You will want to have read the other parts of this story before reading this.
It is terrible, the ensuing period, kneeling on the low table, the position increasingly stressful the longer it goes on, keeping her buttocks in the air.
But the physical discomfort— the shame, too, of her lewd pose (the shame multiplied by Him being more interested in His book than in her)— is almost welcome as a distraction from the fierce agonies that wrench her heart as the searing, relentless clarity of what He had set out for her sinks in; that, if she is to stay with Him, she will have to work on herself, hard, in order to install into the core of her being that she means nothing except as a vehicle for violent sexual abuse.
More, she will have to make that meaning something she lives for, lives through. That this will define her whole future existence.
This is, clearly, untenable; impossible; unimaginable. She won’t do it; won’t be able to do it, can’t have been asked to do it.
At the same time, nothing else seems possible; for nothing, after the last few days, is left to her but this … this existence, as Rape Dolly; she has been over the ground too many times; she is defeated, trapped, ensnared, lost; there is no fighting it— not while so much of her has chosen to work with Him, to work with her responses to Him; no way out but to dive deeper into it.
But for it to be made so clear to her, that there is deeper, deeper yet to go, than she has imagined, even in her darkest moments, this is once again, a terror that she has to confront, in the certainty of defeat, of acceptance, of losing herself yet further.
For the longest while, then, there is nothing to her being but the fight not to let tears fall, the holding of her pose and the constant alertness in her that He could look up at any second; the need in her that He should find her sexually enticing; the breathtaking sexiness and the utter shame of whoring herself so abjectly.
When she begins, just a little, to be able to think again, to hold it together, the mad idea comes to her, yet again, that she just needs to ride this out a little longer, before He will reveal to her that it has all been a cruel joke.
Only to have to remind herself, yet again, that in allowing herself this fantasy, it is she who is the cruel trickster.
Deep in her now, is the certainty that all these mind-busyings, trying to soften, somehow, any how, any way at all, for any period at all, however short— are just her trying to lessen the bite of the agony that is in her belly, now, unassailable in its castle of shame; that she is going to try.
That she is going to repeat His words to herself, verbatim, endlessly, as if they are her creed. And that she is going to do just as He says; that she will make herself pay attention to His cruel and heartless words; take them as her gospel; try her hardest to install those dreadful ideas into the core of her being; try to lose herself, try to show Him that she can be what He wishes of her; a girl who can lose herself, lose everything that was good and hopeful about herself, give herself away, embrace horror and degradation, use her own sexual needs and desires as the means of perverting herself, in order to become that thing He demands that she to become.
That she is going to work hard at it, unceasingly. That, in her despair, she is beginning to yearn, in the most tragic, the sickest, most dangerous way, for the image she is building in her mind; the image of the perfect, willing, sweetly accepting Rape Dolly; somehow seeing it as almost a spiritual quest— to transform herself, completely, so that there is nothing to her, nothing left of her, that is not the immaculately fuckable, infinitely submissive Rape Dolly.
This yearning, though, brings no happiness, no hope, but only passion, intensity, fervour; it is agony and ecstasy; it is terrible and glorious; ultimately, it knows itself to be self-destruction.
Her heart beats, so hard, so feverishly, that she thinks He must hear it, that the searing sensations that possess her must be evident to Him, so racked is she by them, but He carries on reading His book, occasionally gently toying with the dog’s ear, the animal emitting soft noises of satisfaction and pleasure.
The dog is clearly more important to Him than she is, now— for no-one has made any effort at all to offer her caresses, consider her pleasure, exert themselves to make her feel cared for, not for days now, despite her continual, servile dedication to pleasing everyone in the most degrading of ways. Indeed, all the efforts made in respect of her have been with the opposite end in mind, to hurt, degrade, shame and abuse her, to ram it home to her, in the most brutal and intentionally cruel ways, that she must understand this as her lot.
Ruthlessly, then, she clamps down on herself, lest she make some noise, some movement that might disturb Him. These feelings are, must remain, hers, if she is not to ruin everything by irritating Him; if she is not to find herself cast out, a ruined human being, shorn even of the context in which its ruination makes sense.
It’s so hard, but god help her, it’s addictive.
The pain and the shame seem somewhow almost sweet; precious, purifying.
