You will want to have read the previous part of this story.
Her sleep had been troubled; intense and disturbing dreams, hyperreal, violent, alarming, claustrophobic, alternating with periods of deep, heavy sleep, from which she would be woken by some inner alarm, to open her eyes, in the darkness, as if dragging herself from a drugged stupor, wondering at the sounds, the light, the movement in her apartment, which was normally so silent; unable, though, to wake herself sufficiently to investigate, and giving in, once again, to stupor, to unconsciousness, to wild and garish nightmares.
Picture: Essy, troubled sleep
At last, she had awakened more fully, still night, though the sky was tinged with the grey of dawn— awakened to silence, stillness, almost too silent, too still, after the turmoil of her sleep— the insanity of … no. No! That, too, must have been a dream; surely? Mark, the cafe, the park, the dress, the hotel, the …
Picture: Essy, waking
The dread came over her then, as the reality of it all presented itself as a full spectrum sense-memory, and then the rest had rushed in on her, a tsunami of remembered feelings and shame and despair and pain, and she had cried out, devastated, curling up; keening, soft and anguished, hugging and rocking herself like a hurt chimpanzee baby she had seen once in the zoo.
She had been destroyed; taken in, taken along with a cruel scheme that had unfolded just quickly enough to keep her destabilised, just slowly enough for each new violation to have seemed like an inevitable, almost natural progression.
She had been taken down; broken, and degraded; all the shocks, all the losses— small and monstrous— all the moments, all the qualities of her successive defeats, submissions, humiliations, the violence of the insults, all seared into her; she would never, could never, be free of them. She was not, would never be again, the Essy she had been.
It overwhelmed her, the idea of living with all that. Of going outside, into the company of ordinary people, when she had… when she was … when her life had become all about …
Fucking. Being fucked. Used like meat. Being meat.
The sensation of having a strangers cock moving inside her, rutting her; inside her mouth, inside her ass, inside her pussy; fucking her, while she was helpless, weak, pinioned, unable to deny her own response to it yes, even the most awful, the most hateful moments of being fucked had not been simple; not pure hate, not pure suffering; always, always, there had been an animal response from her, from her body, from deep inside her, an opening, a welcoming, a hunger, a wildness that was at least partly welcoming the savage heartlessness, the roughness, the violent and intentional devastation of of her self-respect.
Picture: Essy, wild fucking
She could not face the world, knowing that about herself, not alone.
She was frightened, as she could not remember having ever been. Not frightened of what might happen to her, but of being unable to be. Mark had taken something away from her, broken something in her. But she couldn’t be angry— because what he had broken had not been anything good about her. He had broken a lie, a deep lie in herself; a lie about what she wanted, what she wanted from life. A lie that had kept her safe, perhaps, but which had also kept her shallow, thin, brittle, which had kept her in this shithole of an apartment, kept her single, mostly kept her celibate.
He had broken her shell.
And now the real her was all exposed, and it wasn’t safe to let people see her.
She needed Mark.
Picture: Essy, needing Mark
The need seized her, tight in her gut, and it was sharp, and urgent, and raw. She should be calling the police, right now, wanting to see him destroyed, his vile abuse of her made public, she knew it with some sensible part of herself. But the need; the need meant that, instead, she had her head up, looking for him.
She needed him to make sense of her, now; she needed his calm, his confidence, his certainty, even though he was also certainly dangerous for her. Threatening, even. Yes; a very certain threat to her.
The clarity of this need stunned her; the indisputable truth of it, the unavoidable reality of it, and she fell back, appalled, all tension gone out of her suddenly, possessed by fear and weakness, trembling; knowing in her belly that he was inevitable, now, for her. And that he was going to hurt her, more. That that, too, was inevitable.
It was a different fear, though, from the fear of people seeing who she was. That was terror, unfaceable without him, while the fear of him was dark and deep and hot and … fascinating. A fear that she wanted to face, a hurt that she wanted to suffer.
The memory came to her, then, when in the hotel room, on top of him, fucking herself on him, wild, she had realised that it could not be wild enough, as wild as she needed it to be, with her in charge, and she had asked him; begged him really;
You . you … do … do me … take me … do me hard … don’t … don’t stop … hurt … hurt me … if … if you want.
