More pictures from this year’s party
The younger sister— a tragedy.
Influenced, weirdly enough, by both Ry Cooder’s ‘Little Sister’ and Dolcett’s ‘ClubX’. There’s a sentence you never expected to read.
M. Alain Descords, the respected intellectual who heads one of the more influential right-leaning think tanks, is pictured with Coraline, the younger sister of his late wife, Marianne.
Picture: Coraline with Alain
Alain and Marianne’s marriage had been a deep love match, despite him being nearly 20 years older than her, and, after he had proposed, they had made a pact to tell each other everything about themselves, without reserve. Marianne had had very little to tell that was hard to say or to hear; Alain, on the other hand, had felt heavy in his heart, although he did not hesitate, when he had told her about his membership of The Castle. Indeed of his established position on the Great Table Comité which at that time was working with the current Anne-Marie, only five years into her reign, to revive and refine that institution.
Marianne, of course, had never heard of the place, and, when she had heard Alain’s blunt and honest description of the purpose and character of the place— to train, break and keep in sexual subjugation a harem of young and beautiful girl-slaves to serve the perverted pleasures of sexually sadistic people of wealth and power, she had trembled and stared, but without judgement. Her Alain was her Alain, for better or worse; the revelation shocked her deeply, frightened her, appalled her, all that, but it did not alter her opinion of her intended one iota. He was the definition of himself, and she was already a part of him; their upcoming wedding was welcome, sacred even, but ultimately an unneeded formality.
In the silence he left, he watched her intently; relieved, but not surprised to see no wavering in her regard; she had surprised him greatly, though, he who did not believe he could be surprised in her, when she had, finally spoken;
“Would it; could it, increase your… pleasure in … in having me, to … to use me in … in that way?”
Her hesitation in that sentence was the only one he ever heard from her, unless in the throes of the cruelest treatment, the most abject degradation. She was otherwise universally sweet, soft and giving in her acceptance of everything that was demanded of her, imposed upon her, ripped from her.
His own voice had shaken, then, as he had taken her hands in his, and lifted them to his lips;
“It …That … is the one thing I felt I might ever lack, in our life, for once we are married I intend to be intimate with no other woman again.”
It had been quiet again, then, but a slow, small, but infinitely loving smile had grown on her lips, and her voice had been clear and serious;
“Then I suppose, you had better take me there, and have me— what was it? Trained and broken, so that you will keep me, my love.”
He had tried, then, to dissuade her, urgently needing her to understand the implication of such a thing— that there was no way that he could take her to The Castle without making her freely available, subject to the perverted whims of strangers, without restraint or the possibility of his intervention, even in the case of some grievous cruelty.
But she smiled again, more strongly this time, seemingly without any special effort, and put her finger on his lips.
“There’s nothing more to say. Please, take me. Do you think we should postpone the wedding, until I have been made ready for you? I can’t see any way around it, to be honest— I must be yours completely on our wedding night; you must be wholly free with me as you have me; it would be a travesty otherwise.”
And that had been it; the next day they had visited Anne-Marie in her town house, and had a perfectly normal conversation, as if booking a stay at a health spa, during which Marianne had requested that no details be brought up, only practicalities. Anne-Marie had asked her a series of searching questions, some of which had made her blush, all of which she had answered with painstaking honesty and attention; she was then asked her to dance, a little, to a slow, sad latin american instrumental. Anne-Marie had smoked a cigarette in silence, then, looking Marianne in the eyes, until at last she had given an opinion, Marianne meeting her gaze steadily, sitting with her customary ballerina poise;
“You are very strong, very centred. But you are also very clear in your devotion. Allow four months, then a further 6 weeks at least, before the wedding. Because of your strength, and your love, you will not, actually, be fully broken, I think. But you will learn perfectly to give the impression that you are. Will this be acceptable to you, Alain?”
“My dear Anne-Marie, you are consummate, as ever; my one concern, addressed.”
It was a couple of weeks later when, without any reason, the car had drawn to a halt, smoothly, while they were being driven home from a boring society evening. They had been lazily having an enjoyable conversation (gently ridiculing some of the more pompous people they had had to endure in an overheated, under-cleaned Hotel Particulier, the smell of cat’s urine poorly masked by the over-use of some sickly perfume), an exchange which had made each of them laugh freely and happily, privately thanking providence, for the thousandth time, that they had found each other; the stop brought on a natural silence, calm and lovely, which neither of them had wanted to interrupt, until, Alain had said;
“It’s tonight, my dear. We’re not going home, just yet. In fact, you won’t be coming home again for ten days or so. I’m going to drive now, while Eric prepares you; you’ll be perfect, I know, but I need to tell you that whether you comply or not, from this moment, it will make no difference. You will do whatever is required of you, no matter how much you wish not to, either voluntarily, or through coercion that will be as cruel and as frightening as is necessary to obtain satisfaction from you for whomever it is that is using you.”