She loses herself again, for a while— she has no idea how long— in the hard, sweet business of letting the cramping ache in her thigh muscles be the spur to keeping her body in contant, small motion, of fine tuning that motion, as best she can think to do it, so as to emphasise, as He had suggested she should, the availability of her breasts, her naked sex under the short skirts, translate the urgency of her body for relief— even if that relief should take the form of cruel abuse— into little, darting motions of her tongue, flutterings of her eyelids, tiny surges of her hips, undulations of her back, working all the time to tie this to her sexual arousal— not for her own pleasure, but in order to keep her pussy from drying up; keep herself ready for penetration, so that He will find her ready for Him to fuck, if He should choose to try her.
A small part of her takes a moment of blankness as an opportunity to repeat its insistence, that she somehow put a stop to all this, that she recognise what is happening, save herself. It’s almost funny; almost cute, that some of part of her is still so silly, so naive, to still believe that she deserves respect; that she is not a proven slut, proven beyond all doubt, a hundred times over. And then it comes to her, that she must protect this part of her; not because it is a source of hope, but because she must rather use it, to feed the shame which will make her needy for the absolution, the freedom she can find only in being fucked.
It all fits together so beautifully, entraps her so neatly, so effortlessly, so completely, this plan for her degradation, that she almost feels happy, there, close to Him, is almost proud of herself for her dedication to readying herself for His pleasure, even though He is ignoring her.
Her reverie is interrupted by noises from the hallway, of voices, too muffled to understand, and the horrors return with a shock. Strangers. People who have no idea who she was, who she can be, are going to be introduced to her in this degraded condition, and she … she is going to … what?
Is it welcome, or humiliating, she wonders, to realise that, if she accepts her position, that there is in fact no question to ponder; she is going to wait until she is told what to do, and then, simply, do it? That in fact, if she is truly to ‘accept’, she should make a commitment to stop thinking about the future; about what comes next, and simply live; live, as all the self-help guides suggest, ‘in the moment’— very simply, carry on doing what she has been asked to do, until she is asked to do something else. Make no plans, accept the future which is imposed upon her. Simply, be willing cunt, without a future, or a past.
She almost loses it, then; it’s so wrong, so awful; somehow, while it has been just her, and Him, and Norah, all of them playing their parts to perfection, nobody else, the bubble has been complete, self reinforcing.
It has been terrible, yes, but it has also been weirdly liberating, delivering, again and again, sexual and emotional intensity of a kind she could never have imagined possible. The relentless imposition of submission, abuse, humiliation and violently disempowering manipulation, forcing her to see a whole new picture of herself as Rape Dolly which, wildly transgressive and deeply disturbing as it is, has fascinated and seduced her. She has allowed herself to be drawn into the whirlpool, dived into it, even, opened herself, even at terrible cost, to the weirdness and wildness, and found in it some resolution of contradictions within her she had not known existed. She has been willing, complicit, in the acceptance of the idea of herself as someone who will be denied choice, denied dignity, in return for certainty, for the promise of violent sexual catharsis, for the specialness of being His Rape Dolly.
This intrusion of the outside world, though; for ordinary people, with ordinary assumptions, to see her, like this— more, to be subjected to such treatment as she has been learning to submit to, in front of people who will surely make judgements about her that she cannot bear to contemplate. He, Norah— even her abusers that first night, perpetrators of that brutal gang-fucking, knew what she was before all this began; knew that they were abusing an innocent young woman; whatever they think of her now, they see her in the context of who she was.
These new people will see nothing, nothing of her, nothing of her real self, but only this degraded, pathetically servile slut. They will know her as Rape Dolly, and nothing else.
Her body wants to run; to jump up, hide, seek safety, sanctuary; somewhere small, with a single way in, where she can lock herself away until it’s just them again; Him, Norah and Rape Dolly.
But she dares not act, dares do nothing except hold her pose, despite the fiery, insistent pain in her thighs, demanding that she rest, let her bodyweight rest on the tabletop.
She sees, then, in a moment of clarity, that, despite the enormous mental and emotional cost to her in the time since they had left, the men who had raped her that first night, the cost she has incurred in managing her submission to Him, that this is just the start; dominating her in private, at home, for Him, is not, after all, so very different from how it had been, these last weeks before the violation.
More explicit, of course; His imposition upon her of the events of that terrible evening, then the morning after, now lie stark between them. But still, if He had asked her, before then, to kneel like this, for Him, in these clothes, to take His cock as she had that morning, she would have smiled and giggled, weakly; protested perhaps, for form’s sake— but, in the end, He would have found her willing; sweetly willing, hopeful for sex, happy to act the slut for Him; she had been sexually infatuated with Him for months; it would have been welcome to her to have His sexual usage of her taken to another level.