Picture: Essy, on top
That; that had been the need; right then; exactly that. Only not just for a wild fuck, but for her whole life. For her whole life to be lived with that intensity of need, for the resolution of that need to be used, violently used; to submit herself totally into the hands of someone she knew to be greedy, heartless, cruel … was that it?
It was, it was, and it was strong and urgent in her and she let it have her; it possessed her then, and she gave herself up to it, even though the dread implications made her shake. She needed Mark. She was that need. It was her.
Where was he?
She made to call his name, got no more than an unformed Hma… sound out before her throat closed down.
She didn’t speak to him; not unnecessarily. It was part of her, this new her; God help her she liked the constraint of it, the restriction of it, the control it imposed upon her. She was no longer free. She was no longer Essy; she was his, under his control, under his Geas.
And it was better in so many ways, even with the foreknowledge of being hurt and shamed. Because he would be there, and everything would be him; she would not have to be herself. Or, was it that she could be herself, her real self, only if she had the excuse of being his, only if she was controlled by him?
The thinking, round and round, was hurting her then— where was he?
Her eyes had grown used to the dimness, even as the sky had lightened, and she stood, finding herself naked, realising he must have stripped her of the belts, put her to bed.
Naked, suddenly terribly shy, wanting to get dressed, or at least to cover her breasts, her groin with her hands, the idea of her being required, always, to be naked for him, of making his control of her, her acceptance of it, so devastatingly clear between them, paralysing her.
But it was real, and necessary, and, also, suddenly, as she made herself walk with her catwalk sashay, the lovely was back— don’t overdo it , she heard his voice— hands at her sides, loose, her arms swishing softly, out into the main part of the room, and it was worth it, and her sex began to want to be fucked, straight away.
Picture: Essy, walking, rear view
Her throat tightened, hard, with the excitement of the thought of it, of him, right then, somehow coming from behind her, grabbing a handful of her hair, throwing her onto all fours and simply fucking into her asshole, hurting her, jerking himself into her guts while she could do nothing but wail and moan and let her face be mashed into the floor with the violence of him and, and— yes — be grateful; the whole little scene just popping into her head as if were happening and she heard herself moan and sigh at the same time, a ragged, rough sound, with as much hurt as need in it.
Just like that, she was in heat for him, feeling it between her legs, in the quivering deep in her belly; Like that; she thought; spend my life like a dog bitch on heat, needing to be fucked.
It was frightening and glorious and she was breathless with it and hungry for it as the shame of it burned her, but there was nothing to do but walk, until she had stopped in surprise.
While the place was still in its habitual chaos, there was a change— a real change; the area around the long refectory table (the only solid bit of furniture she had), the part she laughably called her ‘kitchen’, had been transformed; ordered, cleared, scrubbed, even smelling fresh, the floor clean, the table empty apart from a place setting; fruit, a glass of juice, a bowl of creamy yoghurt, one of chopped nuts, one of honey. Flowers in a small vase, even.
The gnawing in her stomach that had been ignored suddenly announced itself as a raging hunger; it had been two days since her last real meal— a snatched breakfast at this very table— the abandoned remains of which he had cleared and cleaned for her.
Her laugh was almost a sob, her head turning, back and forth, finding it hard to understand.
There was a note, propped against the glass.
If you are reading this, pretty, it’s because you have woken before my return. You will be hungry; eat. I apologise for the violence I have done to your home; my need for order runs deep. I still have your keys, to get back in; your other things are on the side. Mark
She was almost sobbing again, hugging herself, trembling; he was looking after her; he was coming back. It was real. Oh, but she was frightened.
She was going to be fucked. She was going to let him do her. He would control her; use her, fuck her, hurt her, abuse her. It was real.
It took a little while before she could master herself, quell the tumultuous pulse of panic that had assailed her. Again, it had been him who had helped her— control yourself for me.
He was in control, even when he wasn’t there. It was reassuring, and deeply disturbing. Did she, in fact, have any freedom left?
It was silly! She was in her own flat. She had her ‘phone— there is was, on the side; she had money. She could call a locksmith right away, get a new lock; some bolts as well, refuse to let him in. Go to work. She could stay at a friends house until she found a new flat; he’d never find her. She didn’t have to let this craziness invade her life, didn’t have to let this happen to her— whatever it was.
