You will want to have read the previous part of this story.
It was a while, again, then— another indeterminate, hazy length of time, during which her body had to process what her mind could not, during which she did not forget him, sitting there, did not forget the need to present herself, during which she was otherwise, though, simply the ground in which the aftermath of too many intense and conflicting emotions pulled and pushed; the ebbing but persistent beat at her pussy, where the prospect, the idea of being fucked by him was still strong in her; frank horror at the words she had just spoken, at the certainty that she would bitterly regret them, that he would take full advantage of them, that she was going to be cruelly thrashed by him, whenever he felt like it— perhaps now, right now? Appalling pain, shame and searing despair imminent?.
Not less than either of these was the savagery of her own judgement of herself; those parts of her which had formerly argued for sanity, for escape, now seemingly accepting that she was not going to make efforts to free herself, changing mode to sneering judgement; stupid, self-destructive ninny; look what you’ve done now; yet another step down the spiral of doom you dumb-fuck whore! You deserve all that pain, all that fear, all that pathetic, shameful begging you’ll do, promising him your cunt, your ass, your throat to rape if he’ll only let you off one hit; all those marks will tell the story to everyone about what a weak-willed, sex-mad little bitch you have been all along, under all that independent woman bullshit.
And she had worked, and worked, with her body and her mind, through all that— not only to show him her body in its best light, but also, to find a way to let all those insistent, urgent feelings come together— to have them all, somehow— the lust and the fear and the self-disgust, all come together and somehow build the lovely; Accept them. Take this as another voluntary, significant defeat; accept her sluttish desires, accept the fear, the future of pain and despair, accept the self-hatred; let them define her.
She was trying, but it wasn’t really working, and everything was hard; hard and cold, and sore and hopeless and the shame was strong; she felt his imagined gaze as if it were a kind of whip, then, lashing into her breasts, her thighs, her belly, her sex.
But this was not a panic, not a crisis; not this time.
No, this was just how things were; this was her life, she saw. She must live with all these, at war in her, if she is to be this thing, this slut, for him. she must let despair become lovely.
Oh God the urge came to her, then; would he please fuck her! Rape her, now, hard, on the table, like he had said, even if it was only her throat, with no hope of an orgasm (unless he licked her pussy again, as he had in the hotel…) … and with that, the lovely returned, as the heat in her belly rose, and her hips began to move of their own accord, and she felt the blush on her cheeks and her breasts— shamefully signifying arousal now, rather than embarrassment (causing embarassment which only intensified the blush…), and she let herself be moved by it, hoping, hoping, that he woud be inflamed; knew herself lost to decency, modestly, morality; wishing herself to become the very avatar of an eager, needy bitch in heat.
Oh Christ this is all so dangerous; so fucking lovely, so self-destructive, oh please … please …
And she remembered, then; he had suggested something, that he had suggested she might ask him to rape her throat; she could speak, she could ask him …
No sooner was the thought in her head, then her chin lifted (though her eyes remained downcast), and, very softly, very humbly, very quietly, she made a little noise in her throat; a noise of pleading enquiry; so soft as to be almost inaudible, so humble as to be shaming in and of itself, but all she dared.
It made him laugh; a simple laugh of simple pleasure and satisfaction. He was not ashamed. He clearly did not feel dirty, or conflicted, had no fear in him. It was her that was dirty; he was honest, and operated on the basis of consent. His perversions were not shameful to him, but a full and accepted part of who he was, and he managed them without seeming effort.
“Speak then, pretty, if you think you have something worth me listening to. I know what you want, slut, but let’s hear you ask for it.”
She felt terribly, horribly worthless, then, and her voice was full of it; although the idea of pleading had seemed strange, almost laughable to her, when she had heard it earlier, it now seemed the most obvious thing, the most important thing, something she must get right, that must be sincere, properly phrased, full of humility.