She had not spoken; one look of mild surprise was all she allowed herself, before smiling and nodding at him, then, closing her eyes, she lifted her head backward, for a second— gathering strength, he saw, and then she was back, to smile again, open, frank, her voice soft, low and steady, only a tinge of her immense need creeping in;
“Will you be there, Alain?”
“Sometimes. Not always, though. You won’t know, one way or the other, mostly; in any case it no longer matters; anyone with access to you has equal rights to use you, now. You will be alone, friendless; in Anne-Marie’s hands. Anne-Marie is rarely wrong, though— you are strong, I know.”
He had kissed her, gently, then, before climbing out of the car, leaving the door open for Eric, the chauffeur, with whom she had had so many friendly conversations. The man had evinced no hesitation though; as the car moved off, he had given her a black silk bag, heavy, and asked her, politely enough, but without using the word please, and, most notably, without the respectful vous either, to put it over her head, the drawstrings positioned at the back of her neck, then pull them tight before tying them off. Her hands already lifted back behind her head, he had captured her wrists there, then used the ends of the strings to tie them there.
Within a minute, then, with no trouble at all, she had been rendered sightless, bound, abandoned and vulnerable.
Eric’s hands had been at her, then; opening the top of her dress just enough to insert a long, cold blade, which made swift work of the straps of her brassiere, which he pulled away and threw onto the floor before firmly and confidently grasping her freed breasts in his hands, hefting them; gauging them, it seemed. She had gasped, but held herself for him, having instinctively divined the most important understanding a Castle girl can have— to act with maximum grace and dignity possible, at all times, no matter how degrading or shocking the circumstances. Of course, such striving for dignity often provokes acts of violence, cruelty or deliberate crudeness; sometimes all three, for it is the drive to disrupt the dignity of others which animates most sadism. Nevertheless, as Castle girls discover, if a way can be found to accept— or, better still, welcome— such acts, as tribute, as a compliment, then the bearing of them— over which a Castle girl has of course little or no choice— can become easier.
A similar process relieved her of her panties; the direct and vigorous investigation of her sex was harder to bear with equanimity— he had to touch the point of the knife to the soft skin of her inner thigh to convince her to open herself fully to him, and indeed she was quickly overwhelmed by the shame and pity of being so abused, with her future husband just a metre away, glancing in the rear-view mirror; she used all her strength, though, not to become pathetic, and, knowing she was not permitted to protect herself, fell back against the seat, let her legs fall slackly apart, softly wailing her distress, sighing and gasping desperately when two blunt fingers were, without hesitation, pushed directly into her anus.
“Very nice, Sir, if I may say so; she juices like a good’un. Back hole tight as anything; going to be fun opening her up there, sir, when it’s my turn.”
Only a few minutes later, The Castle took her, but she never forgot that ride. Alain liked her to tell him how it had been for her— even when he was depleted after several vigorous bouts, when combined with her soft throat, it was what could get him hard again, even though— or perhaps because— it was one of the few things that could make her cry as brokenly as if she were a little girl, as, for her husband, her Master, she made herself fully relive the fear and despair and destruction of self-image wrought upon her by that first violation.
It had, truly, been terrible; a sundering of everything that was good and decent in her world, in order to give herself to the man she believed was her destiny; she was never to feel truly whole again. But she never regretted it. Indeed, she had found a way to make herself genuinely rejoice, daily, in the way that that sundering had rendered her utterly and completely dependent upon Alain.
As Anne-Marie had predicted, Marianne had not been truly broken by her time at the Castle— the initial ten days, then a ten day pause, during which a further interview with Anne-Marie, conducted very differently, Marianne naked, kneeling on a low, mirror-capped table, thighs spread, hands chained to her collar, high up between her shoulder blades; breasts, flanks and thighs marked with fresh welts, the interview having begun with Anne-Marie asking Marianne if she was willing to strip, and then to beg Anne-Marie to use the dog whip on her— just for my enjoyment, you understand— no purpose to it— I do so enjoy hurting you, my dear.
The day after that interview, Anne-Marie had ‘phoned the house; Marianne had answered, and was spoken to, brusquely, as if she were nothing more than a servant, requested to bring M. Descords to the line. The conversation had been short, then Alain had covered the mouthpiece and turned to her;
“You’ve been accepted for a further three months. A van is on its way. I’ll whip you bloody before you go, breasts and buttocks; you’ll be tied into into a canvas sack like an animal. You’d better strip immediately. That is, unless you wish to pull out? No? Then don’t speak, not any more. No-one cares about anything you have to say for yourself; just get yourself naked and find Eric. He’ll know what to do with you.”
He had turned back to the call, then, bringing up an ongoing issue about the Castle roof, repairs to which seemed to be going to cost a small fortune. He did not look at her again, and she left her clothes in a forlorn heap.
