It comes down to This (revisited)

Amazing what a vote can do. One upvote on this old story, and I re-read it, made a new image— at the end— and more than doubled the word count, then took the old gif apart, colorised and upscaled it, making it much richer. It took quite a while, so I decided to re-publish it and get it some attention.

I’m letting the story keep its votes. It’s earned them, but votes will be separate for the two versions going forward. As if you cared …

It comes down to this.

This is the central fact of her existence now. Not the actual beating, so much as the fact that they both know that he can beat her. That he will beat her, whenever he feels like it. That whenever he wishes, despite her desperation not to be whipped, she will present herself, naked, in whatever horribly vulnerable position he asks … and let him hurt her ¹ .

Picture: Beaten

He told her he wanted to do it to her when they first met. She had laughed, tried to sound less un-nerved than she was, as she said;

“Yeah, right, like that’s EVER gonna happen!”

There was a silence; he smiled, almost sweetly, as if waiting to see what she would do.

And she knew she should do something — really, she should walk away — just turn her back and leave him.

But he seemed so kind, so calm and reliable, so comforting to be with, and most of all, so genuine — she hadn’t met anyone like him before — let alone in the years since she had split with Ethan.

And so she stayed with him. She may even have smiled back, but she said nothing more; she couldn’t speak, in fact. She felt her heart beating.

At last he spoke;

“I will always be honest with you.”

He was looking calmly into her eyes, so directly. A quiver ran through her. But still she couldn’t speak. More silence.

“More than that, I won’t let you be dishonest either.”

She was quivering now — how did he know what to say to her? He looked at her for a few seconds longer, then took her slowly, gently into his arms and held her, so that she could feel his strength, his stillness.

She was never sure what their relationship was, at that point — he never made her any promises, and she never asked for any; it seemed inappropriate, always, to ask anything of him. He gave, freely, and never asked anything of her, but she found it impossible to imagine making any demands on him, of any kind, he was so self-possessed. But she loved seeing him, loved being with him, found herself waiting for his calls.

The fifth time she saw him, they were at dinner, in an intimidatingly expensive restaurant with high ceilings, dark wood paneling and armies of staff in immaculate starched uniforms.

After the waiter had taken their orders, there was a little pause, and then he said;

“I’m going to beat you tonight, before I fuck you. Use my belt on your buttocks. It will hurt. They have a room here — it will happen there. The staff here will know.”

She had, once or twice, tried to imagine this moment — but never like this. ‘Laugh at him -’, she had told herself — ’- that’s the way to make it clear to him without losing him’.

Or; ‘Just leave without saying a word. If he wants you, he’ll call and apologise’.

But here, now, in this swanky restaurant, with him looking so calm — so relaxed — and with this terrible knot of panic in her chest, she finds that none of this means anything at all, none of it makes any sense. What had she been thinking?.

She feels so weak.

Why doesn’t he look nervous? Is he so sure of her? Or does he not care if she stays or goes — she could make a scene — shout at him, embarrass him in this posh place…

The silence is unbearable. She should leave. But her legs won’t carry her, she knows they won’t — her knees are like jelly. Eventually, desperate for something to be said, she hears her voice, soft, husky, tentative;

“No … no I … I don’t want that. You … you can’t…”

More silence, stretching out, unbearable, him just watching her, interested, that sweet look again — until she cracks;

“Please … why … why are you? Don’t!”

Silence again, during which she realises she is losing all perspective — her outrage unsustainable, her inability to imagine a future where she has resisted this … this … And then she is all but whispering;

“I … I don’t understand…”

At last he leans across the table and takes her hand, That wonderful feeling of his gentle, reliable strength. Without meaning to, she relaxes;

“You’ll find it makes sense, after a few times, I promise. And you will understand what it means to let go — to give yourself over. To rely, completely, on someone else.”

Somehow, she pulls herself together, forces a brave little smile onto her lips;

“You’re crazy. H … Hurting me won’t make me rely on you — the … the absolute opposite will be true.”

Now her voice is shrill and desperate, but his strong hand still holds hers, and she holds his, her chest rising and falling as she finds herself panting — feeling her breasts rise and fall in the low-cut dress she has worn for him (bought last weekend with this dinner in mind). He smiles a little, reaches out and strokes her cheek with his other hand.

