You will want to have read the previous part of this story.
Woken into pain by shock, she cried out in fear and distress, lost in the remnants of the black, despairing dreams that had had her writhing and murmuring in her sleep, knowing that she could wake up but fearing to for some reason.
A cold, wet towel over her face, making breathing suddenly, shockingly impossible, had crashed her back into the world, though; a world where her whole body burned or ached and throbbed with a universe of hurts, and where, all too soon, her already disturbed mind had had to acknowledge her new, unconscionably corrupted reality, and she had wailed in her despair and shame, and despite the pain, had done what was needful, flipped herself over onto her side, to curl into a protective foetal ball, hugging her knees to herself in defeated, helpless misery, denied the comfort of her arms by the cruel binding at her elbows.
Someone had woken her— him, it must have been, unless? She was taken by a terrible fear that there was someone else, Charles, or worse, the awful David, or even some total stranger, and made herself lift her head, dreading what might be, wildly scanning, and saw Mark, watching her, his half smile as calm as ever, and was overtaken by the most complex mix of emotions, all at once; relief, despair, a surge of lust, shame, fear— overwhelmed, devastated, at the knowledge of her loss, at what has befallen her.
But above all she felt need; urgent neediness. She was consumed by need for his attention, fearful of failing to deserve it, needing to do something about the situation, which was terrible beyond all apprehension.
Terrible in every direction.
It couldn’t be right, what he has done to her, what she had allowed him— encouraged him— to do to her. It wasn’t right!
This incandescent, correct, decent outrage withered almost as soon as it had arisen, punctured by its evident foolishness as the deep, unfixable knowledge of her repeated defeats, her repeated collaboration with him in ensuring and deepening those defeats imposed itself like an iron invader in her very core, inescapable, constraining every aspect of her possibility; certain, rigid, immovable.
And, helpless, lacking any defence at all, she experienced herself submitting, all over again, feeling again the despair and pity of defeat, not without pain and shame, but through weakness, and was rewarded only with yet more shame at the depth of her submission, as she accepted, as it seemed she was condemned to do each new time, the new reality, the harsh rules of needing to whore herself for Mark, to earn the only currency that means anything to her any more, his attention; all in the certainty that that attention would always be demanding, cruel, degrading; knowing that it could only lead in one direction, and that her only escape would be the equally dangerous and self-destructive experiences of the lovely and of excruciating orgasm.
Nevertheless, the experience of lovely that came, that followed directly on from that acceptance, was genuine; genuinely lovely, and she melted inside for him, made herself smile, made herself kneel, kneel up again, in the position which it almost seemed she had been in forever, kneeling on the table, thighs spread as wide as she could get them, bum up in the air. Of course her arms and hands were already as he wanted them, agonisingly tied, but her smile was genuine; as full of fear and need as it was, she was also, genuinely happy to have displayed herself for him, happy that he was looking at her, even as apprehension rose in her, knowing that his attention often preceded some cruel assault on her dignity, her body, her self-respect; all too often all three.
In fact, over the next hour, she was repeatedly brought almost to tears by his gentleness, his care, by the evidence of his understanding of just how it was for her to have been so reduced, so despoiled, so shamed, as, with the same impersonal but effective and thorough practicality which has accompanied his restoration of order to her apartment, he helped her to stand, supported her to the bathroom— which he had worked his magic on while she was asleep, it seemed— as he had removed the belts, as he had bathed her, carefully attending to her whole body, not permitting her to help except by passively allowing him to position her as he wanted her.
He was tender as he saw to her soft parts— her abused pussy, her torn anus, her ravaged nipples— as he washed her hair gently and thoroughly, massaging her scalp. After the bath, he arranged large new towels, several of them, on her table, carried her to it, naked, laid her down and massaged her all over, very thoroughly, with aromatic oils, working hard, carefully and slowly on her shoulders, her knees, both so stiff and sore after her long stints kneeling on that very same table.
“You will find that you can endure those positions far better as you experience them regularly, I promise, although it will hurt as your endurance builds. You will learn exercises that will help. You will also need to further develop your flexibility; more stringent positional requirements will be imposed upon you, without any consideration for your suffering— or indeed with the express purpose of making you suffer.”
“Since this space is large, a second bath will be installed; alternate scalding and freezing submersions will be useful. I’ll use them too - rape you in the ass while holding your head underwater in the freezing bath, then transfer you to the scalding one when I’m coming, so that you’ll be in terrible distress as I jerk myself into you, burning and drowning at the same time. You won’t forget the experience of that, I promise.”