But it is this public demonstration of her degradation, demonstration to strangers of her submission to Him, of her acceptance of her humbled condition that is the real step change, the real proof that He has, indeed, ‘moved her on’.
It is not, though, until Norah enters the room, and announces the arrival of Mr Sampson and Ms Escribal, and He nods, that she realises, remembers, violently, what it is that has really entrapped her, what she had had to recognise, that first morning, after having been so shockingly, so violently, so throughly fucked by the strangers.
The knowledge that, keen as He might be to have her used by strangers, like some fantasy sex-slave, it is this flush of heat in her at the promise that she is going to invite such usage, make it obvious to strangers that she is, in her heart, already an eager slut, that had her realise, in the privacy of her own mind, that some part of her wants this; that it is she who has made it possible for Him to do this to her…
She is already blushing at the intensity, at the sweet terror that this eagerness has ignited in her when, casually flicking His hand, He indicates that she is to go with Norah.
Watching her then, as she carefully uncrosses her ankles, considers how best to rise from the table so as to be both elegant and sexually obvious, He must have noticed her blush, understood what it meant;
“Come; closer.”
She is exalted and horrified at presenting herself; still not used to the idea that she is to stand in such a way as to invite His hand between her thighs, where it finds and roughly investigates the condition of her sex, His eyes keenly on her face, her head up, her eyes downcast, her hips moving for him, immodestly, shamefully, obviously moving, knees flexing so as to allow Him maximum access to her, knowing that Norah is watching, judging her, cruel in her enjoyment of this humbling.
Her bushes have intensified; she cannot suppress a low, halting moan;
“Little slut is excited at the idea she’s about to ask some strangers to rape her. Make sure they know you mean it, pretty. I want them not to be able to stop themselves from asking me about it; if they do, I’ll say yes; I’ll encourage them to take you; make sure they understand they are to be rough with you, cruel, even, if it would entertain them.”
Her eyes have closed. She knows that the movements of her hips are now not just submissive— giving herself to Him— but helplessly needy, now; wanting it. It shames her, but she can’t stop, not until He grasps her clitoris, hard, between thumbnail and first finger, then twists, hurting her, laughing at her squeak of pain, her efforts to suppress the instinctive pull of her body away from him, biting her lip to avoid screaming— for He has yanked His gripping fingers off her, savagely.
“Teaching this one that her pleasure is not something she has any right to pursue is going to take a while, Norah; she always was a bit of a wanton hedonist once she got going. Discuss a training regime with her tomorrow. Help her choose something frightening.”
“Very good, Sir.”
“Right then, go and welcome our guests.”
She follows Norah, as bidden, something hot and shivery, powerful and overwhelming, rising inside her; the same feeling as that first night, only much much more powerful, and much more frightening, too, since she knows it now, for the force He used to destroy Chloe, the dark secret that was inside her that He had somehow seen, and had brutally exposed that night; the one she had felt, as she stood in front of them, at the fireplace, facing the horror of what He had proposed, and felt it rise in her then, too; an eagerness, a willingness, to stoke a fire in a stranger, a fire that would be turned upon her, would burn her…
She is finding breathing hard, unnatural almost, as she follows Norah into the hallway, where there are indeed two people, strangers, who from their lower bodies (she could not look them in the face without some great effort, or a command from Him or Norah), must be the man and the woman, wearing rather tired-looking business attire. There is no glamour to them at all.
Norah is speaking;
“Mr Sampson, Ms Escribal, Mr— will be pleased to see you now. If I might take your coats? And, if you’ll tell me, what your preferences are, I will organise some refreshments.”
Norah says nothing about Chloe, makes no move towards her, or to indicate her, it is as though she does not exist; and yet, in the context, her dress, her appearance, her demeanour are so notably unusual, that it is clear she is being stared at— she can feel it. Norah ignores the issue, and there is some business, then, with coats and overshoes (there has been a wild rainstorm, outside, all day, which Chloe has hardly registered, except in the background) during which Chloe burns with shame, and with the urges inside her, which are, powerfully, connected to her pussy, it seems.
She is horror-struck and also fascinated, knowing that she is about to make it clear to strangers just what she has been made to be, feeling the pressure build, until, just as Norah has learned their desires as to drinks, and is about to usher them towards the lounge door, Close feels herself possessed, and, fizzing with energy, trembling hard, appalled inside herself, but strangely calm, too, she acts.
