You will want to have read the previous part of this story.
Trigger warning: This is a five rated chapter— there is detailed physical and psychological cruelty. You don’t need to read this chapter to follow the story— the beginning of the following one will give you all you need to know— so don’t read this unless you want to.
After a while; a long, delicious, terrible while, his manipulations at her clitoris became gentler, the kiss softer, until, very softly, it had ended, and he stepped back, leaving her trembling, suspended, in a world of lovely that was composed equally of fluttery, weak yearning; yearning for more— no matter how painful— yes, yearning, and also fearful vulnerability, and eager, hot sexual need, and real pain, too, somehow all rolled into a sweet but febrile sensation that was the lovely, the needy version of it.
She felt, intuited his eyes on her as he sat down, and she was all his, all offer, wanting him to see just how completely open she was to him, after that treatment of her, after his dire explanations of what he would do with her, needing it to be obvious just how much she was his, just how weak she was for him, just how pathetically, helplessly, frighteningly eager she was to have him do everything he wanted to her, for it to be evident to him how willing she was to work with him for her own destruction.
She could hardly breathe, for the lovely, and it was too intense, too full of awful, agonising contradictions, and it could not be sustained, and she was mourning the inevitable loss of those sweet moments when it had been possible to hold in her mind at the same time, in some sort of crazy harmony, the awfulness of the future he had laid out for her, and her all consuming, tender joy at being the object of his cruel attention, when he spoke again.
At that, without even waiting to know what it was he was saying, her whole being prepared itself, once more, to receive him; for it was clear to her, then, that every interaction with him was, in truth, an assault; an attack, a violation— a rape of some kind.
The insight ravaged her, ripped through her, and she let it have her, since there was no resisting it; since there was nothing to do but accept, to understand that it was what she needed from him — another opportunity to be defeated, to be humbled, degraded, to be made lovely.
“We’re going to play now— a cruel game. An orgasm game; your job, of course, is to come for me; let the orgasm take you, let it undo you, for my entertainment. My intention, as you know, is to maximise the destructive impact of the orgasm on your psyche.”
“It works like this. You’ll ask me to hurt you; you’ll ask me either to hurt your nipples, or your clitoris. I’ll do whatever I want, of course, but in general it will go like this; I’ll use this fork on you— to hurt you with. Sometimes, though, I’ll use my mouth at your nipples— give you pleasure, perhaps, and, at your poor little nubbin, I’ll try and find what I can do with the fork to get you excited, too. “
“We’ll be in no rush. I’ll be in control, entertaining myself. You’ll be trying very hard indeed, if you’re strong enough, to give me what I want, and what I want is intensity, emotion, self-control— and deep psychological impact. All of these take time. The longer it goes on, of course— the longer it is before you come, the sorer everything will get; so I imagine you’ll be working, working on yourself, working very hard, to find ways to get turned on by such nastiness.”
“This will be entertaining for me, of course, but at the same time, I’ll learn a great deal about you; things you won’t have the capacity to notice, because it will all be very intense for you, very stressful. The things I learn will make it easier for me to manage you, psychologically manipulate you, in the future. So I want you to express your emotions, your feelings, your pain and distress— don’t try to hide anything; at the same time, you must always be thinking about presenting yourself well, so don’t let it get out of hand. No silliness or hysteria. Tears will be acceptable, occasional isolated sobs, but not full-on crying.”
“So, we start now. When you’re ready, you’ll ask me to hurt you, and I will. I’m going to warn you, though; we’ll start mostly with pain; pain and shame— to get you a bit desperate, so you’ll need to work hard, for a little while, on controlling yourself. You’ll very much want to cringe, to curl up, to protect yourself from the fork, from my teeth. You will resist this, of course, but it will be hard for you.”
“Your first bit of pleasure will be a reward, for having controlled yourself— held yourself open— offered yourself, as prettily as you can, to cruelty.”
“If you want to acknowledge to yourself that this treatment could be characterised as torture, then feel free. I consider it to be torture myself. And, of course, that gets me hard.”