Eric had indeed known what to do with her; this was his cue; he had been promised, and he had buggered her with deliberate violence, making her scream and wail in shame, pain and despair, before stringing her up in the stables, the horses looking mildly on, the dogs milling about, excited by the mingled smells of her blood, sweat and tears. She was blindfolded then, with the hated black silk bag, and counted at least three voices, two of them strangers to her, in addition to Alain’s as she was beaten more harshly than ever before, all four of them commenting on her in crude and humiliating terms, Alain no less than the others, laughing and sneering at her when, at last, she had begun to plead for mercy, unable to control herself in her agony, her terror, even though she knew that there would be none.
In the end, it was Alain who had finally broken her, a year or so after their marriage, after a marathon three-day session involving a small, select group of guests, her cries heart-rending, her crying fit lasting several hours afterward, during which, fortified by Viagra (and large ugly strap-ons), the party had made sure that she was never without a cock driving into at least one of her holes.
She asked, very humbly, in front of them all, the next day, if she could be branded, and on being shown the irons which would be heated and pushed into her flesh, she chose to take them on her inner thighs, the letter A on the right, the triskelion symbol on her left, so that the tags hanging from the heavy ring that joined her labia at their lowest extent would bang into the brand as she walked, a constant reminder of her condition.
She needed care for a week or two after that, and, strangely (or, perhaps, obviously), that was the end of Alain’s sadism. She was his, utterly his, and their love life became remarkably tame until, eight years later, after a short and uncharacteristic illness, she had been diagnosed with a terminal liver cancer, a complete and awful surprise.
Coraline had always worshipped her elder sister— everything she did was perfect in the younger girl’s eyes, and Marianne never did anything to disturb that certainty— she was always kindness itself to her younger sibling, and when her life had become one of unimaginable wealth and luxury and access, she had made sure to let Coraline have as much of that as was good for her, without overdoing it— always letting Coraline know that all this stuff was nothing other than stuff, laughing at the famous and powerful people she knew so well, making sure that Coraline knew that they were just people; just as foolish, vain and ridiculous as the mass of people were likely to be.
Marianne never lied to Coraline, but she had been careful to protect her little sister from the reality of her condition as a slave (for Marianne felt herself, very deeply, to be Alain’s slave; that her life belonged to him); she did not, however, feel that there was anything good for Coraline in learning about Alain’s private sexuality (for, no matter that Marianne had been heartlessly broken, and had accepted that fact fully— with sadness, perhaps, but entirely without resentment— she had not become perverted; her own sexuality remained as simple and joyful as it had been in the early days of their relationship).
However, on learning that she had only months to live, Marianne had had no doubts (at least, after making herself sleep on the idea that had come to her)— Alain must not suffer anymore than was absolutely necessary from the loss of his slave. Coraline must be convinced to allow Alain to take her to The Castle, must become his slave; a substitute.
She had called Anne-Marie first, then visited her, laid out the whole situation, given Anne-Marie every piece of information about Coraline she was asked for, deepest sisterly secrets included. Sisterly love was nothing compared to the fact of her submission; she was an adjunct of Alain, nothing more; his needs, his slightest pleasure indeed, trumped anything else. If it would have saved her, to preserve her life as Alain’s most precious possession, she would happily have sacrificed her sister’s life. She wan’t proud of this reality; it was simply so, and she loved that it was so.
Anne-Marie had asked to see Coraline for herself, and so the younger woman, only 19, had been called, by her loving older sister, from her studies at the Sorbonne (a brilliant career in poetry was being predicted for her already) to meet the ruthless and greedy Madame of The Castle, so that she could be assessed as a candidate for ruination.
Picture: Student Coraline
Anne-Marie had talked pleasantries only, said little, asked a couple of sharp questions of the girl, caressed her face once, stroked her hair, then smiled and left without more than a perfunctory A bientôt, leaving the two sisters to themselves.
Coraline, of course, already knew of the illness, was heartbroken, prone to tears, but Marianne briskly told her Courage, Coraline, ravigoter! There were important things to discuss.
“I’m going to ask— no, I’m going to demand something of you Coraline. Actually, it’s more than something. You might call it everything.”
Coraline had almost tripped over her words, in assuring Marianne that she had but to ask.
“I can’t ask you, really, Coraline. I’ll have to show you. Let’s go.”
Later, Coraline had realised that, from the ‘phone call that had been Marianne summoning her to the café, her sister had never once, never again used any one of the many terms of endearment they had habitually used with each other, but always called her by her full name— always Coraline — and in retrospect, she had understood. Her sister had ceased to be able to care for her. Everything had become Alain.
In the dingy, sticky-floored hotel room that had been the nearest place Marianne could find, Coraline had been taken aback by her sister’s diamond-like certainty about everything, her speed, her use of short commands rather than friendly discussion, but she had accepted. Her sister was perfect. This was — must be— the right thing; the right way to cope with this horrible turn of events.