To be physically cared for so well, so comfortingly, while such appalling things were said, in such a straightforward, conversational, almost intimate tone, was in itself an experience she would not forget, she knew. The constant paradoxes and conflicts of her new existence worked at her, ever further destabilising her, weakening her, increasing the degree to which she depended upon him to make sense of anything, and she was weak in her gratitude to him; for he, at least, was certain, sure, dependable, and she heard herself murmuring;
“Thank you, thank you.”
Thanking him for telling her that he would engineer conditions of great distress for her, in order to increase his enjoyment in raping her ass, to have meant it, felt it, was deeply disturbing, even as it seemed both inevitable and right, and the contradiction undid her further, so that she felt as weak as a kitten, both psychologically and physically weak, as he had wrapped her in the thick fluffy towels and scooped her up, took her to her comfortable, if half-collapsed sofa (she had injured herself dragging it home and up the stairs, but she had seen it for what it was, on its side in a grotty alleyway— it had been a grand piece when new, wide and long, with soft deep pile velvet covering horsehair stuffing, though stained and threadbare in so many places).
He held her, then, curled on his lap, and said to her;
“Cry. Cry now. I want to hear your pain and shame, your fear and despair.”
And she had fought him, for a minute or so, fought him in her head, not physically; physically, she was utterly his, hungrily taking this chance to feed her body from the intimacy with his, even if he was fully dressed while she was naked under the robe, her breasts half exposed, one thigh too, the robe falling open at the crotch and she carefully, dutifully, happily making sure not to close her thighs.
The idea, though, that she would cry for him, now, let him see the depths of despair she felt at what had become of her, when it was, all of it, down to him, that she should demonstrate for him just how weak she was for him, how deeply he had undone her, knowing that he would exploit this understanding ruthlessly against her, to deepen his dominance, the idea was just too much to simply accept, not immediately.
She felt him, though, tolerating her resistance, and saw why; he didn’t care if she did defy him, because he had no doubt, no doubt at all as to her imminent defeat, her certain submission, her opening of herself to him; and indeed he was right to be so confident; she knew it herself, could see that her resistance was, for him, no more than a fun little detour in his enjoyment of his rule over her— evidence of her inner conflict, of pain upon pain, so many levels of pain, in her defeat.
And so, inevitably, almost gratefully, she gave in, accepted the defeat, swam headlong into it, welcoming at the same time the terrible, despairing sobs that broke from her as she allowed herself to think about what he had done to her, aware, all the time, that a part of her was with him, gloating at Essy’s defeat, drinking at the fountain of lovely which this new defeat, this new submission brought with it.
He let her cry for what seemed an age, an eternity; let her cry herself out, gave no sign at all of impatience or irritation, even whan, at one point, she had begun to drum on his chest with her fists, had twisted, violently in his arms, strained against his hold of her, so violent was her emotion. His grasp on her did not waver— neither tightened nor loosened throughout. He was steady, solid, in control; nothing she could do made any difference.
At some point, his right hand had found its way, gently, but very definitely, to her sex, passive, but impossible to ignore; over time, perhaps through her movements, perhaps through his persistence— it was impossible to be sure— he began to be inside her, the knuckle of his thumb on her clitoris, so sore and puffy and tender, and far from being unwelcome or exacerbating her crying, she knew it for a comfort, almost as sucking her thumb had been a comfort when she had been a little girl. A part of her was aware of how strange, how fucked-up it was, to feel this way about his hand claiming her pussy, but then, everything about her was wrong now, fucked up, and she found herself occasionally twisting her hips to increase the sensation at her sex, even as she sobbed onto the crook of his arm, his jacket wet with her tears and snot.
And as she quieted, all but cried out, her movements, her collaboration with his hand, inviting him to penetrate her more deeply, became ever more obvious, until he had laughed at her;
“Oh my, pretty, you are in such terrible trouble, aren’t you? Letting your tormentor comfort you in your despair over the torments he has imposed on you, his violent sexual abuse of your lush little cunt, among other things, and all the while encouraging him to use that little cunt any way he likes, rubbing yourself against him, opening yourself, even though he’s hurt you so badly there, so recently, and I can feel just how you are getting all turned on about it.”
“Here’s something for you then, little cunt; I won’t permit you to come, but I will let you get you close, if you’ll ask me to hurt you— I’m going to bite your nipples, and your lips, and your tongue, and you’re going to open your cunt wide to me and grind against my hand— if you ask me to hurt you, to make you cry again, even though I guess your head is already aching from all the crying you’ve done. How about it, Hmm?”
And she had smiled at him, then, smiled broadly at him, smiled through the new tears that were already starring her vision, and leaned back, so that the robe fell open, and let her hips surge for him, and felt genuine pleasure, anticipation as she asked him, please, to hurt her, to make her cry, even as she despised herself for her foolish weakness.