“Look at me now, and tell me that you want this; thank me.”
It was almost impossible to look at him, then, so appalled was she at the inevitability that she was going to let him do this terrible thing to her, at her complicity. How hard it all was, how desperately hard, to do this with him, how hard to find the lovely, how evanescent it was, how fugitive, how impossible even to recall the feeling of, when it was gone. Only the need for it, and the hopeless knowledge that it was defeat, surrender, acceptance of his demands on her which was the only way to get there.
Her head came up, her eyes too, very slowly; it was terrible to let him see how weak she was, to show him the pathetic pleading in her face (pathetic, because she did not dare even voice those pleas, let alone have the strength to stop herself asking for exactly those abuses which she wished she could plead to be spared from; pathetic because she was so lost in him); for him to know that she was so in his thrall that she was going to help him do this terrible thing to her, for her to see his calm focus on her; for it to be acknowledged between them that he was about to torture her, for his pleasure, and with the deeper aim of making it easier for him to control and manipulate her in the future— so that I’ll never escape him.
Somehow the depth of her submission had felt like a little secret to her, but that foolish, self-deluding pretence was over. He knew; had always known; he knew, better than she did, just how weak, how vulnerable she was. She felt terribly small, and desperately ashamed, and exposed.
Somehow, nevertheless, her mouth formed the words— the terrible, self-destroying words;
“I … I want this … this … torture. Please. … and … and, thank … thank you, sir”
Her voice sounded like someone else; someone embarrassing, weak, pathetic…
And then there was silence. Silence, during which she eventually remembered, with a stupid, guilty jolt, that she was supposed to ask to be hurt— either at her breasts, or her clitoris.
She wanted to cry, but knew she must not. She would cry, eventually, she was sure of it, but if she were to please him, she must not cry until there was nothing else for it.
His expression! It was almost kind; mild, gentle, reassuring, patient. He was not hurrying, not pressuring her— far from it; he was interested in her, absorbed by her emotional processes, attentive. It was not his cruelty which was at fault, not his intention to degrade her, to reduce her, to damage her. No. He already had her willing consent for all that. No, it was she who was failing him, disrespecting the gift of his attention, and, feeling deep shame at this, without deciding to do it, still less what she was going to say, she spoke;
Please … please, hurt my hurt my nipples and my … my clitoris.”
His smile, then, as she made herself let him see the despair and abject weakness in her eyes; his smile was kind, appreciative, encouraging; no trace of greed or malice there;
“Well done, pretty girl; this is going to be terrible, but I know you will do your best for me.”
Her heart was breaking, her thighs were spasming; tiny jolts of almost electrical energy in them as she resisted the urge to close her legs, protect herself, as she made herself receive his brief, soft kiss, made herself let him pull her head back, his hand in her hair, firm, irresistible, until she was looking at the ceiling; she would not know what was coming until it happened; oh god he is really going to do it to me …
… and then it came; the cold touch, very soft at first, of the tines of the fork, raking up her labia, making her sigh and gasp and tremble, until they arrived at her clitoris and stopped.
It was as if the world had stopped; she was trying to be ready for more pain— her clit was still reminding her of its recent suffering, throbbing continually, and for a long moment, nothing happened, nothing at all, until it was almost worse waiting than being hurt, and she heard herself beg;
“Please … please…” although it wasn’t clear to her if she was begging for the torture to begin, or for him to change his mind.
Almost insensibly, then, it became clear that something was happening; slowly, very slowly, but horribly steadily, the force of the points on her sensitive nub was increasing. Slow, but relentless, until it began to hurt, then really hurt, then burn, and still there was no let-up, until she was sure he must be going to push the fork right through to the bone behind, and she cried out in shame and horror and hurt. Her whole body was demanding that she pull away, pull back, save herself from what seemed like terrible injury, while her whole mind was forcing her to stay in place, stay open, let him hurt her, and the tension between these two had her hips making little surges which increased the pain and it was too much, too much! And …
And it stopped.