“Sir. I … I … I beg you, if … if you feel like it … to … to rape my throat, just … just the way you want it…”
Immediately, then, it became important— needful— to her to say more, to affirm his rights, her earnest need, her deepest wish to please, and her mouth ran away with her, words tumbling out that she had not planned, things she had not realised she could even think, let alone say out loud;
“I … I’ll do my best … honestly, I really will— even … even when it hurts, or I think you’re killing me, even … but … but I know I’m no good… If— if I’m not doing it right, you must force me, h … hurt me, break me— whatever— until … until you get what you want. Don’t … don’t permit me not to satisfy you, completely. Please? I … I know I’m … I’m so useless at it all; don’t know how to do it right, don’t give you what you want, don’t know how to behave, and I’m so sorry I’m such rubbish but I really want to learn to … to really please you and give you … give you … everything and … and I will … I will learn and I’ll practice and I’ll get better, but you need to train me, too; make me do it right; hurt me like you want; hurt my tits, hurt my pussy, hurt me just for fun, too … everything…”
“I so … so want to be good … good for you…”
“Please?”
And then the lovely was indistinguishable from the wish for death, and that was the most intense yet and it was, for a few moments, again, wonderful, and calm and right and she actually imagined him throttling her with his cock and the thrashing about and the terror and the determination to let him do as he wished and then the blacking out and then … peace …
His voice brought her back;
“Well, well, quite a speech, little one, quite a speech. But really, I don’t need to hear all that; I can see it on your face, silly; as if it was written with a sharpie. Why do you think I picked you up in the first place? You’re an open book— an obvious target, to anyone who understands what to look for.”
“Still, you’ve got it off your chest. And it’s good that you understand yourself a little; how lost you are— how far adrift, after— what is it? Three days? You’re lucky it was me that found you; you could be in a packing crate already, off to some Russian mafia brothel. They know how to manage cunt, that lot, but they’re not exactly … subtle, shall we say? Strictly commercial, their methods; not a lot of room for finesse; very … impersonal. Still, you’d have responded; become willing; very eager and very willing I’d bet. You just wouldn’t last very long; none of their girls do.”
He stood up, then, leaned over, and spoke softly into her ear;
“Running off at the mouth like that, though. Not generally acceptable; another transgression to add to your account. Don’t forget, now— I’m counting on you to keep score for me.”
“Now then…” and his hands were busy behind her back, the heat of his body felt at her belly, on her inner thighs, as he worked at the belts tying her wrists. His cock was close to her sex, close to her mouth, and she was open, and wet, and she was so very, very needy and vulnerable that it just wasn’t fair; her whole body yearned for him, for even his hands on her flesh. Why? why wasn’t he fucking her?
The release of her wrists was glorious, but immediately brought on the most furious pins and needles she had ever experienced, making her squeak and wriggle, helplessly, as his strong hand controlled her elbows and made short work of strapping her arms there, the belt pulled much more tightly up to the choker/collar belt, now, until her upper arms were almost straight out, backwards, and she yelped at the new strain on her shoulders, her hands feeling as if they were on fire. It was awful, not just bad pain but being so roughly manipulated, like a piece of meat, with no caress, no sexual intent at all, even though she was offering herself so openly, and a couple of tears fell, the rest desperately blinked back.
She was really feeling like nothing more than dirt, despair growing inside her as he sat back down.
“I will take you up on your offer and enjoy your throat, pussy, in a little while, but I told you the agenda, before. It’s time for our little game, next.”
“Before our game, though, I want to give you something to think about pretty; orgasms.”
“I want to see, in your face, as you hear this stuff, how it hits you, so I need you to look at me. I have noted your general deference about looking me in the face and I approve, but right now you need to look up.”
It was shockingly hard, she found, to do that; she had looked at him only a few minutes ago, but it seemed a world away; she had been diminished, further, in only those minutes, and now she was painfully shy about looking at him. Surely, in her face, for him, would be written just how low she had fallen — how weak she was, how easy it would be to manipulate her still further. But there was no question of disobeying, and so she made herself look at him— and almost collapsed into tears, saving herself only by biting hard onto her lower lip; her hands flipped and flapped ludicrously, as she forced a gusty breath and made herself settle her position as she tried to lay off some of the emotion that welled up in her, her belly rippled with quivers, and her jaw trembled, uncontrollably; how had this happened to her? Why was she so weak, so stupid, so pathetically needy? How had she been so easily manipulated? Why was she so fixated on the particular way she was moving her hips, offering him her pussy? How desperate, how shameful she had become!
And yet she yearned for him even harder, her lips parting, her tongue flickering to keep her lips from drying out; her nipples jiggled. It was this man, this interested face which had reeled her in, in the cafe, and then in the park, and now, here she was, lost, threatened, unable to break free; so very, very alone, and so very, very weak. He was going to eat her alive; and she was going to make it easy for him; it was terribly hard to meet his eyes, she was so frightened of whatever was to come next, and yet she had to do it.