And it had hurt, hurt her terribly, and it had been pleasurable, shamefully, shockingly pleasurable, all at the same time, and she had shaken and trembled and cried out in pleasure and pain both, and lifted her hips high, arched her back until it hurt, her hands once again in the small of her back, unbidden, unrestrained, just naturally, and she had kissed him deeply, softly, and let him sink his teeth into her tongue, use his molars on her nipples, felt them grind through her soft flesh as she screamed in pain, even as she was thrusting her clitoris into his hand, hurting there almost as much as from the biting, and she had begun to pant, and moan and work herself towards another shaming, degrading orgasm, until he had called her a good little girl, good little cunt, and done a terrible thing to her clitoris, taking it between his fingers, clamping hard, digging his fingernails in, before yanking his hand away in a wrenching twist, so that she had screamed, hoarsely, taken beyond what seemed possible without him having ripped her there, her whole body switchbacking like a landed fish at the terrible, shaming pain of it— the mental anguish almost worse than the physical— that she had asked him for this— the tears coming again and, just as he had predicted, bringing on a fierce, sharp headache.
She didn’t remember what has happened than, but he must have abandoned her there, she must have dozed, because the next she knew was the smell of sweet, strong tea, terribly welcome, and she was huddled in the robe, on the sofa. She had no idea at all what time it might be, save that it had become dark outside; a whole day, then, in intensity with him; she was humbled, appalled, violently grateful, completely exhausted, more defeated than ever, and she was happy; at least, whatever this new her experienced as happiness;
“Wake yourself up, now, pretty slut; there’s something I want you to read.”
He had arranged himself, then, at the solid end of the sofa, one knee against the back, and had her strip herself of the robe, and tuck herself into him, leaning back against him, her left knee also raised up, her other leg splayed wide, hooked over the top of his right knee, so that she was wholly opened for him, available, and it was good; more than good, it was humblingly wonderful to be arranged so for him, to be allowed to lean into him like that, and she received his right hand with joy as it lightly owned her tenderised, abused pussy, almost hypersensitive now, him laughing at her twitchiness, her little fearful noises as he settled his hand into the folds of her, loving him wanting her this way, but almost unable to bear the fear, the quivering, electric sensation that any touch there produced by that point.
Picture: on the sofa
The book was retrieved from behind his head somewhere, and he told her that she should, on this occasion, use her hands.
It was a slim paperback, with a cover photograph disturbingly similar to the scene he had just engineered for her; a young woman, naked, her expression troubled, held by a fully dressed man, clearly controlling her.
Picture: The Story of O
Its title was; “The Story of O”, and he had her start right in, without anything else being said, commanding her to read aloud to him, which she did, her voice sounding shockingly weak, uncertain and tentative to her— she, who had, these past years, prided herself on her confidence, her forthright presentation of herself, her clear opinions, strong tone.
The voice she heard was that of a victim, traumatised, weak, fearful and lost; her tongue, swollen and sore from his teeth, made it hard not to lisp and slur, and the misery of this almost broke her again…
Soon enough, though, the words she was speaking became all she was thinking about, as the story, the story of how a young woman, from walking in the park with her lover, was asked to prepare herself, without explanation, in ways which deliberately built a picture of her sexual vulnerability, her weakness in the face of his will, and then, almost immediately was made to give herself into the control of strangers, who prepared her, overtly sexually, and then, without the slightest preamble, within a couple of pages, was delivered into the hands of several strange men, to be raped and beaten and humiliated, treated as if she was a lesser being, demeaned, shamed, violated, with overt and casual sadistic intent. and all the while the prose was elegant, cool, impersonal, literate, laying out this appalling and degrading cruelty with calm precision.
After she had read out this passage;
‘You’ve never tied her up?’
‘No, never.’
‘And never whipped her?’
‘No, never whipped her either. But as a matter of fact…’ It was her lover speaking.
‘As a matter of fact,’ the other voice went on, ‘if you do tie her up from time to time, or whip her just a little, and she begins to like it, that’s no good either. You have to get past the pleasure stage, until you reach the stage of tears.’
Then they made O get up and were on the verge of untying her, probably in order to attach her to some pole or wall, when someone protested that he wanted to take her first, right there on the spot. So they made her kneel down again, this time with her bust on an ottoman, her hands still tied behind her, with her hips higher than her torso. Then one of the men, holding her with both his hands on her hips, plunged into her belly. He yielded to a second. The third wanted to force his way into the narrower passage and, driving hard, made her scream. When he let her go, sobbing and befouled by tears beneath her blindfold, she slipped to the floor, only to feel someone’s knees against her face, and she realized that her mouth was not to be spared.