Even though he called her pretty.
She was shivering, and only partly because of the cold of the early morning; how could he have done this to her? It was too hard! The ‘right’ thing to do was so obvious; she could not, must not, had no reason to let him have her; he was dangerous, toxic, cruel, heartless, abusive.
Except that she wanted him to have her; The lure of being safe with him; safe not because she wouldn’t be hurt, shamed and degraded, no; safe because her life would be ordered, would have meaning (I’ll be his meat), would not be a living lie, a sham, a hollow shell.
In any case, the thought came to her, bringing a weak, but wry smile to twist her lips; without him, she was weak; too weak to resist him; and with him, she could not resist him.
And so, inevitably, she was going to be his. And the inevitability was the lovely — because, paradoxically, it freed her.
She laughed, then; a soft, sweet, wondering laugh— and attended to her posture, standing straight, putting her hands down, away from her body, almost preening, as if showing herself to him, opening her nakedness to him, offering her heat to him; feeling the blush rise, even though she was alone, feeling the warmth in her breasts, her nipples stiffening, her heart pattering.
Picture: Essy, preening
And it felt good. Felt better, deep down, than she had felt for years— pain and fear and certainty of abuse all fully accounted for, it still felt good.
Better, it felt right; she had, never— never ever ever— felt right; not that she could remember.
He was so powerful, to be able to do this for her— to her— without him having to be here, to do anything. She must, she must, do everything she could, to keep him interested, to be what he desired of her.
Be his; control herself for him, be an enticement to rape; not speak (her mouth for his cock, not for words), be naked, walk beautifully, dress for his pleasure…
She looked at the food, then, and realised she was not going to eat; starved as she was; she would wait until he fed her. That was how it had been. That was how it should be, if she was his. He liked feeding her; she was his; that was all there was to it.
Another layer to the Geas; she would eat (or not) as he chose.
The hunger was still there, but the sweetness of self denial, of letting him be in charge, of suffering her hunger for the sake of his control of her, was undeniable in her.
The urge came, then, to write to him, to answer his note, to tell him how she felt, that she was his, that she needed him to control her. The pen was there.
She found out something new. That, just as she found it hard to bring herself to believe that anything she might say would be of interest to him, and thus kept silent, she could find no words to write that seemed worth his notice. He didn’t want her for what she thought; he kept her for her body; he took his control for granted.
In the end, all she could think of to write was;
Thank you
Then, needing to offer herself, but unable to convince herself that even this need deserved his attention, she simply wrote, twice more;
Thank you
Thank you.
Looking at these words, she knew it was pathetic, to be so inarticulate. That she was letting him see how pathetic she was for him. Showing him how weak she was.
More, she learned that it felt good to do this. To make her ridiculous, shaming vulnerability to his degradation of her solid, real. Set it out in writing.
It made her shake, but it still felt good, and she stayed there, looking at the simple, weak words; words of a victim thanking her rapist, telling him she wanted more, feeling the lovely again, how addicted she would become to it, how easy she was making it for him to do a terrible thing to her. how lovely it was to submit to that.
Straightening up, then, knowing he was coming back, she felt a calmness come over her; it was OK, for now; she was naked, she had done what she could to control herself, to offer herself, to be his. Realising she was still tired, and, with the turmoil resolved (for now, at least), thinking she might actually be able to get some proper sleep, she went back to the bed alcove.
The belts, though, neatly coiled, in a row on the side, the heels paired on the floor beneath them, stopped her. He had liked her in those; not just naked, but bound, with symbols and means of control fixed onto her body.
She might not speak; might not write her meaning clearly; but she could show him.
She found herself winding one around her neck, tight, the buckle at the front as he had had it. Then the heavy one at her waist; she could take it a notch tighter than he had, she thought to herself; it hurt, but she accepted it.
The shoes, next. Men liked naked girls lying down with strappy heels on— so many fashion shoots that way, even though a girl, left to herself, would get those torture devices off her feet at any opportunity. She put them on.
