perfectly normal to live in a derelict site; had not reacted at all to the dreadful chaos of her apartment (things were strewn everywhere, dirty plates left where she been snacking, most of the furniture rescued from dumpsters— dirty, damaged, ugly; she had never cleaned it, properly - didn’t even own a vacuum or a mop) but had rather looked around with the same calm, focused attention he had shown her in the tube, less than 36 hours ago; simply surveyed, without haste, his face expressive of nothing but his engagement, while she stood, frozen with nerves, silent, mouth full of things that she wouldn’t say. Was nothing ever going to occur to her that she felt was worth his attention?
Apart from, perhaps, her pussy, her breasts, her mouth, her ass the thought had presented itself in her mind, brutally clearly. She made herself accept it, knowing she was doing work on herself, actively pushing herself to accept Marks’ view of her as the inevitability of her new life.
She couldn’t move, either, she had found; a hundred things brought themselves to her miserable attention; a hundred egregious signs that she wasn’t just messy, or too busy to pick up after herself, but that she was a domestic slut, as well as a sexual one. Weren’t those rat droppings on the patch of theoretical e-z-clean flooring which denoted the ‘kitchen’ area? the dried remains of spilt milk over them making it plain they had been there for a long while. It was imperative that she do something about that this instant, but she couldn’t move; only wait; wait for his verdict on her hellhole. That she was disgusting.
It seemed her whole being had been reduced to these four things; waiting for him; appealing to him to use her for sex, unquestioningly going along with his expectations, and attacking herself with her thoughts.
He wasn’t looking at her when he finally spoke;
“I’d like it, Essy, if you were naked for me— when you can be. Is that OK with you?”
It hit her like a sucker punch; irresistible, the blow not so much hard, but perfectly targeted at a weakness, left unprotected. All her mind had been full of was her shame— his reaction to her apartment, and he had gone for her dignity; again.
She knew she was going to comply; that wasn’t even the issue; she would obey immediately, without resistance— there was no doubt about it. The nakedness had added itself, seemingly automatically, to her understanding of the Geas, just obvious; she would find out what that meant for her through obedience, not through second-guessing.
It was the emotional flood that the soft but implacable order had unleashed which was the issue. She almost sobbed with relief; he must be going to stay; he hadn’t taken a disgust of her; he wanted to see her naked— she was worth his attention.
And she remembered how it had been, her lying naked on the bed, him looking at her, her making herself available to his gaze, knowing what he thought her body good for, but still, opening herself to him, and she realised that it was lovely— there was no way to describe it, really; lovely, that he was so free with her, so intimate with her, so confident of her submission, her complacency, that he felt able to say such things to her, as if they were normal; that he would expect, assume, that her compliance would follow, that he was only really interested in her body, that he didn’t mind that she never spoke, that, for him, she was a thing to fuck.
And the feeling— so strong in her— was that this was all … lovely. There was no other word that captured it.
So she had stripped, immediately; stripped herself naked, feeling his eyes on her, watching her, moving for him, making it like a video shoot, stripping for him, as if he were a camera, making herself move slowly, stretch, bend, open…
“Don’t overdo it, pretty; you are lovely; you move well, your tits are luscious, your ass is tight, your cunt is as pretty as your face, your thighs are an invitation to rape. Your whole body knows fear and despair, and pain and disgrace, yet still offers itself to me, with elegance. This is enough.”
And so now; now, as well as making her swoon with these blunt compliments, he had added three things to the Geas in just a couple of minutes; maximum nakedness, a requirement of elegance, and— heavily dreadful in its implication - An invitation to rape. Wherever they were, she would require herself to be naked for him— as naked as possible, and elegant, too; as elegant as possible. He wouldn’t have to think about it. At the same time, that phrase would be in her head, asking her the questions; am I making myself an invitation to rape? — with its obvious follow-on; … and if not, why not?.
She would worry, she would always be working, worrying, wondering, was she naked enough, was she elegant enough, was she inviting rape enough? She almost laughed out loud at his simple cleverness, at how hard she was going to be working for him, while he was so laid back, took everything so casually.
Why hadn’t he come along when she was modeling? He could have taken her, then. She could have been his, like this, for 5 years already; feeling alive, striving for maximum nakedness, for elegance, for control of herself in his interest; getting fucked a lot; raped a lot. She had lost so much time.
This was what the ‘meat’ thing had been about. Her problem had not been with being treated like meat— but that no-one had been actually ready to do it to her. Models were fake meat. It was the awful worst-of-both-worlds aspect of it— required to radiate animal fuckability, required to maintain social unfuckability. She had never been shot by Terry Richardson, but she suddenly understood his whole thing; he had been able to do what he had done to so many models, because he had given them a release from that choke point of a contradiction, had taken the point of fashion photography— the selling of the model’s potential for sexual intensity— and done the obvious; fucked them on camera.