“We’ll do it three times, over the next week or so. After that, you tell me. Ah — here’s the wine!”

And then, remarkably quickly, after some functional small talk with the waiter, it was somehow settled; he smiles at her again, reassuring, reminding her about their trip to Vienna, planned for the weekend— had she begun packing? … and, although she is still trembling, they are somehow having a normal conversation again — just as always. An almost unbearable surge of relief and gratitude floods her — that he has saved her from breaking up with him.

Except … except that now, he is going to beat her, it is certain. In her belly a strange fear is bubbling. Fear, yes, but strange, because it is also anticipation; as if she is about to do something crazy but exciting, like a bungee jump (she has never, would never, do a bungee jump, or anything like it — but this is different. She’s not going to do it. He’s going to do it to her). He’s going to beat her. She’s going to let him. Somehow she can’t see a way out. It’s going to happen. And again … and again. He’s told her. And he always does what he says he will do.

Each time the fear gets too much, and she stops listening to him, instead staring, desperately almost, into his eyes, hoping to see some hint there that this is a strange joke, that he doesn’t mean it, he understands, each time; notices, stops talking, catches her gaze, and smiles at her; a serious, calm smile; encouraging, certain, devoid of doubt.

And each time this happens, the bubble in her belly gets a jolt, and each time it is harder and harder to distinguish the fear from sexual excitement.

So that when, after a tiny, almost astringently perfect little dessert, he stands and moves behind her, she finds herself meek, mild, sweet almost; entirely passive as she lets him pull her chair back, then without hesitation follows him to the Maitre d’ (blushing hotly, unable to look at the man), fails to hear exactly what is said in a low but confident tone, then on, through the lobby to a discreet side door, up a narrow stair to a large, simply furnished room with a couple of leather chairs, an armoire and a heavy bed with strong wooden posts at the corners.

The bubble grows and builds inside her all the way, but although she feels dazed, other-worldly, she does not falter. In fact, she finds herself walking deliberately, carefully, needing this awful thing to be beautiful, if such a word can be used. She even manages to smile at him — a needy, tremulous smile, but completely genuine — as he holds the door for her.

What is the need, the question in her smile?

Don’t let me down, will you — please?

That’s it, she realises. If he is going to beat her, do this awful thing, then he has to follow through. He has to mean it; it has to mean something, go somewhere, be more than some sordid perversion.

Suddenly she can’t breathe. This can’t be real! But it is, this kiss is real — wonderful! She clings to him, trembling, needing reassurance, dreading the certainty of his resolve just as much as she needs it, moulding herself to him, feeling sexual tension mounting inside her, hoping against hope that if she holds him, he will change his mind, knowing he won’t.

At last, unable to bear the tension any longer, she stands back from him, looking at his feet, tears in her voice;

“If … if you’re going to do it, please … please do it now.”

But he doesn’t. In fact he steps back, away from her, and sits into the heavy chair.

“Strip, pretty girl. Strip yourself naked for me.”

They’ve never done this, and she has never felt like doing it for any other lover, but at this minute it makes a crazy sense and she strips — not lewd or flamboyant, but not shyly either; slow, elegant, sombre, increasingly aware of holding herself just so to show her breasts, her thighs in what she hopes are attractive shapes for him, until at last she is in nothing but suspender belt and stockings, grateful to be allowed, to be made, to offer herself to him; as she discovers that it is a throbbing joy to make herself naked for him, vulnerable; to perform for him.

“Stop.” He says; “Put the shoes back on. Kneel on the bed. Ass up, face down, hands out wide, palms up. Legs apart. Open your wet little pussy for me.”

He’s never spoken like this before, but again, it seems totally appropriate — and her pussy is indeed wet for him, she realises with a shudder, the fear notwithstanding, as she wordlessly obeys, trembling, almost desperately concerned, now, in this humiliating pose, to appear desirable, sexy, elegant, positioning herself with fierce attention, so that she is vulnerable — ready to be beaten, she suddenly thinks to herself. But there is no black humour even — just urgent need.

