1: Whipped in front of strangers
Picture: Tonight, I’ll have you whipped
My dear, you must forgive me. Tonight, I will have you whipped, cruelly, while our visitors look on, before they take turns with you. They will bid for the right to take you for the weekend, to raise funds for the retired soldiers of my regiment…
When you return, you will no longer be the lady of the house, but kept, in chains, at the foot of the grand stairs, to be used by anyone who wants you, until you are replaced by the next one. I have already contracted the filly— a blonde, quite lovely.
Of course, you have known this was to be your fate since you arrived here— but I have enjoyed you so, that I have put it off for too long; I see it in your eyes— you had begun to have hope.
That cannot be permitted you.
I doubt it will sustain you through the terror and humiliation that await you, but you may know that I am proud of you.
See— you hold yourself so beautifully, even though I see you trembling with fear.
Somehow, knowing it would be the last time she would be permitted to speak to him, she made herself say it, say what was expected of her, even though, god knew, there was nothing they could threaten her with that was worse than what was now ordained for her;
“Thank you, Monseigneur; thank you for … for everything.”
2: Impossible
Picture: Impossible that she was here
It was impossible that she could be here, naked, chained, with that horrid fat man, looking at her so disgustingly.
Impossible that he was going to get to fuck her, hurt her, in front of kind Mr Fairchild.
Impossible that she was, in a minute, going to kneel in front of the horrid old pervert, as she had last night, and gently take his flabby fat cock into her mouth, and work— do her very best— to get him hard enough to push it into her poor, sore asshole again.
Impossible— except that it was totally certain. it had happened last night, and would happen again tomorrow— unless her heart really did break in her chest, as it felt it must, whenever Mr Fairchild’s sad eyes caught hers as she was being raped by the monster.
And, even worse, if she did it well enough— and she must do it well enough— he would find her worth taking away with him, when he left, and let Mr Fairchild keep his lovely home, where she had worked as his assistant, secretly and hopelessly in love with him, for two wonderful years.
It was impossible, too, that, in the middle of last night, kind Mr Fairchild, obviously in a terrible state, poor man, at what was being done to her, had come into her room and smothered her face with a pillow, pushed her legs back over her body; that he too had raped her back hole, her screams smothered in the pillow; she had thought she must die then, but had not; indeed, had had to get up at 6:30 as usual, and set the table, make the breakfast and serve it, in silence, in her neat little uniform— so demure, so pretty, so girlish, while that fat man had grinned at her, and made awful comments about her body.
And yet it was all true, and she was going to let it all happen to her.
Because Mr Fairchild didn’t love her, and never would.
3: The rebel
Picture: The rebel and his slut
He had been such a rebel, in his youth.
So disgusted by his gruesome old father and his appalling way with every young girl he could get his hands on. He had hated the way the old turd had somehow managed to trick so many of them into servitude, played mind games with them, seduced them, suborned them, subdued them, crushed them, used and abused them until they were boring, then handed them off to the Albanians.
He had railed against his father, he had publicly denounced him, he had sold rebel newspapers in the streets, he had plotted in dark hovels with wild-eyed plebeians, he had trained with them in the woods, and they had overthrown the aristocrats, his father included. He had watched his own father hang.
And now, they brought him young girls— a new one each week; each one eager to serve the great writer who had inspired the revolutionaries, who had fought by their side, his trusty typewriter strapped to his back for the reports from the battle front.
And he treated them worse, even, than his father had treated the peasant wenches. Somehow he needed to hurt them, to shame them, to demean them, humble them. And they took it, the bitches; this one— only three days in, already as meek as could be, and pathetically eager to please, pain and fear and weakness in her lovely eyes, but no resistance at all in her sweet limbs, her hot, slippery holes.
The idea that she was going to have to serve the minister of war and his two subalterns had appalled her, but she had capitulated without much trouble once he had shown her the whip.
If only she knew what was in store for her, she’d have struggled harder. But it would have made no difference.
There was just time to do her sweet, tight little arse before the guests arrived, if he hurried.
4: Are you serious?
Picture: A naked girl, in his room!
Are you serious?
Of… of course I am … I … I’m naked, aren’t I? In … in your room. I … I wouldn’t be doing this as a joke.
But this is crazy! all I did was remark on your prettiness. I didn’t … I didn’t expect— well, anything! let alone this.
Don’t … aren’t I as pretty as you thought I would be? don’t you want to …
My dear girl, you’re young enough to be my daughter! Now now, don’t cry, for heavens sakes! What’s got into you?
You don’t understand! You … I … I have to make you . make you want me … u-use me … Or She’ll say I’ve failed her, embarrassed her, not tried hard enough, and I’ll be whipped!
But that’s barbaric!
It is, it really is, but … but … well, I … I took the money, and I have another three months to go before I can leave, and … and I can be very, very nice to you, sir, and … and if you’ve ever wanted to hurt a girl, in … in a sex way, but never tried it, you … you can do it to me.
I … I get days off my time for … for visible marks that last two days.
You … you should use your belt on me. On my breasts— the marks are more obvious there, the skin is so soft…