Picture: Terry Richardson exploits montage
Mark was a true carnivore though, not a scavenger or a parasite like Richardson, but an honest, direct hunter, skilful and sure and relentless. And she? she was his prey. His delighted prey. It was undeniable. It wasn’t that she had not hated and feared her treatment last night, not that she wanted more of it. Not in the slightest; simply, though, it was that this feeling of delight, of the loveliness of his possession of her, which was now life, to her. And if such treatment was the price of life, well, it would have to be paid.
He had used the same word; lovely. It took her breath away.
And he was looking at her now, now that she was naked, taking his time, staring at her sex, her breasts, interested, obvious, but not leering; really looking— almost clinically— seeing her as she stood, as best she could for him, blushing— feeling so terribly, terribly shy; shy and needy, and frightened, and— yes — turned on and so, so vulnerable, so desperately, urgently needing him to like what he saw, to continue to find her interesting as a thing to fuck; all her nerve endings preternaturally sensitive, so that she felt the tiny little gusts of air the place was full of— the walls were like sieves.
Picture: Essy, naked, blushing
He was looking around again, then, vaguely, as if searching for something;
“I imagine you have a leather belt here, somewhere -” he gestured, with a half smile, at the litter; “A heavy one— heavier than the one we beat you with, preferably. Could you find it? Maybe a few, so that I have a choice?”
And again, she was obeying, despite the incredible shyness which came over her then— the requirement to be elegant in her nakedness making her feel ten times as naked, and, too, despite the feelings of dread that assailed her as she guessed what he wanted the belt for, a memory of looking down, horrified, of seeing the black leather end of the belt flicking up from behind her, to flick, hard, at her poor clitoris, of screaming— really screaming, as she hadn’t since she was a child, screaming at the top of her voice, so that they had had to gag her, so they could do it again, harder, each of them taking a turn, giving each other tips on how to make sure it really caught her, there, laughing and commenting, crudely, on the way her breasts jounced around as she had jerked and pulled uselessly, desperately, at the ties which held her open to the belt.
She found several belts, quite quickly— a really heavy biker one with studs filling her with fear, but she had taken them to him anyway, the shyness worse as she had approached him, a deep blush making the tips of her breasts so very pink, unable to prevent herself from gasping, squeaking her shock as his hand was immediately between her legs, and he had lifted her, bodily, off the floor— all her weight on her over-tender sex— and she had moaned and wailed and— feeling as if she might topple sideways and fall, had wrapped her arms around him.
He kissed her, then, his other hand controlling her head, and that was lovely, too, grinding herself on his hand as he invaded her mouth with his tongue, taking the pain as sensation, as part of being his, as the price to pay, all but overwhelming her, but then it had been over as soon as it had started; he’d dumped her, unceremoniously, back on her feet, then bent to reclaim the belts from the floor.
He had laughed at her when she flinched, but not with cruelty— almost apologetically, in fact, and said;
“No, pretty; I’ll not be beating you again until you ask me to, until you give me consent to hurt you, that way. No, let me show you what I want…”
And he had taken the wide belt and put it around her waist, quite high, then tightened it, until she gasped— really, it was too tight, acting like a very narrow corset, pulling her in at the waist. Then he had taken the thinnest belt and, holding the buckle at her throat, had wrapped it, twice, around her neck before fastening it, rather tightly, so that her breathing needed thinking about, attention paying; and she, all through it, standing, docile, obedient, compliant, as he did these things to her, ludicrously pleased to have him paying attention to her, that he was adorning her as wanted her, even as the specifics of what he was doing were setting her heart racing, bringing up the hairs on the back of her neck, as she feared some awful outrage must surely be coming, did not know how she could be expected to bear any more after the twenty four hours just past.
Picture: Essy, naked in her belts, blushing
He stepped back, assessing her, then walked behind her, she forcing herself to stand still, her legs parted, feet where he had put her, feeling the vulnerability of her sex with him behind her, still a third belt in his hands, but no blow had come; rather, a different kind of shock, as he tucked a hand into the belt at her waist, in the small of her back, then lifted and pushed forwards, so that, without realising what he was doing, she was suddenly horizontal, face down, hands flapping uselessly, as he took a few steps, as if to prove to himself that he could manhandle her effectively in this way, her feet dragging on the floor, the feeling of powerlessness, of fear of being dropped on her face, shocking her.
Again, this had been over almost immediately— he’d made a small, satisfied noise, then bent and tucked an arm behind her thighs, and had her upright, standing on her own feet again, with apparent ease. He didn’t act as if he were musclebound, but clearly, his compact form had a great deal of strength.
He took her arms then, from behind her, looped the third belt around one elbow, then tucked the free end through the belt that was now a choker, at her neck, then tied her other elbow, so that her arms were half-bent, behind her, yoked to her neck— more stress on each breath— her hands dangling above her haunches, all but useless, her shoulders pulled back; it wasn’t painful, but it soon would be, she knew, and it pushed her breasts forward, too, markedly; to be bound again, as she had been the night before, brought the fear on strongly, then, and her heart had begun pattering, her breathing became choppy.