And indeed, being beaten leaves no space at all for irony, she discovers. There is nothing, nothing at all, but the directness of the experience — the humiliation, the abjectness of her position, that terrible anticipation, the sound, the astonishing reality of the blow as it lands, the mental devastation that results from forcing herself, against all instinct, to hold herself open for the assault — all of this is utterly extraordinary; searingly, demandingly, urgently more real than any experience of her whole life.

And the sex afterwards is yet another unprecedented experience. Sex with him had been a revelation already, but this was something else — to be fucked so masterfully by the man who had just somehow dominated her so thoroughly that she had held herself open for repeated blows from his belt was at the same time powerfully degrading and wildly liberating. She made noises she had never heard herself make before — after a while lost all inhibition, grinding herself back into him, almost relishing the pain from her sore buttocks as he drove into her, spreading her thighs yet wider, sobbing, begging, teeth chattering.

And now?

Shockingly quickly, the whipping, the beating has become the central reality between them, the central, driving torment of her life; a reality of intense fascination, a black hole for the mind, perfectly inescapable, relentlessly at the centre of her universe, sucking her in, terrifying, but absolutely necessary, for without it, everything that matters to her will fly apart, lose coherence. Imposing a terrible, endless paradox— its utter incompatibility with her self image, with normality, with kindness, with decency, with love.

Of course, he understands how terrible this is for her — they’ve talked about it, sensibly, calmly (although tears well up often, she has never felt angry with him, even after the most harsh session, not once). He agrees with her that it is terrible, what he does to her, what he demands of her. He accepts that it is destructive— that she cannot survive it, that something has to change. He tells her, though, that it will not be him that changes. A hard smile; I’m too broken. Worse; knowing that I am broken, knowing that the peace I feel after beating you, fucking you in your pain, comes at a terrible cost to you; knowing this, I do not resile from it. I will not attempt to change. I will not restrain myself with you.

After this exchange, she had cried, softly, not for herself, but for him; for the pain that must be inside him, of which he never speaks, or shows any sign, save in the intensity of his noises when he fucks her, ravages her, after a particularly cruel session. She had fallen to her knees beside him, opened her blouse to offer him her breasts, laid her head in his lap, her mouth open and soft over his groin, until she felt him stirring, at which she had looked up and said, very simply;

“Please, beat me now; hard. Don’t hold back. Do exactly as you would like to do with me, what … whatever the damage. Be … be cruel. Please?”

It had been terrible, but cathartic— for her at least. It had changed her, completely; turned her inside out.

Now, he is the man who beats her. The man whom she thinks about being beaten by. The man by whom she is completely consumed — the man who has rendered every other aspect of her life irrelevant. The man who beats her, whenever he wishes to; the man she allows to beat her, despite desperately, urgently begging, each time, in low, careful, polite words, that he might let her off (he never has).

He has told her that that there are only two ways forward, for her. She can either end the relationship, or she can withdraw from the world, simply give it up, cease to be an independent person. Give herself over to him.

If she does this, he has told her, he will cease to speak to her much, will cease to be concerned about her happiness— yes, she is right; there can be no love, no kindness, no decency, if this is the way she chooses. She must forget all hope of these. That will all be over for her. He will strip away, heartlessly repress any expression of her individuality, save for those aspects which entertain him. He will take other women— may even, one day, find a woman who can cure him of this dark need; she will neither be consulted or considered. He will share her with others— mostly men, but women, too, if it should please him. She will almost certainly be beaten and otherwise hurt by these others, as well as used for sex.

Its an insane proposition. He’s mad.

But it seems that she, too is on the verge of madness, too, because she has been thinking and dreaming about this second option far too often.

She used to think she might love him, but now she knows that she never did — that somehow she had known that this feeling was coming — this knowledge, this iron reality, knowing that it would shape her destiny.

It tore her apart for weeks, until, one ordinary morning (ordinary for them, at least), sitting quietly with him, in his beautiful garden, she, naked, welts from beatings of different vintages evident on her flesh, having served him his coffee, brought his paper and the day’s post, it had all resolved itself, in a single moment; the moment when he did not look up, did not thank her, did not acknowledge her service, her nakedness, her presence, even.

