The Story of Odile Pt14.

You will find that this makes more sense if you have read the previous part of Odile’s Story.

You can find all the episodes here.

She was on the floor again when she awoke; hazy, befuddled, dreamy …

And sore. Her pussy was sore. Other places hurt, too, but the centre of her soreness was her pussy.

Somehow, though, the soreness - though it definitely hurt, was important. Good even.

How could pain be good - pain there, especially … …

And then it unfolded upon her.

Not violently, but not easily either; how could it be anything other than hard, when the reason for her hurt, the reason for it being her pussy that hurt, was that she had asked Andrew to own her, to rape her, to hurt her. That she had given herself to Him, in her mind, in her soul. More deeply than that, even - for He certainly understood just how deeply He had annexed her - quite likely understood it better than she could herself, that she knew He would use this power over her to destroy her. That she had accepted this.

No, it could not— should not— be easy. She remembered too, from the night, another pain; harder, colder, frightening— the threat no, not the threat, the certainty; the hard, cold certainty, of utter despair.

For how could a girl who was to be complicit in her own destruction, who was to know, again and again, the experience of making herself lose in the face of cruelty, abuse, sadism— how could such a girl not be taken by despair?

And yet, in that soft morning, with bright early sunlight at the window, the certainty that Andrew controlled her, wanted to control her, that His control would be insistent, overt, hard, overwhelming, somehow combined with the afterglow of those unthinkable orgasms to fill her with a soft, warm helplessness, which blended, equally mysteriously, with her multiple sorenesses, so that she was suffused by an all encompassing sense of safe weakness which was— there was no other word for it— delightful.

It was remarkable; she had been transformed, in just a few short days; utterly transformed. Odile— the Odile she had worked so hard, for so many years, to become— Odile was gone; not dead, but overtaken, rendered void, null; an empty husk. It was all still there in her, all her past, but so thin, so drained of color, of meaning, of intensity, in the light of the new understandings Andrew had opened her to, had enforced upon her, that she knew that she could never go back.

She would be transformed; she would be opened, abused, hurt, shamed. She would be raped. It would be terrible; she would be destroyed - He had told her so. She would succumb to despair, would wish she were dead. This too. But she would live; be fully alive, be wholly occupied by each moment of her existence; bright, sharp, vivid sensations would transfix her; even if, eventually, they would burn her up, consume her.

After sitting with these terrible realities for some moment, she found herself laughing, very softly, at the realisation she could hold these dread certainties in her mind, let herself accept that they were certain, feel sure that wrenching degradation and humiliations lay in her future; that she could let all this be true, and yet feel … happy.

It was a sign of terrible stupidity and mental weakness— she accepted it— to feel herself so breathlessly open - mind and body both, since that was what Andrew required of her - open to such a future, to find the helplessness and dread— which was strong in her, no question about that— to find it not just a reasonable price to pay, for being Andrew’s, but much more - a necessary, fundamental part of the meaning of having given herself to Him. She could not be fully His if she were not deeply frightened at the power He held over her, if she were not convinced that He fully intended to do awful things to her, that He would be ruthless as He satisfied His desires through using and abusing her. That He would enjoy making her suffer, seeing her degradation and despair. for it was through this certainty that giving herself to Him meant so much.

These paradoxes, which the previous night had threatened crippling paralysis, now spurred her to action, demanded that she move, that she busy herself, that she do something.

She was up, grinning to herself as she realized she had slept on the hard floor all night, rather than her comfortable bed, then stopped short as it occurred to her that she knew she would not sleep in a bed again, save at Andrew’s request.

Life was going to be so much simpler, with her comfort, her preferences deleted, in favor of concentration on what she must give to Andrew. It was sad, but it honestly felt good, the idea of having very little, save that of her which mattered to Andrew.

Which was herself, her whole being. He wanted all of her, to control her inside her own mind, and it was incredible to be wanted so completely, so intimately. It was also mesmerising; as endlessly fascinating as it was frightening, that He wanted that control in order to transform her into some kind of degraded sex toy.

She made herself look at herself in the mirror, as she had the night before. Made herself say the words out loud;

“You’re going to be nothing but a degraded sex toy.”

The trembling which overtook her— part sensual anticipation, part horror— standing there, lost in the sensation, balanced on a knife edge between desire and terror, sickly fascinated by what was happening to her, until it was resolved by another impulse to move, get busy, do something, and, with a physical jolt, she broke free.

First, a shower, catching herself as she reached for the controls, self-conscious and weakly giggly with it as she made herself use her wrists, knowing that she was doing His work on herself, feeling tears there, too, blinking them away. It would be hard, always, to degrade herself for Him, even when He was not there to witness it, when He would never even know. She knew this; had seen it last night. But it was glorious, too, and she managed to smile.

To be so weak, so pathetic, so willing to humiliate herself, so easily suborned!

And to feel herself happy about it!