The release was somehow desperately shaming, and a sob broke from her; a broken sob that turned into a heartbreaking little wail, except that he had no heart and had enveloped one nipple in his warm mouth, giving a brief flash of delicious pleasure, immediately dispelled by his teeth, which clamped down on her aureole hard, then tore at her nipple, making her scream as he jerked his head away without changing the set of his teeth. He did it at the other nipple, too, then went back to the first, a repeat performance, ten times worse, it seemed, then again at the other nipple and she was weeping, then, and saying ‘please … please …’ in a soft and pathetic voice, even as she held herself still for him, for the next hurt, for his pleasure.
Again, it took a little time for her to remember that the respite from pain and shame was hers to control. It was her who was in charge. If she wanted to end this, she must find a way to orgasm for him; otherwise the ordeal would simply continue, and she saw, for real, just how nastily clever his rules were, and a fresh little wave of tears pulsed, accompanied by a wave of black despair.
When it had washed through her, though, it was almost as if she were happy, for a second at the clarity, the simplicity of it, and she heard her voice, almost calm, almost steady;
“Please, please, Sir, hurt … hurt my clitoris.”
He had said he would start with pain; she had to accept the pain to earn any pleasure, and she had to get some pleasure if she was to begin to build any sort of pathway to coming for him.
This time, he began to hit her clit with the flat of the handle, whipping the fork downward from above, again, not hard to begin with, making her squeak, but both the repetition and the gradually increasing energy he was putting into it became cruelly hurtful all too soon, so that she began to cry out each time, almost squealing with the hurt, with the despair which came from the continual wrenching internal struggle to to hold herself vulnerable to the pain, of doing something so terribly wrong, keeping her legs widely parted, of pushing her pelvis forward; each cry itself a source of shame, so tellingly devoid of anger, of rejection, of resistance were they. There was no way she could achieve an orgasm, no way that this could ever stop; he was going to ruin her, down there, and she was helping him do it.
And then he stopped, and the quiet, the silence, the inevitability that she would have to ask for more was almost worse, until it was worse to endure this than the imagined pain that would come, and she asked him again, hating herself as she did it; glorying in the defeat as she did it, lost in the contradictions of it all, until she was almost eager for the simplicity of pain to stop her thinking.
Until he stabbed her breast with the fork, right across the nipple, and it hurt so much that she assumed he had punctured the skin (later, she was astonished at how small, how light the marks were on her skin, how little evidence of such suffering there remained on her body), and she screamed and her head and shoulders went into a wild, rapid side-to-side wriggle which he instantly put a limit to with his firm grip in her hair, as the fork jabbed the other breast, worse. And again, and again, so that she was now weeping continuously, brokenly.
The next pause was different. Her hair was released (although she desperately wanted to, she felt she had no right to lift her head; he had ordained that it should hang down behind her, depriving her of any warning of his assaults; that was where it must stay).
She heard his chair move, sensed the absence of the heat of his body— he had moved away from her, there were sounds of things being moved around. Her weeping had stopped, immediately; her whole being had become centred on him, what he was going to do next. It made sense— what he did next was her world, had been forever, it seemed, even though it was only a few hours, really, not even three days.
Footsteps; he was returning.
“You’re moving around too much. You need a stick up your ass to hold you in place.”
Stuck, splayed open, bent backwards, weak and hopeless, she could only wonder at the noises, the meaning of them, of his crude, ugly words; words she should not accept from a man, but which to her seemed almost sweet— evidence that he was paying attention to her, that how she was mattered to him. Only later did she see what the drill, the saw had been for, when she saw how he had made a hole in the table, dropped a stout wooden mop-handle through it, slotted into a deep recess he had drilled into the floorboard.
Then, all she knew was the noises, and his eventual short grunt of approval, his hands at her, on her; strong, controlling, irresistible;
“Up with you, kneel right up, now.”