Nothing felt real in any case; it was impossible for her to actually believe that the evident fact could be true— that her sister would be dead before Christmas.
In the room, Marianne had surprised her little sister again by calmly and practically stripping herself, revealing, in turn, a back criss-crossed by thin white scars— Marianne had not been whipped for years, but there had been some wild sessions, and some marks would be with her forever; next, the tattoos— the triskelion, the heavily lettered word CUNT above the elegantly trimmed pubic hair, blockish, blunt, large, then the piercings at her clitoris and labia, then the brands. Marianne had turned and lifted up her luxuriant hair to show the bar-code at the back of her neck, invited Coraline’s hand to feel the weight of the visually delicate golden torc she had worn around her neck for years— one of Alain’s over-the-top wedding presents— a ring that encircled her neck, which had been brazed in place, never to be removed.
The room was silent, Marianne steadfastly looking into her sister’s eyes, holding her hands apart, so that Coraline had to face her, had to look, Coraline speechless…
Then;
“Listen, Coraline …” and in a few minutes only, Marianne had laid it all out, the reason their wedding had been delayed, Alain’s psyche; his needs, his perversion; The Castle, Anne-Marie’s role. Marianne’s times there, her submission, her happy, complete submission, the way that Alain had broken her— sparing nothing of the cruelty involved, the harshness, the sadism. Her joy at having been, finally, broken by the love of her life. Her status, her accepted, adored condition as simply an adjunct, a possession, of his.
And Coraline had listened in shocked, passive silence. Marianne was perfect. Marianne considered Alain to own her. Therefore, it must be so; more, even, hard as it was to grasp, it must be good. Marianne had chosen this (unlike the illness), was calm and certain in her happiness with … with all of it. Therefore, it was right, correct, proper, good. And she, Coraline, would simply have to make that her truth too. It was good that her sister had been broken, was a sex-slave, available to anyone who understood the meaning of the ring she wore, for any usage at all.
Coraline stared at her sister, her face as calm as she could keep it, determined to show Marianne that she would not fail her, that she, Coraline, was going to love this, too, about her sister; without reserve, without question.
But there was more;
“Here’s the thing, though, Coraline. I’m not going to serve him as he deserves to be served, as I promised I would serve him, without stint. I’m going to die. I’m going to let him down, betray him. It’s unforgivable. I should be able to prevent it— but I can’t …”
Here, even the wonderfully centred, certain Marianne nearly lost herself in tears— not for herself, but for her treachery, which she felt so deeply.
“Coraline, you must give yourself to Alain. He … he hasn’t hurt me, or … abused me since, since he broke me; since I was branded. But this, this abandonment … It will hurt him terribly. He’ll need The Castle. He’ll need a cunt to hurt. And it has to be you.”
“I’m sorry … no. No, I’m not. If I was only your sister I would be sorry, but as I am Alain’s cunt, his thing, I am happy— fiercely, desperately happy to have you on hand to deliver to him, as at least some sort of consolation for my despicable, inexcusable treachery.”
Marianne looked up, then, hard, direct, very obviously without empathy, but rather looking for submission, for acceptance. Coraline felt a great and unreal buzzing in her mind and body— like nothing she had ever experienced before; it was as if her mind were being jammed with static, like some sci-fi film. She couldn’t think; literally, was unable to string one thought together with another, such was the intensity of the situation. It was torment, unbearable.
And so she said the one thing that might stop it;
“OK”
“OK, Marianne. Yes. Please. Yes.”
And that had, sort of, been it.
Marianne had got dressed, in silence, and had taken Coraline directly to Anne-Marie’s;
“You’re his, now. Your life is over. You’ll need to be trained and broken, of course— Anne-Marie will do that for me. But you’re not to have any life now, but Alain. So Anne-Marie will keep you, until it’s time. There are arrangements to be made. And you can’t go to The Castle until after … after I’m dead. Alain and Anne-Marie will decide. It’s all OK, now; you don’t have to think; you’re just cunt, now. You’ll never have to think about much, really, ever again. Just Alain; he will be the answer to any question from now on. It’s as simple as that.”
Coraline had tried, just once, to protest;
But Marianne, what … what about me? What … what if I don’t want …”
Marianne, strong from years of working with personal trainers and power yoga, had slapped her younger sister so hard, then, that she had knocked her down. It shocked both of them; they had never fought, never, never been mean with each other.
Coraline, on the pavement, dazed, saw no anger in Marianne’s eyes, but no kindness either, only— nothing. Nothing but certainty and purpose; iron purpose.
She got up, wordlessly, and followed her sister to Anne-Marie’s town house, where only a few words were spoken between Anne-Marie and Marianne, which Coraline did not hear.