Tying her elbows with the third belt was impossible, but she could do her wrists. It was tricky, in fact, but she managed it. The belt, looped through the choker at the back of her neck, was too short for her arms to be straight— her elbows had to bend, and she had to hold her wrists close together to minimise the stress. It was uncomfortable, but he would find her like this, and he would understand her.
She found it hard to find a comfortable position; her arms behind her back made it impossible to lie comfortably on her back, and awkward on her side. In the end, she was face down, a pillow under her neck, so that her face was not too crushed. Her shoulders felt the weight of her arms, but it was bearable.
It was an unusal position, but he would see, he would understand what she had done for him, how she had controlled herself— put herself into his control (if he didn’t come back, she was not at all sure that she could untie the belt from her wrists), and this, too was lovely. Sleep took her soon enough, then; soft, formless, easy, this time, and she slept without dreams.
Cool air woke her, gently enough; she was as calm as she had been when she drifted off, feeling the aura of lovely, still, without knowing what it was— but there was something …
Oh! Her position! Not just the face down thing, the way her wrists were bound behind her, pulling at her neck, the hard tightness at her waist, the high heels strapped to her ankles— all that was half remembered, known (even if currently inexplicable to her waking brain). But … no covers …? Her legs, splayed, wide apart…?
She found herself forcefully repressing the shock reaction— to yank her legs together, bend them up, roll onto her side— defend against whoever might have taken her covers, spread her legs so unnaturally … but it took her brain a little while to remember why she was suppressing … and then her belly flipped, and she let out a little, frightened, “Ohh!” of overwhelm.
It was, she realised, going to take a while, before waking up to the notion of herself as “meat”, as a possession, would not be a shock. Maybe it always would be. Actually, it should, always, be a shock; such an aberration, such a perversion, should not be normalised.
It was certainly a shock at that moment. Still, part of her steadfastly insisted that she maintain her unusal position while she processed.
Mark! It must be Mark. He must have come back. It must he who had taken the covers, spread her legs apart. He must have done it gently, so as not to wake her. So that he could look at her, presented as she was, while she was asleep.
It was mortifying, deeply embarrassing, to know that was what had happened, and to know that she was breathing faster at the thought of him doing that, of him feeling free to do that, of him wanting to do that, of being pathetically, humbly happy that he had done that, of having wished that she had woken up, so that he could have seen how she controlled herself, how she would have passively let herself be manipulated, lewdly posed for his entertainment.
She needed to see him, urgently, and yet, and yet …
She was appalled at the idea of simply walking out, into her own apartment, naked, bound; with him knowing that she had put the belts on herself, of her knowing that he had arranged her, opened her legs, stared at her pussy, her ass, while she slept.
Of making it obvious that all this was what she wanted, that it was not just OK with her, but desirable.
She almost couldn’t bring herself to admit that she was awake, to roll onto her side, to sit up. Every part of her was tingling with preternatural sensitivity; her breasts, her cheeks were pink, her breath coming in little sips, her pussy warming, nipples stiffening. She couldn’t; she just couldn’t let him see her like this, while at the same time, she was desperate for him to see her, exactly as she was, so that he could see just how much she trembled for him; for his control.
The tension was making her nauseous, she was immobilised by it; stuck, hating herself for her weakness, when he solved it for her, simply by calling out;
“I hear you in there. Don’t hide yourself from me, now!”
Instantly, she was rising; instantly, she was ruthlessly quelling her turmoil, in favour of walking; walking well, her shame not lessened, but intensified by her own servile compliance, the blush deepening.
It almost made her faint, again, walking toward him, as elegantly— as sexily— as she knew how, knowing she was making a whore of herself, knowing that he knew well just what this meant about her, that she was giving everything away to him, her whole body a war between walking as attractively as possible for him, and the desire to sink to her knees, curl up and cringe.
Her desire to please him won, of course, as it had done in every interior tussle since they met, but the stakes were so much higher, now; she had had every chance, last night, to escape, she had had every reason, last night, to come to her senses, while he was gone; every reason, just now, to have been furious with him for manipulating her while she slept, to have put on a robe and order him out.
Instead, she was parading herself for him; naked, bound, obedient, clearly deeply affected, vulnerable, trembling visibly as she stopped, a couple of metres from where he sat at the table; his solid shoes, his heavy trousers— she still not having dared look him in the eye, her breathing gone haywire, her chest heaving almost at random, her fingers twitching with the turmoil within her, between the shame and the pathetically weak flood of pleasure at presenting herself to him, naked, bound, compliant.
