You will want to have read the previous part of this story.
He must have brought a decent speaker, too, because he put music on, loud, while he cooked— nothing she’d ever heard before; opera. It wasn’t her style; but then, what did her style matter? With him, she was naked, didn’t speak, expressed herself with her body, mostly begging him for attention. With him, what she thought didn’t matter; what mattered was what he wanted. And since it didn’t matter what she thought, she could let it just be his music, and that made it possible to discover that, in its way, it wasn’t bad.
It was good to have something of him, actually, even if it was only this music, since, absorbed as he was in his cooking, he was ignoring her completely— even though she was still kneeling on the table behind him, thighs spread lewdly, bum in the air, lips parted, hands bound behind her back, the corset belt biting into her midriff, the neck belt making every breath a conscious act, struggling constantly with the strangeness of everything, the unreality of it; the hard facts of it.
The music wasn’t enough, though, and she couldn’t resist the thoughts that were demanding attention in her head. Questions; serious questions, which she had refused to consider, which she had determinedly suppressed, but which pushed themselves forward, then. Questions like:
Am I mad?
So, was she?
Or— as she remembered her thoughts about the deliberately destabilising behaviour he had subjected her through from the moment they had met— had he driven her mad?
These were such strange thoughts to be having, such strange thoughts to be normalising; just days before she would have been certain that anyone having such thoughts must be in the grip of some serious mental health issue.
Maybe I am, then? “Having mental health issues”.
It would solve so many problems if she were mad; so many awkward questions about who she really was, how it was that he had been able to manipulate her so easily, so rapidly, into … Into what she was now so strangely committed to being— this silent, naked, desperate …
Desperate what?
Attention whore, were the words that her brain provided for her then, and they were horribly perfect. They described her whole existence since that moment at the park gate when he had said he had to leave, when she had discovered how far she would go to keep his attention. And since he had shown her that he could push and push her further, and that her response would be to accept, and then offer herself for more.
Attention whore.
It made her feel all funny inside, to call herself that, while she held herself as she hoped he would like her, even though he wasn’t looking, fixated on the business of managing herself so that he might choose to fuck her, of managing herself so that the terrible shame of being like this doesn’t get in the way of encouraging him to fuck her. To rape her.
Why? Why did I make myself say it that way? Why did I make myself use that awful word, ‘rape’?
She asked herself the question, but she already knew the answer.
Because that’s what it is. When he fucks me, it’s rape. It always will be. He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t even want to look after me; he enjoys hurting me, degrading me. He likes to know I don’t want it, that I’m hating it; that I’m frightened, and sore, and humiliated; that I’m in despair; I’ve felt his cock surge inside me when he’s heard me cry out in misery, felt him ram himself into me all the harder. That’s what he wants me for.
I have to face it; that’s what he likes. That’s what he wants from me.
I’m not special; I’m just a girl he found he could do this to. If he’s kind to me, makes me feel good, it’s so that I give him what he wants— so that I offer myself to him; encourage him to rape me.
He’s done it to other girls, for sure. I need to call it what it is; rape— so that I know I’m with him for the right reason; so that I’m not fooling myself. So that I know that I must want to be raped; if I’m with him. Because he will always rape me— and have other men rape me, too. I know this because that’s the first thing he did to me, as soon as he had the chance; he had me raped and beaten and degraded by two strangers. If I don’t want to be raped, I must get away from him. If I don’t want to get away from him, then the attention I want from him is to be raped. It’s as simple as that.
Surely, such dark, convoluted thoughts must be mad thoughts?
It would be such a relief, she thought, to believe that this was madness, this certainty within her that she must keep to her commitments to him; to control herself, to be naked, not to speak, not to eat for herself, this constant undercurrent of need in her for him to be interested in fucking her. In raping her.
But it couldn’t be madness, if she had such terrible doubts— if she wanted it to be madness so she could avoid responsibility for the choice she was making— choosing to let him control her, so that she would get raped— get raped a lot; have her life centre on being a girl that can be raped at will, a girl who offers herself, as hard as she can; offers herself up to be raped.
And if she was really mad, she wouldn’t be conflicted; she’d be certain that she was doing the right thing. Or, if it was madness, and she knew herself to be acting crazy, then she would want it to stop, instead of wanting him more. Wanting more rape.
And it couldn’t be him making her crazy, either— from the evidence of his behaviour since they had arrived at her place; far from the constant destabilisation he had put her through at the hotel, here, he had made everything calmer, gentler; he had promised not to beat her; he had not, in fact, raped her or mistreated her, and he had made her place a thousand times better than she ever could have.
I’m not mad; he’s not driven me mad. I want this, and that’s the truth of it. I could have got away, I could have told him to stop, could have changed the locks. But I didn’t. I want this, is the only possible conclusion; I want him to want to rape me. I want him to be driven crazy by me, so that he can’t help but rape me. That’s what I want. And I must want it so much that I’ll accept all the things I don’t want, that I know he’ll do to me, like beatings and shame and other men raping me.