She was slow, and deliberate, considering each action anew - how would Andrew like her? How might she embody, fully become her offer of herself to Him as a victim, with each action she might make? It was like a fascinating game, with the strangeness that each move was another opportunity to help Him win, by imposing a further defeat upon herself.

When it was time to wash her hair, the bottle cap almost defeated her, until she saw that she must use her mouth, while gripping the bottle between her wrists. Shying away from the bitter taste, she was about to use the teeth at one side of her mouth, then caught herself. That might be better for her, but it was ugly, and not at all sexy.

The solution was easy - but horrible; she must take the bottle top right into her mouth, as if it were a cock; she must use her tongue, rather than her teeth, to grip the cap, while turning with her wrists. If this meant deliberately thinking about the bottle as Andrew’s stiff cock, if this meant suppressing the retching caused by the foul chemical taste of the stuff and making something sensual out of the convulsions, if the sharp edge of the cap cut at her tongue, her palate, well, she must make her suffering, and her acceptance of suffering, an expression of her weakness and vulnerability, for Andrew.

It was crazy that it felt good to make herself suffer, but it did.

She dried herself roughly, without too much trouble, but quickly realized that tying a towel around her chest, as she was used to doing, would be impossible without using her hands. She was about to attempt to shrug herself into a robe, when she realized that she must, in any case, remain naked.

Strangely, it was that simple thing - walking around her room, naked, which brought it home to her, made it real, grounded her. Everything had changed. She was not used to feeling her breasts sway with every movement, to the air on her naked sex, to catching reflections of her naked self in a the glass of a picture frame, in the windows, in the mirror. She was not used to the feeling that anyone opening the door would see her, naked. She was always dressed. Now, she would always be naked, she saw. Always. Always fuckable, always on show, unless Andrew wanted her dressed.

Clothes had always been her armor. She was to have none. The clothes she would be made to wear would not ever be to protect her, either, but rather to act as provocations, invitations, attention catchers.

And more, her body - such a source of insecurity, doubt, inadequacy, shame - her body would always be being judged - not least by herself, but equally by strangers, and by Andrew, too. And judged, too, against a cruel yardstick; whether she was worth raping. It was so easy to be ugly, so hard to be attractive, never mind whatever it took to present herself as an incitement to rape.

She was overwhelmed, then, for a little, frightened of just being herself, naked Odile, all alone, a target for strangers who would rape her. Whom she must encourage to rape her.

It was too much! It was not that she was rejecting or even regretting having offered herself to Andrew; there was nothing strong in her, any more, that wanted to resist His assumption of control, or protest His cruel intentions toward her, nothing at all; despite her fears, her sadness, her inner turmoil, she had accepted all that. It wasn’t nice, to think of herself as nothing more than His sex toy, but it was a given; it was simply a fact of her existence that this was so. She was his, and would work to make herself ever more his, at great cost to her personhood, in exchange for what He alone could give her; the feeling of being strongly controlled, of having her choices removed, and intense sexual catharsis.

Her problem was rather that she felt she must fail Him, that she could not ever be good enough for Him; that she would not prove worthy of His attention. That her shame would not just be to be made a public slut, to be degraded, to invite and helplessly accept sexual cruelty as no proper woman ought, but more, much worse, that she would, very simply, not be found desirable.

That she would not be able to excite Andrew to rape her, not even, perhaps, make herself worthy, in His eyes, of being offered to others. It was too hard! too hard!

It took her minutes to swallow her pain, her fear, her shame, promising herself that she would work; work on her body, work on her deportment, pay attention at all times to how she was presenting herself, as a matter of paramount importance - the most important thing about her, indeed, as long as she was to be Andrew’s.

Her heart was suddenly in her throat, as this thought clarified itself in her, so simple and frightening. That her whole life - the biggest part of it, in the least, would now consist of working to present herself as fuckable. She had been told this, in brutally straightforwardly terms, the night before, but last night had been a fever dream. This, now, in her room, just her, alone; this was real. This was her, living her life; was this what she was going to do with it? Was she seriously committing to work at this insane idea - that she would forever be making it her top priority to invite sexual violence, to advertise her openness to greedy abuse?

This reality was mesmerizing, fascinating, exciting; exhilarating, but also terrifying, cruel, shaming. And she could not pick which was more important to her; to be something worthy of Andrew’s attention - exalted as a sexual use-object available to all, or to know that she was to be fucked a great deal, fucked violently, fucked abusively - to become nothing more than a delirious, eager nymphomaniac?

She had to laugh, then; that or cry. Laugh, and do something. DO SOMETHING!

The happy/crying knife-edge stayed with her, as, naked, mostly on her knees, she began to pull out all her clothes, emptying every drawer, every bag, every hanger, all into one pile, for sorting.

It was a revelation to her, how easy it was to choose, when she simply applied the ‘Andrew question’; Is He likely to think about raping me if I’m wearing this?