Picture: Essy, parading herself
“Your breasts move delightfully when you walk that way, pretty. and this business of your blushing to the tips of your nipples definitely invites cruel attentions there, at the points of your breasts. You are very lovely, very fuckable.”
The lovely became intense, then, as she bathed in his approval, and she needed him to touch her, desperately desired him to do so, wanted desperately to take his hand, put it between her legs, so that he could feel how hot she was, there (her hands, though! Bound behind her! She could not even manage that)— like a dog bitch on heat, needing to be fucked — the phrase came into her mind, shaming her further, inflaming her further, except that it seemed he had other matters on his mind;
“You didn’t eat, pretty; surely, you are starving, yes?”
… and she was, she was, her stomach all but eating itself, from the coiled feeling in there, her response a wordless, swaying dip of her hips, her knees almost giving way, a high pitched, stupid Hmmf? noise escaping from her, just to emphasise how pathetic she was.
She could hardly believe her own weakness, her acceptance of his patronising, casual manner as he demeaned her so, but she could find nothing but pleasure and shame and gratitude in her response to it. It made her heart break— but whether from embarrassment or joy, she could not be sure.
Being this pathetic made it harder and harder to be anything but pathetic, so lost was she; she was making it so easy for him, and it was lovely that it was so, her humiliation eating into her like some corrosive agent, leaving only shrivelled scraps of self-respect in its wake.
This was it; time to beg; beg to be fed, like a puppy wheedling its master, and she let her knees give way.
She was on the floor, then, and it was somehow obvious then, everything; she had landed with her knees close together, then immediately, horribly self conscious, felt the certain need to open her thighs for him; doing it seemed one of the hardest— and most glorious— things she had done in her whole life, but she did it anyway, having to work to prevent herself hyperventilating, feeling her chest heave, knowing her unfettered breasts were moving in syncopation, devastated to be so obviously at his mercy, so in thrall to him; offering him her defenceless pussy in the most obvious manner, her hips rising and falling of their own accord, shouting her neediness, and then, to crown it all, following her instinct, opening her lips, softly, loose, then, as if compelled by some inner drive for maximum humiliation, putting her tongue forward, tentative, hesitant, unable to believe she was actually doing this, but doing it anyway, her tongue, now half extended, hanging softly over her lower lip, and her head was going back, her eyelids all but closed, her chest rising and falling with emotion, as he had laughed at her;
“OK, pretty, I get it; you want me to feed you; very cute, but you really don’t need to overact so much; kneeling and putting your little tongue out will do. Open wide, now!”
Letting herself be fed, for the third time now, feeling herself grateful— so appallingly grateful — for the pleasure of it, made this newest edict of the Geas feel solid, inevitable, fixed. She would eat when he fed her, and not otherwise. It was crazy, but it was, very definitely, lovely , and she let the sentation take her, eagerly licking the spoon when he told her to, taking drink from him too, when he decided that she should.
She remembered from school, some experiment— some phrase— “Pavlov’s Dog” , where someone had trained a dog by making some noise before it was fed, until the sound alone was enough to make the dog salivate. Food was powerful; she would soon find herself needing him more, if she allowed this to become a fixed part of her life.
She wanted to cry, then, for a moment, because she knew that, if he chose to allow her to, she would encourage him to do this to her. The speed at which she was prepared to let herself become his … his dog, seemed the only fitting metaphor— his dog bitch — terrified her, at the same time as the immense relief at being allowed to give herself over like this swelled in her chest.
He stopped long before she had had enough, so that she had to control herself, stop herself from begging for more with another shaming little pantomime. It wasn’t that she refused to humiliate herself again, but rather that he had decided to stop. It was his choice, not hers.
Tentatively, she laid her head on his lap, then, and he stroked her hair, just as if she were indeed a dog, and it was lovely.
She could feel, after a moment, the heat from his erection, on her forehead, knew that it was just an inch from her mouth, and trembled at the memory of having been so violently choked by him, the last time, his cock so deep in her throat; what had happened afterwards (her torn anus tightening in fear, the pain like a sharp knife), wanting it and fearing it at the same time, letting the fear and the desire be the same feeling, knowing this was sick, doing it anyway, trembling again, letting it be part of lovely, until, with an air of moving on, Mark shifted in his chair.