He pulled his chair closer to the table, so that he was still closer; everything got harder for her.
“Thank you, pretty; you really do become ever more interesting, the deeper I take you— your eyes are full of emotion now; full of weakness, full of fear, full of need; it’s really rather arousing, I must admit. We’re going to have fun, as I like to say…”
“Thinking about what I say will be hard, because it’s … well it’s rather brutal and cruel, when laid out clearly. But then again, brutal and cruel is what you’re asking for, so nicely, with your tits out and your legs spread and that turmoil in your eyes, no matter how sweet your face, so … well, it doesn’t matter, does it? You’re cunt, and this is how things are for cunt like you. Also, you’ll have plenty of time to think about it. I will ask you for your thoughts at some point, so don’t forget your homework, pretty!”
His expression had become serious, as he spoke, and his voice, also, had taken on a different tone; the clarity of his gaze had lost focus. This clearly mattered to him, although she could not fathom in what way.
It made no difference what she understood, of course; she knew that, as his eyes refocused, as he looked at her properly again— it wasn’t up to her; it would be what he told her it was, and she would have no choice but to live with it, as he said, even if it was brutal and cruel.
In any case, it was difficult enough just to keep looking directly at him, as she had been commanded to, so that there was a constant level of stress even before she had to attend to his words. He looked at her, his face quite hard, then, as he extended his arm and, very simply, very directly, took hold of her clitoris, making nothing more of it than he might if it were a zipper. As far as he was concerned, she saw, she had no personal space, not even there.
He took her poor, tender clitoris between finger and thumb; not grabbing, but owning; not hard, but very definitely, pulling it out from her body just enough to make it clear that he was manipulating her, that this was no sort of a caress.
It was not a caress, but it was not either a cruelty; he wasn’t hurting her, though it certainly commanded her attention, and she gasped, softly, then, immediately knew she must respond with her body language— make it clear to him that she was giving him that part of her, that most sensitive, that most protected, vulnerable part of her; giving it to him.
He held her; held her whole being, held her by her clitoris, and she let him. It was very deliberate, what he was doing, for all he was so casual about it. There was no ‘letting him’, even— he had taken her, and she had no say in the matter; none that made any difference in the world, at least; there was nothing in her but defeat, acceptance, submission. He had her, and they both knew it— although he was calm and relaxed, while she was drowning in the feeling of it, the reality of it, the inescapable certainty of it.
It was so simple, and yet it almost undid her; it was awful, and terrifying, for she knew his willingness to be savage with her, there, but, right then, making her dizzy with the swiftness of it, the emotional switchback flipped again, and it was suddenly peak lovely for her, and she gave herself to him all over again, filling with stupid, helpless, weak gratitude as he began to speak;
“You need to learn, to understand, to accept in your very soul, that orgasms are now the central things about your existence. Firstly, the most important issue, my orgasms. It’s very simple; you have been diminished; downgraded, so that you must understand that your meaning, your value consists in your usage as a fancy masturbation aid. Nothing else about you really matters any more, except in so far as it helps or hinders that primary purpose.”
“This is already obvious, of course: raping you is all about me having excellent orgasms. If I don’t have excellent orgasms when I rape you, I won’t feel like raping you. Similarly, if your behaviour when I’m not raping you doesn’t sufficiently promise excellent orgasms, than it may not occur to me to rape you. So, whether you are being raped or not, you are entirely focused on the number and quality of my orgasms.”
“You are not the only girl I have access to in this way; you’re just the new one, so don’t ever kid yourself that you are needed. Either you’re desirable as a rape object, and my desire translates readily into excellent orgasms, or you are of no interest to me; a masturbation aid that isn’t attractive, or fails to give excellent orgasms is useless, fit only to be thrown away. Having come jerked into your holes is the meaning of your existence; the amount of come you can attract is the sum total of your value in this world.”
She had begun to tremble, uncontrollably— through a dread combination of the terrible words he had spoken, and a helpless response to him holding and stretching her poor clitoris, and her breathing had become ragged; she was breathing through her mouth, her heart thudding in her ears.
“It’s cute that you’re so affected by this, pretty, and you’re doing well controlling yourself, too, because it’s getting my dick hard and I’m thinking about how you squeak and squeal when I pump your tight little asshole. You’re doing well; control needs to be your aim, though; I want to see how this is hitting you, but I don’t want to be disturbed by any silly nonsense.”