These thoughts had made her tremble and moan, softly, under her breath, had filled her with fear for her future, but— if she had been attempting to convince herself that it all needed to stop, she had failed. The idea of doing what would be so easy; of getting down from the table and telling him it was over, that she couldn’t bear any more of this, that he must let her go— but it was that idea— making it stop, telling him to leave her alone— that felt and seemed like madness to her. It was unthinkable; her mind rejected it. Her body rejected it.
I want him to want me. I want him to do all the things to me which only he can do.
It filled her with fear, yes, but that was good. It made sense; she should be frightened.
Rape is violence. He is going to be violent with me; hurt me. I want him to want to hurt me. I should be frightened. He wants me frightened. That’s why he needed to know I was strong. Strong enough to live with being raped, with being hurt, with being frightened. Strong enough to keep asking for it.
It was bitter, bitter and hard in her, to know that she couldn’t tell him any of these thoughts. That all of this mattered only to her. If she could make herself attractive enough to incite him to rape, to have others rape her for his entertainment, then he would keep her; if not, he’d abandon her; it was a simple as that. Her mental contortions were her own problem, nothing to bother him with.
The pain was sharp, then, inside her, and tears were in her eyes and she needed his hands on her so badly.
But again, she sneered at herself; my neediness is my problem, not his; he’ll rape me when he wants to, not when I need him to, and I’d better get used to that, if I’m going to do this— and I am, I AM! I have to; just have to, however bad it is. He doesn’t care about me at all; only himself. That’s just the way it is, if I want him to keep me around.
She was doing work on herself, she saw; she was controlling herself for him; she was consolidating his awful power over her, she was actively undermining herself, weakening her self-belief, dismantling her own self-respect, so that she would be yet more dependent upon him, yet more willing to offer herself to his cruelty.
It wasn’t him brainwashing her; she was doing it to herself. She didn’t have to; he hadn’t asked her to, but I am doing it anyway, she spoke to herself, with almost desperate, savage glee; I’m going to make myself into a helpless dirty slut for him.
This is self-harm. I’m hurting myself, on purpose. Why won’t he turn, see me, look at me, look at my pussy, open for him, my stiff nipples, that I’m making move, to attract his eye?
He did turn, then, with a bowl in his hands, steaming; and she found that she could almost not bear the reality of his eyes upon her, as he came closer, closer; she had no idea if he even was looking at her; she was overcome by the most intense shyness at being naked, at offering herself so blatantly, for being so obviously weak and stupid and needy; embarrassment that was like a giant hand, clamped on her chest, so that she could hardly breathe, so that her body kept making little flinching movements; having to work hard to prevent herself shuffling backwards on the table, away from him, from cringing in shame and an overwhelming sense of vulnerability.
It was too much; it was going to be too much; he was too much; too strong, too perfect, too important; he was going to be disgusted by her, revolted by her, find her ridiculous, pathetic; she coud feel panic overtaking her, and had to bite down, hard, on her lower lip, dig her fingernails into the palms of her hands, behind her, strain every sinew to keep her thighs parted, tears hot in her eyes, her eyelids clamping shut to keep them from spilling, appalled at the knowledge that she was displaying herself like the most desperate of whores; desperately hoping that she was worth looking at, desperately trying to keep control, so that his soft, tolerant chuckle was both terrible hurt and a reason for a flood of gushing, grateful pleasure, his words just adding to the intensity of it as he leaned in, having set the bowl down, and spoke, very softly, very lightly;
“I know it’s hard, pretty. I know I am hurting you; having you hurt yourself for me. It’s good that you’re suffering. It makes my dick hard, and I will hurt you, soon enough, never fear. I will want to see this suffering, from time to time; see you working to keep yourself weak for me. Mostly, though, I just want a pretty, eager whore, ready and eager to be fucked; when I want to see pain, you’ll know about it.”
“See to yourself, now, while I bring the rest.”
It took both the push of the fear of failing him, and the pull of the gratitude, to make her strong enough to take control of herself again, to reset her hips, her thighs, her shoulders, her breasts, her face, her tummy; to make herself smile for him as he came back towards her, feeling her insides spasm with the emotion of it all, the vulnerability and the shame still eating away at her, but somehow sanctified now by his acknowledgement, his appreciation of her suffering for him.
She wasn’t managing to do anything more than just about control herself; she was very far from the easy, sexy offering of herself she had achieved earlier, painfully aware that she was not able to be what she wanted to be for him.
He paid her no further attention, though, as he arranged the table to his satisfaction, then sat, and took a mouthful of wine.