“Come on, pretty! I like you kneeling, but down on the floor, you’re out of reach. Up with you! Onto the table!— show me everything! I have an itch to sort out that corner, and it will be nice to have you here, where I can look you over every now and then. Also, you can answer me if I ever find anything which is not obviously trash.”
It was, truly, strange, then; she, kneeling on the table, wrists crossed at the small of her back, the corset belt and neck belts both tight, beginning to chafe, her thighs split wide, her bum not ever permitted, he had made it clear, to rest on her heels, concerned at all times to look her best for him, while he, his jacket and shirt off, one of her old lumberjack shirts over his t-shirt, did what had been impossible for her, for months, and brought order to the part of the apartment she had jokingly referred to as ‘the office’— in reality where she had thrown every bit of paper, every book she wasn’t actually reading, packaging she thought she might reuse or recycle, all jumbled in with various bits of half-broken furniture rescued from skips, that she had been going to repair; one day— and a great deal of dust and general detritus.
Picture: Essy, on the table
He genuinely seemed to be enjoying himself, in his understated way, not resentful or irritated, not even teasing her about her appalling habits; simply bringing order to her chaos, in the most ruthless way— most things ended up on the landing outside the door, destined for a return to the skip; a small pile of official papers was ruthlessly categorised and diminished, a half decent chair allowed to remain. He had bought a mop, a vacuum cleaner, various other cleaning materials, it seemed, and these were deployed efficiently, without mercy, until the zone of order in her place had doubled.
He never once asked her opinion on anything. She, in her place, found that she was happy to let him decide; she was his; what he considered important about her was what mattered. He could burn the lot if he chose, and she would be happy that he had deigned to choose. Her passport was in there somewhere, probably, she thought, vaguely remembering that withholding of a passport was sometimes a part of what they called ‘modern slavery’. She hoped he found it, and kept it from her.
There was, she was sure, no intent to humiliate her in any of this; he smiled appreciatively at her when he looked over, never at her face, but at her body (she lifting her bum for him, letting her hips move, putting her tongue out, as eager as any bored puppy to be played with, unwilling to hide her willingness, shamed at her need, doing it anyway, blushing hard when he laughed at her, the laugh not unkind, but nevertheless knowing, entertained), but she was shamed, anyway; further evidence of the ridiculous sham of a life she had been living; the lie he had shattered, the clarity and certainty he was bringing, the way he was eliminating all hiding places for her; making the choice clear; his way, and all that implied, or confusion, a drowning in refuse, in nonsense, in confusion.
Her feverish excitement abated during this time, so that, by the end, when he looked at her and announced he had done enough for the day, that he wanted to eat, her heart did not feel as if it would burst, her blushes were not so pronounced, her breathing not disordered.
This did not mean she did not perform for him, not at all; it meant that her performance was more controlled, more obvious, more intense, more deliberate. She was trying to get him to rape her, trying to be just what she hoped he would find irresistible, knowing that control was something he valued, that slutty behaviour was not what he wanted. Controlling herself in this way intensified, rather than softened, the way that shame burned into her; it intensified the lovely as well, and when he came over and put his hand out, on the way to her sex, but not claiming it, and said, simply, without any emphasis; “May I?”, she found herself answering, as best she could, in the same certain, calm tone, her voice an octave lower than usual, (although it must have been as clear to him as it was to her how hard she was trying); “Yes. Yes, please.”
His hand was as certain, as controlling, as possessing as she remembered it, and she had wilfully dissolved herself into it, working her hips for him, offering herself to him, making it as clear as she could how open, how needy, how eager she was to be raped; how helpless was her arousal, how willing she was to debase herself, if only it would please him to fuck her.
And how devastated she was, too, when he stopped, with a short, satisfied chuckle;
“Very good, little bitch, It is good that you are hot for me when it suits me, but I need a steak.”
Read the next part of this story.
Folder of AI images, stored at mega.nz— Essy naked but for belts
Folder of AI images, stored at mega.nz— Essy naked