Anne-Marie had been kind, in her way, but distant. Arrangements had been made— first leave-of-absence from, then abandonment of her studies, explanations made up to keep her parents quiet (Marianne’s illness made this simpler than it should have been), friends and wider family told of her withdrawal from the world on account of her sister’s illness, disposal of all her belongings (she had arrived at Anne-Marie’s with the clothes on her back and a small bag. All of those she was asked to give up, too; even her carte d’identité. She was nothing but a body, now; felt it strongly; somehow it was interesting, to think about herself like that; as long as she didn’t think about what it meant in practice, what it would mean at The Castle).
At Anne-Marie’s she was taught the duties of a maid, made to wear a skimpy old-fashioned costume, required to curtsy prettily (Anne-Marie was particularly hard to satisfy in this respect) and speak respectfully, herself spoken to only tersely and coldly, and was subjected to spankings and slappings (all too often in relation to her curtsying), but nothing worse.
Picture: Maid Coraline
She saw Marianne only on hospital visits; all her sister’s remaining time was for Alain. At night, alone in her small, uncomfortable bed in the tiny attic room Coraline cried a great deal; occasionally, she thought about escape— it would have been trivial— she had not been chained, or locked in— she could simply have walked out of the house. But when the alarm went off in the morning, it was always obvious. She would become what Marianne needed her to become.
Anne-Marie made her talk, twice a week, for hours, sitting in the elegant salon, perched on the sofa in her pretty maid’s uniform (she was not permitted underwear, and was equally not permitted to sit on the skirts, lest they crease, so that she was made to get a little cloth to protect the nap of the fabric each time she sat; it was shaming, but at the same time weirdly exciting to be so controlled, to have Anne-Marie watching this little rigmarole each time, complacent as Coraline humiliated herself). Marianne was right, it did make life simpler.
The sexuality heavily implicated in all of it, coupled with no intimacy at all— Anne-Marie had explicitly forbidden her to masturbate, and said she would know, and Coraline believed that she would; so she was not even intimate with herself beyond the odd squeeze; it was all building up in her body, she could feel it.
But still, when she wasn’t sleep walking with grief— for her sister, for her own life— she did occasionally allow herself to address the enormity of what Marianne demanded of her— and it was impossible; it couldn’t be true— that this Castle place even existed in this day and age, let alone that she, Coraline, a 19 year old with everything to live for, was going to let herself be taken there, trained and broken to be a sex slave, subjected to the horrid perversions of countless sadistic strangers, dirty old men, psychologically manipulated by this Anne-Marie (whom she found herself immensely respectful of, in spite of everything). Escape was surely necessary?
The meeting with Alain put an end to that.
Marianne had told him nothing until she had secured Coraline, but immediately she had returned from Anne-Marie’s, she had gone to his study, stripped naked and knelt, waiting upon his return. When he found her like that, he knew that she wanted to talk; this had been the way of it for some years now.
“Well, darling, what is it? How was Anne-Marie?”
“I discussed something with her, Master;”
She hadn’t called him that for years, but since the diagnosis she could not be convinced it was not necessary.
“We talked about my replacement. You are to have Coraline. Anne-Marie will break her for you. I asked Coraline today. She said yes. She knows that it’s likely that you’ll be very hard on her, take it out on her. It’s some small comfort to me that you’ll have her to use as you please, without restraint. She’s my sister, and I love her, but it means nothing— nothing at all, to what I owe you, how badly I’ve failed you. Kill her if it makes you feel better, torture her. I’ll be happy. She’s at Anne-Marie’s; Anne-Marie will hold her until I’ve died, then make arrangements to have her trained for you at The Castle— she’ll ask you if you have any requirements. I’m … I’m so terribly sorry, but that … that’s the best I can do.”
Alain was taken aback; he hasn’t been thinking of this, of his sexual needs, except when Marianne talks to him about it; he’s grieving for her, doing all he can to support her through her last months (in a couple of weeks they have said she’ll start chemo, all her hair will fall out; she’s said no chemo; it’s the closest thing to an argument they’ve ever had. She will prevail, he knows; even though he could order her to have the chemo and she would immediately submit, that’s not how they do things, and anyway, he doesn’t want her to lose her hair either— and what for? Another few weeks of low grade existing … possibly).
“Coraline? But …but she’s a child …”
“Nineteen.”
“She has so much promise, so much potential … Your parents…”
“Irrelevant. I had promise, I had potential. They’re the same parents. You took me, gave me to Anne-Marie. And it was the right thing to do. You have needs. Coraline is available; she’ll do as I ask. She’s pretty enough— although we should get her tits done immediately, since they’re so much smaller than mine— she’d be healed by the time …”
“Marianne, you forget what I told you— that I would not be intimate with another woman once I had married you.”