There was silence for a while, as he made inroads into the large, bloody steak, the tantalisingly green and crisp salad, glistening with a dressing she could smell the tang of, the tiny potatoes slick with butter, the soft, hard-crusted french bread; she was starving, her stomach demanding to be fed, but he had not even looked at her, let alone made a move to offer her anything; she had scanned the table, covertly, but there was very definitely no place setting for her; nothing to indicate it was not a meal for one; apart from the quantities.
She was still very far from calm.
“I’ll feed you when you’re fully in control again, little one; not before.”
He’d noticed her looking; she felt a flush of guilt; astonishingly powerful; she had been considering her own needs, and he had seen it. She knew it was wrong; another iron rule, then; Never let him see me thinking about myself, what I want.
She couldn’t suppress an intense little wriggle, so intense was her shame - both at having let him down, and - deeper, harsher, at having felt that guilt in the first place; at having become such a pathetic creature.
He had laughed out loud at her then, not unkind, but infinitely patronising;
“Let’s see if I can help you, pretty, since you jiggle your tits so cutely for me. Just let yourself pay attention to this, and ignore everything else.”
This was a bite-sized cube of steak, oozing juices, seared on the outside, red and bloody in the middle, speared by his fork, the fork on its way, impossibly, toward her sex, and then— squirmingly unimaginable— without hesitation or the slightest evidence that he needed her permission to do such a thing, he was pushing it between her soft, pink lower lips— not forcefully, not at all, carefully working and angling to make it easy, to make it fit, and then she was gasping in tiny, forced sips of air as she wrestled with her body not to pull away. It wasn’t fully in her, just there— caught between her labia, hot, aromatic; appalling— although she wasn’t quite sure what was so awful about it, but it was definitely intensely disturbing; at the same time, it had become the centre of her existence, impossible to accept, but un-ignorable, insistent.
It had worked on her though; his bizarre method. Her whole attention, her whole body, had become centred on the fact, on the reality of there being a piece of hot, bloody meat in her pussy, which she was keeping open and soft as he continuously, deliberately kept it moving; just small movements— pushing in a little, out to one side, down, backing away— almost at random, but with every movement adding up to one thing; he was opening her up; using meat to open her pussy, open her up, and it forced her to work on herself, to relax, to soften, to accept, to allow it to be true, until, as if she had simply turned a corner, she felt herself let go; felt herself give in; give herself over to the sensation of it, give herself to him; again.
Her hips flexed, then; her belly softened, her breathing came more easily; and he had pushed the meat into her, then; right into her— just a little way, but it was fully inside her, and she was letting it be and she was his; she gave up on herself; her head went back, her shoulders relaxed, her jaw, and she sighed, long and soft, exhaling all the stress, her whole body a receptacle for him, for however he chose to play with her. Letting the biting shame, the dirtyness of the idea of it, letting them just be, not fighting them; she would always be ashamed of herself, as long as she was his, she would always be being dirtied, if she was his. That was what she was for. There was pain in her heart, then, from accepting such things as truths, but she could let that hurt her, too, without fighting it, and let him have her, and then it became lovely again, and her hips moved for him, and thrust softly forward, opening herself to his intent, whatever it might be, giving up in herself, losing herself in being his.
She was lost, and weak, and he had taken her outside of herself so that she was his; his creature, his body; Essy gone somewhere, untile there was nothing, nothing but the feelings he imposed upon her.
When he gently withdrew the meat, she moaned, unrestrained, need in her voice, unmistakeable, shaming, raw.
“Good girl. Eat, now,” he had said; and she had she lifted her head, then, and, after only a tiny check, made herself bend forward to the fork, forced herself to accept the weirdness of it; she had played sexy food games before, with ice cream and chocolate syrup, but this felt very, very different. She could taste herself on the meat; but then she had kissed boyfriends, gratefully, lovingly, after they had had their tongues in her pussy, and been happy to.
Still, she had surely been taken over some boundary, yet another one, she knew, wondering what it meant; but softly, then; he had indeed calmed her, had brought her back from the brink, without being in the slightest kind or caring with her; rather, he had pushed her deeper. And it had calmed her. She felt the darkness of that realisation. She had been unable to find a way to reconcile her acceptance of a future of offering herself for rape with the fear it had brought; he had made something new happen, and it had taken her beyond. He had mastered her again, and she was in awe of his ability to have her go just the way he wanted her to, almost without trying.
It was going to happen. He was going to have her. She was going to be his. She was going to be raped, raped a lot; and beaten, and degraded, and whored out. And the lovely was strong, then, gloriously strong, and she wondered at it; turning the awful words over in her mind, made herself pay attention to what they meant for her as real experiences; raped, beaten, degraded, whored out — and asked herself were they the source of lovely? How could they be? It couldn’t be. She didn’t feel lovely in the middle of those experiences, she felt despairing, desperate, demeaned, damaged— destroyed; it made no sense.