… when she had read that passage, Essy had stopped; appalled, horrified, transfixed, unable to go further, her throat having swollen up with her own emotion, and there was a silence, a silence of terrible imbalance, as so often.
Picture: with the book
Mark was relaxed, entertained, interested, while Essy was undergoing intense mental torment, having to process too much, too many contradictions, too many awful implications, while at the same time knowing that time was not hers anymore— that the time she was taking was Mark’s, to which she had no rights, no rights at all, that she was risking his displeasure (despite his clearly telling her that she could not, under any circumstances ever do anything wrong, she felt acutely the requirement upon her to earn and deserve his attention, and knew, in her deepest core, that it was an infinitely heavier burden than ‘not displeasing Mark’ would be— since what was required of her was to ‘entertain and fascinate Mark’ ; the certainty of constant failure powerfully present for her at all times, save those rare moments of the lovely, and the catharsis of orgasm).
Nevertheless, the need to speak, to utter the thought in her head which was insistently demanding to be voiced, whatever the geas as to speaking her own thoughts might demand, that need was pressing, and she heard herself— a different voice again— the voice of whatever she was now, whatever remained of, or had replaced the Essy he had ended; not the confident, challenging, positive tone of the dead Essy, but not the querulous tone of the beaten victim either; the new voice was soft, but full-throated, quiet but clear, careful and unassertive, but well centred. Her tongue was as swollen and sore as before, but the care and concentration it took to ensure that this did not affect the sound was now welcome, rather than a source of misery.
That night, wondering at the events of the day, another day which had contained a lifetime’s worth of sensation, of change, of violence, of surprising, destabilising tenderness, of defeat, of submission, of devastating loss and diminishment, she had considered the new voice, and decided that its centre was obvious, that its stability was possible, because that centre lay outside her— for this new Essy, whatever it was, had no centre, no certainty, no footing in the world, none, save Mark. It was Mark who provided any centre that she had, any more. Which he coud remove from her at any time. That was the truth of it. She was no longer a whole being, instead, she was now radically incomplete; she had lost how to be, needing Mark to access what she had lost, lost forever, without hope of recovery, as far as she could see.
It was no longer so much that she did not know how to be without him, but rather that a large part of her was him, now, that much of her was constituted of him— a being whom she knew almost nothing about, whom she was unlikely ever to learn much about since she could not speak to him, or even look at him, since he considered her as little more than a temporary plaything, a sex toy, a vehicle for his masturbatory pleasure, something to ejaculate into, a creature to satisfy his sadism with.
All of which meant that at some point, probably not too far in the future, he would remove that centre from her, and leave her, broken, an incomplete being.
She had turned, then, in the bed, where he lay with her— the first time she had shared a bed with him as if they were any sort of couple— she had turned within his heavy, sleeping embrace, and kissed his chest, ever so softly, in supplication and obeisance, rededicating herself to his pleasure, albeit entirely without hope.
In that new voice, she had said;
“You … you have already done all these things to me.”
And not only had she dared speak, she had turned and looked him in the face, needing to see how he took it.
The silence that followed those words, as they looked at each other, was bizarrely delightful; there were two or three things in her world only, for those moments; first, and most powerful, his hand between her legs, owning her, second, and most urgent, the expression on his face, softly satisfied, the corner of his mouth lifted just a little, and third, the way his eye was distracted by her breast, her right breast, as it shifted with her movement, and the accompanying twitch, felt through her buttocks, as his sex stirred, and she was, she truly was, completely his whore at that moment, without the slightest conflict in her. She was, knew herself to be, entirely at his service, and she had shifted her hips, slow, soft, completely obviously, to give her sex to his hand as fully, as intimately as she could, and simultaneously to stroke at his growing hardness beneath her with her buttocks.
There was no ‘naughtiness’, no ‘sluttiness’ in this move, it was not ‘provocative’ or ‘salacious’ — none of those words could really apply to her anymore. She was cunt, dedicated to the urgent and constant job of offering herself, advertising herself as something to fuck. It felt good, and right, and normal - even pure, and the pain in her mouth, the pain at her nipples, the many pains at her crotch, were all equally good and right and normal, necessary to the whole of it, and the tightening of his hand, another twitch beneath her, were not so much a source of pleasure as a blessing, the promise of sustenance to one who was permanently starving.
And when he spoke at last, it was a triple blessing, for he had smiled at her, easily, pleased, relaxed;
“Indeed I have; but read on pretty— you’re only on page four.”
If you have not already read it, than please, do, read the original Story of O, and discover for yourself the perfection of erotic writing which THW strives for, but will never attain.