“Master, it is wrong of me to talk like this, but, nonsense. When I’m dead, all that anger, all that loss, all that betrayal, is going to bubble up in you again, as it was. It will be justified; I’ve let you down. Anne-Marie agrees; she talked to Coraline, before I asked her, assessed her. And she agrees about you, too. Take her; she’s young, and sweet, and fuckable; you can hurt her; she’ll take it; she has the toughness in her, Anne-Marie agrees about that, too. Not like me, but enough. Eric will be cheerful again.”
The chauffeur had taken removal of his rights with Marianne hard; a blowjob at Christmas and on his birthday was simply no recompense for the loss of raping her backside several times a week, using her breasts as handles.
“Coraline is available; already in Anne-Marie’s web. When it’s time she will have no chance at all. She’s already condemened. The Castle will take her and turn her into a helpless whore, as it did me. Your whore, to do as you please with, when you please. I’ve asked Anne-Marie to take her, you see, even if you say you won’t use her. It will be a waste of my lovely little sister, if you don’t, but a waste that is more than worth it to me. The Castle will have her, if you won’t. So you see, my darling, the cruelty and shame of Coraline’s destruction is not on you, but on me. Me and Anne-Marie. And it’s a foregone conclusion now; she’s lost, gone, already destined to become Castle-cunt, whatever you end up deciding. You might as well try her out; if she does not please you, then sell her. She worships you already, as you know. Like me, she’ll feel herself complimented to be chosen as your victim.”
It’s the longest thing she has ever said to him, since they had brought her back from the Castle, that second time, after her three months, her eyes full of pain and shame, her mouth smiling, her body offering itself to him, and for the first time since she had been branded, he had grabbed her roughly, by the hair, thrown her down, with unrestrained, eager violence, over the coffee table, ripped her clothes from her and called for Eric. Between the two of them they had whipped her and raped her over a period of three hours, a leisurely, cathartic session of cruelty as well as lust— Eric, too, needed Viagra by then, and they had joked, standing over her, Eric pissing into her mouth in that disgusting way of his, joked about how they should have started using it earlier, not been so proud; what they could have inflicted on their poor darling.
Nothing more was said about Coraline. In both of their minds she had ceased to exist, except as a sex toy. A sad loss to the world of a bright talent, but, bien sûr, thousands of young girls with bright talents were lost to the world every day. At least this one would be sure to serve some other, more specialised purpose, and serve it well; Anne-Marie would make sure of that.
Never again did Alain abuse Marianne. The private doctors speculated amongst themselves as to the— obviously perverted— relationship between the two, but they were well paid, and well versed in keeping the secrets of the rich, and Alain’s conduct as the caring husband of a dying young wife was unimpeachable in its devotion, simplicity, signs of real love. He was the genuine article, even the young nurses agreed, more than one of them indulging in fantasies of being his future bride, this wonderful, attentive, capable man, who seemed both emotionally literate and stoic. At least one of them incorporated Marianne’s brands, whip scarring, piercings and tattoos into her own fantasies.
But none of them managed even to be noticed by Alain; he was focused on Marianne, and remained so until her death. Coraline was brought by Anne-Marie to the bedside for visits— never coinciding with those of her parents or mutual friends, but the relationship between the two sisters was broken. It was hard for both; they both saw it, so that when Anne-Marie told Coraline, several months before Marianne died, that her sister did not wish to see her again, Coraline had wept and wept, but not argued; it was a relief to her also.
She became obsessed with Anne-Marie, not in any sort of romantic way or personal way, but as something needed to fill the vacuum that giving up on her life had left; all her angst, all her sadness, all her losses— for she had not just lost a sister, but a loving family, her future, all hope at joy or happiness, and her human rights— all of these, and more, were subsumed by an urgent, obsessive need to have Anne-Marie give her one of her careless, cold little smiles, one of her absent minded, meaningless caresses— a stroke of the hair, a hand at the small of her back, or her wrist; these were enough— almost too much, sometimes, such was Coraline’s fragility; such was her fate, for it was no accident at all that she felt this way. She was, and she half knew it, the subject of an engineering project, a project designed and ruthlessly, relentlessly managed by Anne-Marie. Marianne had been right when she spoke to Alain; there was no hope at all for Coraline; she had been taken down already, all without any real violence or sexual usage, without chains or whips or dungeons.
After a while, Anne-Marie had begun to refer to her, to her face, as little cunt (sometimes pretty little cunt, sometimes lost little cunt, sometimes stupid little cunt, but consistently little cunt) and Coraline had not even been really shocked, and within a week or so had internalised it, found herself standing in front of the mirror in her room, in just the corset Anne-Marie had obliged her to start wearing under her maid’s costume, which was periodically tightened, so that her body was being distorted, her already slim waist becoming petite (she was in discomfort from it, sometimes real pain, all day, every day).