Slowly, and with increasing, harsh clarity, it came to her; the lovely was now— and it was still strong in her, still urgently wonderful to experience. The lovely didn’t come from those things, from being raped, beaten, degraded; it came from what was happening now— from defeat. From allowing herself to be defeated by him; from acceptance; from giving herself away; from submission.
Submission; that was the word. Submitting to him was the source of the lovely. Some new submission, some new defeat, some previously unconsidered part of her broken to his will, lost to her, forever indefensible, undeniable to him; an actual diminishment in what it was possible for her to hope for in the future; a narrowing, a lessening of what it could possibly mean to be Essy.
These thoughts were awful in their own way; cruel, and hard and mean, but she was right about submission, because the lovely surged, then, and she gave herself to it, and when she suddenly saw, ever so clearly, the importance, the meaning of the awful things— Oh! — that was their place; they were necessary, too; because submitting to him only meant anything because there was the certainty of merciless imposition of those awful things onto her poor, soft body in the future. In each specific defeat, it was really a future promising terrible impositions she was submitting to— what gave the submission its edge, its bite— what made it lovely.
A burning need to have him see came over her, then; to have him see, through her submission to the demeaning, disempowering, humbling business of being fed like a pet animal, to have him see, through her performance, just how gorgeous, in that moment it was for her to submit to him, to give him the power to rape her, beat her, degrade her, whore her out in the future; in the sure knowledge that it would be agony for her to experience those awful things, to have him understand that she valued the promise of his cruelty.
It was heartbreaking and— yes lovely — to take the time, each time he decided what it was that she would eat next, where he would put the fork— for he was not serving her, as if she were a baby; that wasn’t the game, not at all; it was very surely a deliberate and teasing humiliation; Will you shame yourself for me? Like this? And how about this? — each time, to adjust her whole body, shuffle her knees, reposition herself, so as to best be able to show him how completely she was offering herself to him as she reached for the food with her open mouth; taking the time to be elegant, bend so that her breasts would sway, her nipples graze the surface of the table, to turn her head, sideways a little, so that he could see how soft her lips were, how tentatively she offered her mouth to the fork; to acknowledge, each time, that she had ceded him the power to decide what she ate, how and when; to remind herself of it with each mouthful, to let him see her soft, shy gratitude; to make this careful, obvious, submission her gift to him, to remind herself, each time, what it is she is really submitting to; fear, violation, horror, sadism; more, to inflame him; even through this small service of allowing his feeding of her; to make him smile, as he teased her, made her reach up, high, out to the side, her hands useless to her behind her back, as he humiliated her by deciding to take the food for himself, this time, to deny her, even after she has shifted herself for him, her thighs suggestively spread, her hips softly thrusting, her breasts swinging— lovely right then, to be working to inflame him to commit atrocities on her body.
That ten or fifteen minutes of being fed, teased, humiliated, toyed with, the loud and emotional opera as the soundtrack, was, for Essy, her first experience of dedicated and willing submission; a peak experience of overt and heartfelt defeat.
It cut very deep, because it was a submission with a deep, dark request in it; a request that he answer her submission with abuse; a request that he use the power over her delivered by her defeat to satisfy his desire to hurt and abuse her, without restraint, without consideration for her. The opposite of consideration, in fact; she was asking that he take deliberate care to diminish her, to degrade her.
She would go back to it, to that short, intense, lovely session again and again over the next weeks, taking it as the touchstone which explained everything, the guiding light that could keep her moving forward, in the darkness, in the doubt, the loneliness of her silence, through the despair; the memory of herself, naked, on the table, making her submission as elegant, as obvious, as lovely as possible for him, again and again; with the knowledge of his heartless, greedy sadism, his cruel desires, out in the open between them; not just open, but the acknowledged basis of the connection between them; her submission specifically offering her body up to his cruelty; asking for it whole-heartedly, even though— no; because— because it would be agony for her to be destroyed.
She remembered, then, how he had said to her;
“You are lovely … Your whole body knows fear and despair, and pain and disgrace, yet still offers itself to me, with elegance.”
Her lovely, and his lovely; they were the same, then.
Except, of course, that the cost of lovely to her was her life, and the cost to him was, simply, that he entertain himself with her, and not hold back. Oh, and money, too; she was his slave, and keeping a slave cost money, even if the slave had nothing; even if you did feed it on left-overs. She tortured herself with that little thought.
The realisation burned its way into her. It was like drinking acid; nothing changed on the outside, but inside she was on fire with it, feeling it damage her; change her forever.
She was lost, she knew; if she hadn’t been lost already, this insight had put the lid on it. She was his, until he ceased to find it entertaining to shame her.
She must let him see, then, in her submission, that is a humble plea for abuse; show him that his abuse of her will be awful for; let her vulnerability be obvious; that her submission is all this.
So that she can be lovely for him.
While it lasts. While she lasts.