“Now, we need to talk about your orgasms; they matter too, but very differently, of course.”
“Your orgasms are no longer about pleasure for you. From now on, your orgasms are a disaster for you, in two ways; first, because it’s going to be a shock to you how easy it is for me to turn you into a special sort of nymphomaniac; a girl who is always hungry to be fucked, because she is so lost in bleakness and shame that only orgasm can provide any relief for her from the awful contradictions of her life; that’s the big picture; you’ll be yearning and hoping for orgasm, but only permitted release in that way when I choose it. I’ll use the intermittent reward technique, so that you’ll so you’ll find yourself increasingly and perpetually needy.”
“But the detail picture matters too— and it’s worse; worse for you, of course, and excellent for me— by design of course. The orgasms which are permitted you will be carefully controlled; you’ll come, and come very hard indeed, but only in difficult, degrading and humiliating circumstances, and always in pain; indeed, it will increasingly be through pain that you will learn to orgasm.”
“This experience, of few orgasms, which you will be so needy for, so that you will work very hard to achieve them, which will be very intense— and so will provide the release which you desperately need, will at the same time be deeply shameful, and associated with awful suffering, especially at your soft parts; your mouth, your tits, your lovely pussy.”
“This will be how you’ll be broken— in conjunction with cruel beatings, of course.”
“Your own orgasms will break you; break you utterly. They will destroy your self image through your deep identification of yourself with the degradation, shame and pain of your orgasms, orgasms which you cannot imagine yourself functioning without. In this way, life as a normal person will become unimaginable to you. You will depend completely on the continuance of your being a possession, your limited and degraded role as a masturbation aid.”
“Even though you will be humiliatingly needy, always looking to be permitted to come, however difficult the circumstances, you will also hate your orgasms, hate your own neediness for them, hate them at the moment you have them, hate how they come to define your life, thinking about how degraded you are, how willing to offer yourself up for shame and pain and rape. And at the same time, you’ll get yourself all worked up remembering them, because, until you’re allowed another one, that’s all you’ll have.”
“I’m telling you this, of course, in the service of more and better orgasms for me. I’m telling you so that you can work with me, when it’s time to make you orgasm, so that you’ll help me; help me take you down this path, which will be good for you, too, in a way, in that it is likely to make the period before I get bored with raping you last longer. Because although I have no interest at all in how you’ll cope, after I abandon you, I somehow doubt it will be much fun.”
She was reeling; destroyed, all over again, with one question going round and round in her head; Why?.
Why am I not angry, not full of rebellion against such an appalling picture of my future?
Why does it make sense to me— dire as it is, awful as it is— the existence he laid out?
Why is it that he can feel for himself how wet my pussy is, how exactly correct he is, about my neediness, my willingness to accept cruel and degrading orgasms on his terms? Why is it that it turns me on, this horror?
Why don’t I hate him? Why, instead, does my respect for him grow, even as he reveals to me just how much of an inhuman sadist he can be?
Why am I moving my pussy, my clit, in his fingers, to excite myself, in a way which must be utterly obvious to him, serving his cruel and heartless agenda?
And when he leaned in and kissed her, then, his finger and thumb tightening on her clitoris, hurting her intentionally, expecting her to kiss him sweetly while he twisted and pinched at her there, why, then, did she give her mouth to him as softly as she could, suffused with gratitude?
Why was she feeling the lovely surge within her, continuing to move her hips for him, offering her clit into the pain, demonstrating her willingness to be taken down the destructive path he had outlined for her?
It didn’t matter. The question made no real sense. Why was gone for her; there was only this; being with him, having his attention, which meant being used by him. Only the lovely mattered now. Essy was done with, anyway. She was this other thing now; or, at least, must help him transform her so that she could become it, and suffer, and yearn, and be raped, and have terrible, destructive orgasms that she must allow to destroy her.
And it was OK. More than OK.
It really was, because he would control her, and all she had to do was serve him, work with him, let him have her, which was all she wanted now; or at least, knew that the only way out of this, now, was to go through it, and so she leaned into it; leaned in to the suffering, offering herself up for it, even as he twisted and pulled, the pain hot and terrible; leaned in to the kiss, as soft and needy as she knew how to make herself be, and let the feelings rip through her as they would.