“Little cunt”, she said, looking at herself, looking at her cunt, looking at her breasts, looking at her mouth; Anne-Marie had explained that these were all ‘holes’, holes for men’s cocks, her tight little asshole, too; had told her that it was Marianne’s wish that she have breast enlargements, that this would happen next year, once it was clear how Alain intended to use her. This took Coraline hard; she and Marianne had had several conversations over the years, expressing their vivid and deep disdain for those of their friends, celebrities on the TV as well, who had had such surgery. Disdain was to be her lot in life, now; she understood it, and in truth, had half accepted it already.
Her day was filled with her efforts to please Anne-Marie. Increasingly, she worked longer hours— all unasked, rising at 6 to prepare herself before making Anne-Marie’s breakfast, collecting fresh flowers from the market, refreshing the arrangements, airing the rooms, getting the temperature just right, adjusting the curtains just so to get the right amount of light, each day making up a number of special posies, one for the breakfast table, one for Anne-Marie’s desk, one for her dressing room. And she was usually up past midnight, having taken on the task of refreshing all Anne-Marie’s many pairs of shoes, some of which, unworn for years, were looking sadly tired; she had become expert in leather creams, waxes, specialist brushes, had found an old school cobbler who could do magic. He could repair the whips, too. Coraline had taken charge of the whip cupboard, had first restored order, then improved the austere and ominous beauty of the arrangement of those which were on show, had blushingly asked Anne-Marie for a lecture on their uses and specialities.
She was busy.
All this time, her sexual distress had been rising. She had not been much aware of herself as a sensual being until that fateful conversation with Marianne— had assumed herself to be a creature of love, of emotion, of sensibilities. But through the overtness in Anne-Marie’s house, in her conversations, overheard on the ‘phone, in the occasional frank disclosures about her future, Coraline had discovered that little cunt had earthy, dark and urgent needs; physical needs, to be accompanied by urgent, dark and earthy thoughts. Needs and thoughts she was expressly and powerfully forbidden to do anything about.
When Anne-Marie had called for Coraline, one day, at an unaccustomed hour— in the early evening, traditionally the older woman’s period for quiet and solitude, reading or listening to music in the Salon Privée, her personal room— Norah, the housekeeper, had come to Coraline where she was polishing the front steps of the house in the last of the daylight, in her little maid’s costume— she had long since grown used to the weirdness of being dressed this way in public, although she had not, and doubted she ever would, get used to the lack of panties, to the attention her unfettered breasts drew in the thin chemise, emphasised by her tightly corsetted waist.
“You’re to be in the study in five minutes. Clean uniform, face and hands perfect. Quickly now, or you’ll earn a spanking!”
Spankings had become harsher as Marianne’s illness progressed, and, without in the slightest wishing to be punished, or enjoying the pain, Coraline was aware that she was beginning to understand that these spankings were important, meaningful, even; almost sacred.
On the one hand, they were expressions of displeasure— caused by Coraline’s failings. In this sense they were a blessing from Anne-Marie, since they directed Coraline’s obsession to Anne-Marie’s real requirements in a forcible manner. On the other hand, they were deeply sexual; the only intimate contact Coraline had had since her sister had announced that she would be Alain’s sex slave. Anne-Marie’s cool hands (or, more recently, Norah’s) would prepare her buttocks with a light massage beforehand, and a harsher kneading afterward, and these, rather than the spanking, were the cause of Coraline’s shamefully obvious lubrication, of the evident heat and engorgement of her sex parts— features which were specifically commented on, in almost medical detail, by Anne-Marie.
“The litte cunt has quite the potential as a pain slut, it seems. A dangerous path for a sex-toy to open up for her trainers.”
That Coraline did not really understand Anne-Marie only increased the dreadful feelings such utterances imposed on her.
On that day, though, she was to be spanked hard, for lateness— thirty seconds, had said Norah, and Coraline had bitten her tongue to prevent herself from protesting, even though it was perfectly true that Norah had wasted a minute of her time by deciding that it was necessary to tighten the corset before presenting her to Anne-Marie.
But this was not the real shock; Alain was in the room, sitting back, his chair almost in the corner, his face out of the pool of light over the desk, where Coraline would be spanked, her dress hiked right up, her bare crotch and buttocks exposed, her legs spread shamingly wide, appearing extraordinarily long due to the the ankle-strapped vertiginous heels which Anne-Marie had ordained for her recently.
Coraline had not seen him for months, not since before Mariane had decided that she was to become his sex-slave. But there was no greeting, nothing; his presence was not acknowledged in the few words Anne-Marie had spoken; these were as coolly functional as usual, and soon Coraline, unable to find anything to do about the heart-stopping fact that Alain was to witness this, was in position, fretting about making herself perfect for Anne-Marie, holding on to that obsession, to get her through this, her knees trembling, almost juddering, surely visible. Her nipples were like stones, her sex wet already, even before the kneading.
“Norah, you do it; hurt her badly please.”