An old part of her had protested, an inner voice — this was wrong; he should not take her for granted, so!

She looked at this thought, and suddenly began to laugh; it was ridiculous! The man beat her, viciously, whenever he wished; afterwards, while she was still moaning and shaking with the terror and the fear and the shame of having allowed herself to be thrashed again, he raped her (it had long ago been make clear that her consent was neither sought nor even considered relevant). And yet here she was, happy (for she was, that morning; very happy— despite the ravages of the previous evening or was it in part because of those very ravages?). So of course he should take her for granted! She was nothing— nothing that was not defined by his desire to beat and rape her. By her willingness to be beaten and raped; by her submission.

What had she been worrying herself about? It was obvious. She felt stupid, and small, and ridiculous; but she was also happy; she did not have to make any decision. He had made it for her. Reality had made it for her. She was, already, his; had already lost the world, given up all claims on respect or dignity. And look - it meant she could be with him, like this— happy, naked, serving him; the marks on her body, the sharp pains in her rear passage testament to the total freedom he felt in using her. What more could she want?

And, when he had looked up, irritated by her noise, she had laughed again, and fallen to her knees, spreading them wide, offering him her sex (he had begun beating her there, too; her mons was puffy and misshapen— he had used the buckle end of the belt on her, there, two days ago, and she had taken his raging cock softly into her mouth, as tenderly as she could, straight afterward, suggestively rolling her buttocks for his entertainment, too, as a submissive offer of her other holes, even while she was still wracked by sobbing moans at the pain and the shame that being beaten that way for the first time had driven into her).

Looking up at him for the first time in days (she mostly found it to embarrassing to look at him, recently— he knew just how shamefully degraded she was; she could not bear to see it in his eyes), she had said, very simply;

“I’ve just realised how silly I’ve been being. That’s why I’m laughing. You’ve probably been laughing at me too, I’m so stupid. Thinking it was my choice, whether to give myself over to you completely. What silly, stupid thoughts! It’s already done, isn’t it? I’m already yours.”

“The … it … it was kind of you, to … to let me have the illusion of choice. You are kind. You have always been so very, very kind to me. I know that sounds mad, given … well …”

… and she had leaned backwards a little, on her knees, looking at her body, naked, spread open for him, marked by his cruelties, it being known between them that there was no part of it that he had not been violent with; plundered, manipulated, pulled, pushed, beaten, pinched, spat on, bitten, kicked, twisted, torn at in his frenzied post-beating assaults on her …

She had laughed again, although there was pain, too in the sound that time;

” … well … this. But … but it’s true, we both know it is. You are the kindest man I have ever been with, and I am grateful, forever.”

She paused then, and the silence grew long. She had his full attention, as she had not had for weeks, and it both warmed her and frightened her, making what she had to say next very hard. But there was, very simply, nothing else to be done, and so she said it; her voice soft and husky, low toned and serious, sincerity in every part of it;

“But … that must be over, now. The kindness. I’ve been yours; all yours; totally yours for … well, for longer than I realised, anyway. And … and so that’s the end of kindness, for me; thank … thank you … Thank you for everything, but please … please … no more kindness.”

It had been both awful and perfect, after this outpouring from her, of something which in some way ended her life, for him to issue no more than a small, formless sound, utterly without emphasis, and then turn back to his paper and his coffee, as if nothing whatsoever had happened.

She had been left there, kneeling on the grass, unable to convince herself that she had the right to move. When it began to rain, he had got up and taken himself back to the house, without looking at her, and she had not moved. When it got dark, the lights came on in the house, and the curtains were closed, but he did not come for her, and she did not move.

It was very early in the morning before he came, by which time she was in agonies, both physically and mentally. He did not come close, simply far enough into the garden that she would hear him clearly, behind her;

“As you said, you have been mine for weeks now. Continue as you were— I may have you give up your work but not yet. Do not allow your new condition to lead you into inattention or irresponsibility. I don’t hurt you to punish you, as you know, but my displeasure will hurt you, nevertheless. The main change you have already understood. You don’t initiate anything with me. Speak when you’re spoken to, do what you are told, otherwise nothing— except, as I said, do not neglect responsibilities— including self-care; desirability is one of the few powers which remains in your gift. Use it well.”