She was still too shy to look at him, was seriously wondering if she had lost the power of speech, so impossible did it seem to break her muteness, and so she simply stood there, trying her best for elegance, fearful, embarrassed, feeling her nakedness in waves, now— seemingly it was impossible to get used to it— each time she was able to take her mind off it, he would move, or make her move, and her breasts would sway, or her buttocks, and she would be trembling with the knowledge of it all over again.
She made herself notice it, feel it, and the fact of having her elbows strapped behind her— it was all evidence that he wanted her, was concerned to have her as he wanted her, and so was part of the loveliness— every now and then there would be a catch in her throat at the price she was going to pay for this loveliness, at the certainty in her that harsh treatment was coming; treatment that would be unbearable, awful, but which she had told herself she would bear, for this feeling, right now. Tears were always close at these moments— whether tears of joy, or sadness, she couldn’t really tell— it was all just emotion; all mixed up.
“Walk for me, pretty— to the end of the room and back.”
There was nothing to do but comply— and so she did, walking as she had been trained to do, feeling her breasts and hips moving in ways she was not used to, since she generally wore tight, stretchy sports underwear under baggy clothes; knowing that, naked, those movements were exaggerated by her walk, embarrassed and exultant at the same time when he said;
“Hmm; good, that catwalk sashay works— but don’t overdo it. Even barefoot, your ass moves delightfully. Fetch some heels, now. The ones you wore earlier, if necessary, but it would be better to have something lighter, strappier.”
She hadn’t worn them for years, but she did have some strappy heels, which had been given to her when she was modelling, and which were some sort of limited edition collector’s item, so that she hadn’t been able to bring herself to get rid of them, as she had most of her other clothes, after she had adopted her uniform.
Picking them up was awkward with tied elbows— she had to squat, turn sideways, feeling ridiculous, then carry them behind her; there was no chance of being able to put them on herself, so she had to deliver them, and herself, to him.
Walking towards him was harder, emotionally— she really felt like a slut, then; she could see him, knew he was looking at her (though it was all she could do to look at his feet, even), knew that he could see just how her breasts were swaying, how pink they were— that he could watch her sex, working as she walked, all bringing back her catwalk moment, only this time, it was for a man she wanted to drive wild; who was also the man who had done terrible things to her, turned her life upside-down; she swayed with the emotional load of it all— but she walked beautifully.
It was lovely— intensely lovely, somehow, to be fettered, even at the same time as it was hotly shameful to be so obviously awkward in her restraints— restraints he had carefully imposed upon her— as she turned herself sideways, working to offer the shoes into his hands, to minimise his need to reach for them; in his service, deliciously directly, feeling her breasts sway, knowing that she was managing herself so that they would do so, that she was thinking about her bum as she half squatted for him, opening her thighs a little, for no reason other than to invite his eyes to her sex; to offer it to him, in case … dreadfully, the word was in her mind, unbidden … in case he might be encouraged to throw her down and rape her.
Although he had grinned his lopsided grin at her (seen from the corner of a darting glance; all she had dared), he was matter of fact as he fitted the shoes to her feet— although she was all too aware how close his face, his mouth, his eyes came to her naked sex as he did so.
There was no peace, everything was stress, all the time; delicious stress, shaming stress, physical stress, frightening stress, sexual stress, all mixed up. From somewhere it came to her— something she had read about cults and deep interrogations, too, something about destabilising the target, constantly bringing new stresses, from different directions, never letting anything settle, about using sexual transgression as part of this, since sexual taboos are deeply embedded, and have strong connections to vulnerability and social disapproval. It seemed too neat not to be true; he was brainwashing her, deliberately. He never broke a sweat, never seemed to be in a hurry, or to be anything but solidly certain what he wanted to happen next, but the similarity of method was too close to be accidental. More, it explained some of the stranger parts of her experience with him very well.
She faltered a little, as those thoughts had built and built in her head, those parts of her which had been suppressed now taking their chance, insisting that she save herself from this dangerous vortex, insisting that she wake up, that she was being suborned— steamrollered— gaslit; he was doing a psy-ops number on her with all this; the violence, the rapes, the beating, the extreme humiliations, the nakedness, the wrecked sleep, the bondage; switchbacking between kindness, compliments and horrible abuse, downright cruelty. He was making it impossible for her to think— and when she could think she was coming up with crazy things, like this idea that all this is loveliness, that he’s being kind.
Panic builds, and when he had the shoes on her, and asked her, once again, to walk for him, she only made it for a few steps before losing control, sinking to her knees, overwhelmed— everything crashing in on her, then, gratefully sinking into the black fog of unconsciousness that whirled up in her mind.
Read the next part of this story.
A note on the images— those of Essy were generated with AI, something I’ll be doing more of, since it becomes possible to get images that are a/ copyright free, and b/ more closely aligned with the way the story tells it. Let me know what you think.
Folder of AI images, stored at mega.nz - Essy naked but for belts
Folder of AI images, stored at mega.nz - Essy naked