At the same time, it was hard to put so many things in the ‘discard’ pile - all her safe, ‘go-to’ basics, so many clothes with memories, things which she had felt good in, things which had been expensive, things which she had thought were sexy or cute.

It was one thing to feel her old self as diminished, overlaid, slipping away. It was another to get rid of her possessions, pack them into black plastic sacks, delete them.

Delete Odile.

There was so little left, mostly things she never normally wore.

Staring at the little pile, she suddenly stood and grabbed another bag, went methodically from shelf to chest, to bedside table, and simply swept the lot into the bag, emptied the knick-knack drawers too; ruthlessly; all her little treasures, her keepsakes; all gone. Choosing was too hard, and anyway, who was she to choose, anymore? Pictures on the wall, as well - all except those which were for her work - He wanted her to work. Everything else, though - all signs of personality that were part of Odile, were no longer relevant, were they?

Delete Odile.

Her phone rang, then, into her bleakness, her self inflicted pain, into her bitter little victory over Odile; Nadia, brusque as ever.

“You are required. Twenty minutes. I’ll come to fetch you. Be ready - just as you were yesterday; nothing but slip, shoes; keys and phone in a little bag you’ll give to me. No underwear, of course. Oh; two differences - first, don’t forget the choker or the bangles - and second, your cunt will, of course, be hot and slick.”

She didn’t wait for an acknowledgement. Of course she didn’t. Nadia must know by now, at least something about last night; that Odile had given herself over to Andrew; that Odile’s assent, or even confirmation, were no longer in question; settled questions, to be taken for granted.

Her happiness returned, redoubled, her heart felt so big; soft and warm and eager - it was incredible.

Just like that, He had saved her; she had been so weak, finding it so hard to stay with the happy mood of her awakening - fearful, underneath everything, that He would leave her in this state for days, that she would have to manage herself, endlessly circling in her mind the cruel paradoxes of this new regime.

Now, though, He was controlling her, directly - or at least through Nadia, His proxy. She was safe. That she would pay in loss of dignity, of self-respect, was already accepted. Andrew always took, always diminished her. But what He gave her was priceless and unique, whereas what He took from her was something He could have from any girl (or so it seemed, from His effortless mastery). This asymmetry underpinned the cruelty of the one-sided arrangement, with her always torn; both the humbled beggar and the stupidly eager giver, while He might plunder her at will; casually demanding, ruthlessly greedy, lazily certain of her submission.

Despair rose in her, too, cutting through the happiness; grim, hard and hopeless; not to be denied. Despair that she could be so stupidly weak as to feel relieved at being bossed about, bullied, humiliated; at the shameful ease with which she had let herself be overrun, at the harshness in prospect.

She did not fight it, could not, but rather let herself be defeated by it, sank to her knees; let herself lose, yet again.

She was stunned by the depth of her shame, the awfulness of her situation, that she had so little belief in herself, so that she could ever escape this madness, and went blank for some minutes, hardly breathing, telling herself, not struggling against despair, but letting herself become it; letting it defeat her, making herself lose, making herself experience losing, fully; hurting herself with it in service of becoming ever more His, repeating, over and over; yes, this is me; this weak, helpless, dirty cunt; this is me.

Until, like a small miracle, she was rewarded for this abject surrender to her depair with a realisation. It wasn’t Andrew who had made her into this shameful thing, this weak, dirty whore; she had been like this all along, underneath; it was not possible that Andrew should have degraded her in such a short time if she was not already what He had seen in her; He had just forced her to see that the self she had built - the Odile she had been - was a lie; a brittle, limiting lie. He had not degraded her - He had freed her.

The terrible cost of her freedom was to see herself as she really was; to realise how weak she was, how incapable of living an authentic life she was. At the same time, though, it made it possible for her to receive an amazing gift; His attention; the only thing which made sense of her, which made sense of her being the weak, dirty whore that she was.

With Andrew, she would not have to be herself, be Odile. She could let Him make her what He wished of her. If she despaired of herself, she would have certainty from Him, that, while He wanted her, she was something, at least, something of value. Because His attention was precious.

She was required; she would be degraded today, at Andrew’s command. Nothing would be expected of her but acceptance; she would have few, and small choices to make. She would become more His. She would have little time to herself, and no time at all with people who would expect her to be ‘Odile’.

And all of this was good.

Maybe she would be sexually shamed in front of strangers. Maybe she would be beaten. Maybe she would be fucked - raped even. Maybe she would be made to come in degrading and painful circumstances. These thoughts were heart-stoppingly troubling, but shockingly fascinating, too, with immediate effects felt between her legs, and at her nipples, too.

I’m a whore. A helpless, needy whore. God help me I want Him to have me raped - to show Him just how much He can have from me.

Trembling again, but calm, she rose from her knees, and began to prepare herself for Him. For Andrew.

Read the next part of The Story of Odile here.