“Now, you will need to hurry, to get to work on time— the clothes you kept here are gone; destroyed. You will always be naked here. Wear a short coat of mine back to your place. Nothing else; use the belt, but no buttons or zips. No shoes. Don’t tidy your hair or shower. Go as you are. Phone, keys, a card. Nothing else; you don’t have possessions any more. Find a house clearance service to take all your stuff to charity, dispose of anything they don’t want. Terminate your lease; you have no home, anymore.”

“Oh, and I want to hear about you getting fucked at work. As soon as possible. I’m sure there are some men there who’d like to have you— or women; it’s all the same to me, and your preferences are of course irrelevant. Let them know that you are available. Make it obvious. Everyone there should know what you are. They can have you during work hours only. Any way they want. Let them see that they can hurt you, if they wish; let them see that it turns you on, to be hurt.”

And so it had gone.

It is strange, so strange, to be grateful to have been thus transformed by such cruelty. She has no more doubts. All is clear, simple, there is nothing to worry about. Tonight they are meeting his foreign investors, two chinese men, and she is going to be fucked by both of them, in the private room — after he has whipped her for their entertainment. He’s told her this. He never lies.

The thought of being whored to strangers by him is at once terrible and wonderful; that she — such an ordinary, boring person — could experience such wildness and intensity is — just remarkable.

Shopping for a skimpy dress and the waist cincher corset he’s asked her to choose, she finds herself laughing out loud — ever so softly, a fizzy feeling in her belly. Laughing — and crying, too. He’s told her that one day, she’ll discover what it is like to extinguish a cigar with her wet sex, grind herself into the glowing tip, not flinching as it sears her, and she suddenly knows that it will be tonight, that she will do this for the strangers, and she almost swoons with the intensity, the sadness, the astonishing wonder of it all.

Picture: Whipped, tied, about to take a cigar

She smiles at the sales clerk so sweetly, so softly, that the young woman looks after her as she leaves, yearning, filled with deep emotion for no reason she can imagine.

He has met her need; she sees it. He has followed through. Being beaten means something. It means this new version of herself, this pretty girl who can contemplate such awful abuse— and it will be awful — unbearable if it were not for the fact of being inescapable, if it were not for him — contemplate it and understand that it must be accepted, because her willingness to be abused now defines her. She can contemplate the horror of it and yet still smile, and take care as to how to present herself most beautifully, for the strangers. The strangers who will defile and degrade her, for no better reason than that it will entertain them momentarily.

She smiles too, later, standing at his side as the two bleak-faced strangers come into the bar area, having been relieved of their raincoats, hats, umbrellas (the weather is appalling), even as she sees how dead their eyes are. Dead and hollow. Smiling as the fear builds inside her; realising that these new abuses, too, will mean something. Some further change.

This version of her will be obliterated, in the next few hours; it’s inevitable.

By midnight, then, she will have ceased to be pretty girl, but will have been transformed into something else.

Something infinitely less likely to receive care or kindness, or caresses, even — let alone respect. Seeing this, clearly, she turns her head, urgently, to look at him — the one who has done this to her. The realisation is a question in her eyes, as it had been, that first time he beat her, a question to him.

And he answers it, as he had that first time, with a sad but implacable smile, a smile which says much; Yes, this is a terrible thing to do to you. Yes, it will hurt you terribly. Yes, it will change you, make you weaker, less of a person. Yes, this is cruelty. There is no good in it, no hope in it. Only meaning. Only the certainty that I know what I am doing. That I know that I am hurting you. That I will enjoy hurting you. That I recognise that you are allowing me to do this awful thing to you. But, awful as it will be, I will not falter, never fear. I won’t let you down.

It’s terribly, terribly sad. But, as with the first time, there is a powerful need in her to make it as beautiful as she can. To make it mean something.

And so she turns back to the strangers, eyes shining, gaze lowered, smiling beautifully, and makes a slow, suggestive curtsey; letting them see, in every way that she knows, that she accepts, that she is fully theirs.

Theirs to destroy.

Picture: Before he whips her, she is displayed, for the strangers’ approval