He did not rely on her to comply, but simply took charge, which was good, since she seemed to have lost all strength, and so many of her joints, forced into unaccustomed extremes for so long, felt stuck. She was lifted (and could not deny the sudden surge of warmth in her at the feeling of being held by him, close to his body, even though she was being pulled and pushed with no more consideration than if she had been a sack of potatoes).
She was lifted, shifted sideways. Supported by one strong arm around her back, crushing her to him— she took the chance to lean her head against his shoulder and the momentary feeling of being safe there, combined with the new pain as her cruelly tenderised nipples scratched on the rough fabric of his jacket brought pitiful, stupid tears to her eyes— he lifted her, pushed her thighs apart with the other hand, then put that hand directly between her legs, cupping her sex, making her squeak, so sore was everything there, so swollen and sensitive, his fingers pushing back towards her asshole, as if reaching for it …
“AAaaaiieeeek!”
As soon as he had satisfied himself as to her position, he had all but dropped her, so that the hard, slick thing speared her still unhealed backside. The shock made whatever it was feel both hugely thick and terrifyingly long, as her weight, and his strength, drove it deep into her, but alongside the shock, and the strangeness of it, there came something else, unasked for; a surge of sexual heat. The lewd dirtiness of it, the crudeness, the knowledge that she had been impaled, on her own table, immobilised by this … thing, so deep in her, took her breath away. Her arousal both horrifying and fascinating, she reacted; her head came up, she looked directly at him, their faces close, feeling her blush intensifying as never before, somehow more appalled at this usage than anything so far, while simultaneously set on fire by it, feeling her hips twisting and jerking, and at the same time limited in their movement by the unyielding, bone hard thing in her backside; she could hardly breathe, her whole body energised, but immobilised, by her impalement; tears steadily moistening her cheeks, but not sobbing at all, she was shuddering with the intensity of it, desperate for … for … she had no idea what she was desperate for, could only utter, over and over;
“Ooh! Aaaoh! oh! Please … please … please …”
His hand was at her sex then; not sensuous or lover-like, but simply investigating— entirely practical, thorough, impersonal, bringing a wail from her that confirmed both her helpless, revealing arousal and her despair at his treatment of her, at her own complicity;
“Hot and wet, Hmm? Good little slut.”
He was grinning lightly at her, utterly unmoved by her emotion, her distress, her delirious confusion, her urgent pleas; he was clearly both amused and entertained, but his voice and face were calm and focused again when he spoke;
“This is hard for you, I know. Of course, it is meant to be; but still, you are suffering, allowing me to damage you; do not imagine that I do not understand how you are working for me, and how much it is costing you. It may help to know that I am enjoying you immensely; that you are responding very gratifyingly. The ass peg is not because I was displeased with you, but because you are worth the extra effort. I am having to control myself, too; I am strongly tempted to forget the orgasm and rape you right now; you are so delightfully vulnerable and ready for it.”
He was calm and relaxed, almost gentle as he said these terrible things to her; terrible because they seemed made to fit her own, desperate need for validation at that moment, where she did indeed feel utterly vulnerable, betrayed by her body, betrayed by her mind, her soul exposed as one which was willing to meet his cruelty with self inflicted defeat, to give herelf. The twisted praise, the validation offered her— that he was enjoying himself, that she had aroused in him a desire to violate her, was a dreadful thing to hear, but it worked, and she gave herself to the feelings that grew in her and whispered,weakly;
“Rape me! Rape me then! Or … or … carry on. Hurt me. “
And there was a little lift of his eyebrow than, which made it important to be clearer;
“Yes. Yes, hurt … hurt my clitoris; make it bad for me. As bad as you would like it to be.”