Stepping backward a little, her feet placed just wide enough apart to attract interest, to ask a question as to why she should be standing so, she shoulders the cape open to free her breasts (a powerful hit of emotion floods her at this, as she remembers how it had been, that night, to show her naked breasts, display herself deliberately to men who planned to violate her), and then, as smoothly as if it were a practised dance move, lifts the skirt hem high, higher still, pushing her hips forward, deliberately lewd, obvious, unmissable (a further, shocking flood of emotion in her; her blood is roaring in her ears), her shoulders flexing backward, lifting her breasts, and hears herself speak, her voice low, unassertive, husky, but clear enough;
“Please … please, rape me?”
The silence that followed was strained, weird, with Norah the only calm person in the room; the energy from the others’ body language is hard to read, but they are definitely not relaxed.
Her heart is pounding fit to burst out of her chest, her breath suddenly harsh and deep, her pussy urgently needy; she could have cried or screamed or fallen to her knees or turned and run sobbing from the room, but instead, she uses every nerve and sinew to keep herself standing there, offering them her body, having just cast herself out of any norm of decency.
It was as wonderful as it was awful, as liberating as it was destructive. She has asked complete strangers to rape her, and, breathlessly, discovered that she means it. Having asked for it, having showed them her breasts, pushed her sex at them, for them not to rape her now, not to use her, would hurt badly, would cut and burn at her fragile psyche. Her self-worth rests upon the decision of two total strangers, unprepared, choosing to violate her. She wants the violence of it, the catharsis, wanted to be rutted, hard, she feels it in her, how much she needs it, needs the release, the intensity of it.
She has done it; she has done as He had asked her, and it is destroying her, and she gives herself to the destruction; there is nothing else to do.
At length, a man’s voice;
“So, I take it this … this is our candidate?”
Norah;
“Yes, but, please, allow Mr— to explain. Let me show you in.”
And the two strangers, both of whom make efforts not to come any closer to Chloe as they follow Norah, as if she were some wild animal— an unknown quantity, possibly dangerous— are led into the lounge, leaving Chloe, trembling, deflated, horrified, disbelieving what she has just done, how her body had felt, utterly lost, frozen, unable to process.
They had spurned her; she had offered herself, and been rejected.
Her mouth fills with the taste of bile, her lips twist with the pain of it, she almost falls; she feels she must die with the awfulness of it, but there is no such release. Instead, she simply has to wait, hearing murmurs of voices through the door, not even trying to understand what is being said, fully occupied with her own turmoil, the aching grief of being nothing but cunt, and not being wanted as cunt, even.
When Norah does reappear, she laughs, cruelly amused and making no attempt to hide it;
“Oh my, pretty! It hurts, doesn’t it, when they don’t even want to fuck you? Oh— and you really were hot for them, you slut…”
She has put two fingers to Chloe’s sex, casually invasive, investigating;
“Poor little slave girl. You can carry the drinks; He wants you in there.”
The fingers are at Chloe’s mouth, then; Norah wants them cleaning, and Chloe finds herself shamefully willing— terribly eager not to give Norah any reason for displeasure, no matter that she is in such emotional pain herself. It was frightening how urgently necessary it was to her, that Norah should be pleased with her; it was deep in her chest; powerful, demanding, unquestionable, no matter how shaming it was to be licking her own sex juices from the older woman’s fingers.
“You never know, maybe they’ll change their minds after they’ve seen you take the whip across those soft breasts of yours; maybe they’ll be excited by the tears and the screams.”
Turning, away, Norah heads for the kitchen, a trailing hand, finger crooked, making it clear that Chloe is to follow.
She is ignored, too, while Norah gives Tabby the order for refreshments (Tabby though, is gazing, round eyed, at Chloe’s outfit, and her face, too; seeing that something is up).
Norah says;
“Our little Rape Dolly just took a big, big step down. You should have seen it; He’d told me, He wanted to see if she would do it— and she did it; she offered herself to strangers; asked to be raped, sweet and humble, showed them her tits and puss, shamed herself very prettily. I think if it had been the guy on his own he might have asked if he could have her, right then— and of course the orders were to encourage him to do her right there, on her knees, if he did, but I don’t think he knows his colleague well enough.”
“We have a live-one, Tabby— a real rape dolly, just as He said we would. Not that I ever doubted Him, but that was proof positive.”
And then at last, Norah turned to Chloe;
“You are going down, posh girl; all the way down.”
“Now, pick up the tray and we’ll go see about having you erased.”