And he did. And she cried, and then, over the next minutes, the next eternity, she shouted, then finally screamed and shrieked her pain and horror, until, at last, after another broken entreaty— Hurt my nipples. Be cruel — she was taken completely by surprise when he engulfed the tip of her breast with his warm, wet mouth, and used his tongue, very gently, to caress and tease her nipples. The arousal, which had never been entirely extinguished, even through the pain, flared into life and she worked to feed it; moaned and let her head fall even further back, lifted her hips off the table for him, let him see that she was his, advertising herself as worthy of rape, needy for it; eager to be fucked.
After that, the treatments at breasts and nipples became more teasing; threatening, rather than inflicting pain, offering tantalising strokes and the softest of scratches instead of jabbing and hitting and biting, until she was moaning almost constantly, begging him to come back to her whenever he stopped, all but fucking herself on the hard stick in her rear, so urgently did she keep pushing her pussy up for him, and then he began a very light, rotating tapping and pressing at her clitoris, with the curved back of the fork, his mouth at her nipples, sucking and nibbling, her head pulled hard down and back, her groin straining to give itself to him despite the thing in her backside, and she found herself, just as he had predicted, both appalled and demolished by the power of the climax that overtook her, crying and wailing with it.
There was no joy, no happiness, no ecstacy in this orgasm; none. Only overwhelming, whole-body intensity, deep cathartic release, through it all a churning at the understanding just how correct he was, that this would change her; that repeated experiences like this would powerfully transform her; that she would not be able to resist the change; and fear, too, at what she might become, what might be done with a creature so transformed. There were no thoughts, though, only feelings, as she jerked and shivered, and quivered for him, at his hands, under his control; suffered from the orgasm he had imposed upon her, forced from her. The orgasm which she had, nevertheless, delivered herself up to, asked for, and so deserved, whatever it might do to her.
And then her panting and desperate little moans became a shriek, as, just as he had in the hotel, rather than let her have this moment to herself, leave her be to process the tearing conflicts he had delivered her, let her nurse the unbearable sensitivity of her whole pussy at that moment, her need not to be touched there at all until she had recovered her mind, some sense of self, he was pushing his stiff, hot cock into her, right into her, without finesse or indeed the slightest concern for her— truly raping her— taking her; one knee of his up on the table, wresting her body to where he needed her to be, hurting her, the stick in her backside twisting in her as he rammed himself into the softest, most private, protected intimacy of her, again and again; not fast, not hurrying, but hard and with violence, waiting between each thrust, each one a whole rape, all of itself, a greedy, selfish taking; a violation, an overt assault; the pace increasing, the noise of him increasing, so that she was sure he was going to come inside her, though she could see nothing, for he was almost tearing her hair out, so tightly was her head pulled down.
But he pulled himself out with a shuddering gasp, and was gone, only to arrive as if by magic at the far side of the long, narrow table, behind her— she could see him, upside down, her head was so far back, grinning; a savage, greedy grin, and she closed her eyes in fearful submission, suddenly horribly conscious of the depth of her vulnerability, her arms fastend behind her, her knees bent so far back, for so long that she could not even imagine using her legs, and a wave of terror gripped her as she felt, rather than saw him clamber up onto the table, his knees either side of her, felt herself shivering, waves of useless movement wracking her, a shaking mess of helpless weakness and paralysing fear.
His hand, grabbing and twisting a handful of her hair, hurting her, wrenched her head back and down, banging hard onto the table, then his cock slammed onto her face; hot, pulsing, sticky, smelling of her juices, and then, her head bent right back to make it easy for him to ram himself straight into her, just as he had promised to, he raped her throat.
The fear crystallised, then, into certainty, and she was transformed; no less agitated, no less overwhelmed, but simplified, commanded, subjugated by the push of his cock into her mouth, overcome by a rush of yearning for the feeling of defeat, of submission; knowing she must give herself to him now, no matter the cost, and the lovely sparked within her again as she committed herself to be what he required her to be.
She was possessed by the need to give him what he wanted, to submit to this violence, too, to be soft for him, and she fought with her body’s rejection of the penetration, so uncaring, so brutal, feeling as if she must be suffocated, killed by this, her chest convulsing. Somehow she locked her jaws wide for him, as his balls banged against her eyelids with each forceful thrust, his wiry pubes scratched her lips, her nose crushed by the weight of him, tears spurting from her eyes, somehow she restrained herself from twisting to the side as her body so urgently demanded, in order to force the invader from her, to relieve heart-stopping desperation to breathe, her pelvis jerking wildly against the cruel invader in her backside, his cock so deep inside her that she felt as if it must be in her chest.
His hand went between her legs, then, his bunched fingers pushing roughly into her slick and ravaged sex, gripping her, hard, pulling himself into her, her pussy as the anchor, as if he were riding a bucking bronco, and then there was nothing of her that was not violated, nothing of her that was not invaded, controlled, owned by him and she abandoned herself, was actually aware of letting herself go, some sort of out-of-body experience, seeing Essy, her body so cruelly contorted, restrained, so brutally abused, and it was a goodbye.
Essy was being killed, and she was watching it happen, and she was at peace with it; more than that, she was entranced by it, by the violence of it, the beauty of it, the unrestrained, careless purity of his desire, of her own complete submission to the experience of it.
His hands went to her waist, then, gripping so hard that she twisted with pain, brutally forcing her body toward him as he leant right forward, his teeth mashing into her sex as he spurted gouts of come into her, fouling her airways, so that she felt she must drown in it, choke to death; not grunting now but seething at her, a continuous, taut, angry noise, frightening; a noise that ate into her, reduced her to jelly, until it resolved itself with a slow, easing gasp of release as at last he pulled himself out and twisted himself round, to throw himself back on the table, his panting occasionally interrupted by a self-satisfied Ha!.
He left her there, soon enough; abandoned her without a glance or word; left her, bent backwards on the table, as she slowly, tentatively, wonderingly, found her way back into her body, realised that she had not died, not been killed by him. There was no deep emotion about this. He had killed her, killed Essy. She was not Essy anymore - at least, not that Essy. And this body was not hers anymore, not in the sense that it had been; the sense of wonder, of otherness from the body would persist, she knew. The fact that Essy’s body still breathed was more his concern than hers, now. He had taken possession of the body; it was his to use; her tenure was allowed on the basis that she controlled the body in the service of his pleasure.
All these bizarre thoughts, so peaceful, so calm, so incontestably, obviously true, somehow ran in parallel with that body choking the come out of itself as it learned how to breathe again, was reacquainted with the hateful stick which impaled it, fixing her in place, all the joints on fire, the mouth, sex and anus all bruised, traumatised by his violence, by his violation of her, the nipples and clitoris unbearably raw— as if skinned, then subjected to flame; throbbing, taut, swollen, agonisingly tender, and the poor mind (not where the thoughts were taking place?)— the mind all but unhinged; distraught, ravaged, destroyed, incapable of coherence, without any sense of any future that was not this state; trapped, hurting, engulfed by degradation and shame and pain everywhere.
And then she was back, back in the body, part of that chaos, having to let it ravage her, while at the same time powerfully affected by the afterglow of the astonishing eruption of sensation that had taken her to that other plane, just minutes before, which was meeting the pain with a shamefully welcome offer of release, of the resolution of all tensions. She was hurting, yes, but she was also drowsy, fuzzy, filled with inner warmth, hugging the lovely to her in spite of— no.
No, she had to accept, that the lovely was because of …
Because of his abuse of her. Because of his relentlessness, because of the consistency, the unwavering quality of the way he used her, of what he required of her, in order to receive his attention.
And with this acceptance, the lovely surged and she could let go, and when her mind saw that unconsciousness was attainable, it accepted, gratefully, abandoning her body, and slipping onto the dark of sleep.
She had made herself come for him, through pain and shame; she had been raped in every possible way, both physically and mentally; she had served her purpose; she was no longer needed; and she left herself, just as he had left her; a body on the table— naked, splayed, impaled, weak, helpless and vulnerable.
Picture: Essy on the table: naked, used, abandoned