The spanking was harder, and more concentrated than normal, and it was always harder when both of them were there, the presence of Alain making it unbearably shaming, and despite trying to control herself, to be brave, Coraline had soon found herself crying freely; her cries, though heartfelt and full of pain and despair, were soft and pretty, almost cute. Anne-Marie had ordained that this should be so, and it had become part of Coraline’s obsession, never to displease Anne-Marie with an unmediated expression of her suffering.
It made perfect sense, when she had thought about it. A slavegirl was an entertainment. Her actual feelings were of no interest beyond that. If Anne-Marie had enjoyed full-throated screams of agony, then that is what she, Coraline, would be required to deliver; since Anne-Marie’s preference was instead for soft, throaty, despairing moans, entirely free of harshness, that was the form which Coraline’s expression of her suffering would take. It was a sign of Anne-Marie’s sophistication that she wanted full-spectrum emotion, but required that the little cunt process that in the way that amused Anne-Marie most.
Every day it felt more appropriate, more comforting, more correct, more welcome to Coraline that she be subjected to such careful and specific control. It helped her stop thinking about her losses. It gave her something to do, and it pleased Anne-Marie.
“Harder, now; use the flogger; she is to be made to scream, even though she must do her best not to.”
It had taken a while, so determined, so desperate was Coraline to please, but at length she was unable to to constrain an agonised screech when Norah, rightly judging that pretty little Coraline was tough at her core, simply angled the flogger and increased the force, to ensure that the girl’s soft sex was painfully attacked.
“Very good. Now, Norah, let’s have her up. Quickly please! display her now; turn her, lift up her leg, open her wide; that’s it. You will see, Alain, that she juices easily in conditions of pain and humiliation. Where her sister submitted out of love for you, and learned because she had committed herself to you so fully, this little cunt is a natural; almost too easy. She is half-trained already, in the psychological sense. We will leave the physical until The Castle, of course, but since you’re here, I thought it would be interesting to show you a new wrinkle in the regime.”
“Norah, the trainer collar, please.”
Coraline was abandoned, half-sitting on the corner of the desk, skirts up, trapped behind her, legs parted, feeling Alain’s eyes on her opened, softly glistening sex, but not daring to look at him. Anne-Marie was unbuttoning the top of her blouse— he was to see her breasts, too, she said, so that he could think about how he would like them modified. The Castle would pay— a small tribute to Marianne. He had grunted, apparently not greatly interested, and Coraline died inside. She must please him— she must! In a flash, her obsession had transferred itself, and become concrete, an almost physical presence in her, that she would never be free from, even years hence; it was him! Alain was the one Marianne had sacrificed her sister to, not Anne-Marie.
Subtly, she had rearranged herself then, the better to offer herself to him. Anne-Marie and Norah noticed, of course, while Alain did not— not consciously at least; his cock, though, stiffened and the hot greed made itself known in his belly, and he looked again, discovered that he was interested; a little, at least.
“Actually, I think they should be made quite big; obviously too big for her frame, but without being gross.”
“Very good, I’ll have the surgeon prepare some proposals. I suggest some labiaplasty, too, and I wonder, wether you would like to revive that conversation about Marianne— taking things a bit further with the little cunt— this one is all yours; there is no emotion to get in the way, and she looks quite like Marianne. You could enhance the similarity, if you desired— but all that can wait.”
There was no time at all for Coraline to process any of this, as Norah was back, and affixing a collar to her. It was not pretty— black plastic, in fact, with a big boxy blob at the front. Norah fixed it too tight, and it was heavy; Coraline was about to protest, when it occurred to her that Norah had fixed it just as she wanted it, and that to say anything would be displeasing.
It was all so very hard, so grimly awful.
Except … except, that the presence of Alain made it better. Immeasurably better. It was he that all this work was for; these three women, taking such care in their different ways, expending so much energy and thought; it was he that made sense out of all of it. It was his cock, his desire to fuck her and to hurt her, to see her suffer, that made sense of all of it. The rest was just fluff. He was going to fuck her and be cruel with her, and that would be her life. His presence had made it real, and purposeful; and, too, judging from the feelings making themselves known in her lower belly, perhaps Anne-Marie was right— difficult as it had been to hear the words (she had squirmed and blushed at having to hear them said about her, out loud, displayed as she was); perhaps she was a natural.
Heat flared in her at the thought of it.
She, Coraline, was his little cunt; and she had accepted, weeks ago, in her mind at least, that this was her fate. That day, though, in Anne-Marie’s practical, mannish study, all squared-off furniture, hard floors, the display of whips, the austere bookcases, the heavy desk, all dark oak; it was in that room that pretty, soft, girlish, feminine Coraline, so recently a carefree young student with a bright future ahead of her; on that day that she had learned that this business of being little cunt would be real in her body, too, and accepted that, too— hungrily— and, just like that, another part of the trap had locked itself into place in her psyche.
It felt right, at the same time as it made her stomach churn; not only was she psychologically trapped, as Anne-Marie had suggested, but her body’s reaction to Alain being there, his eyes on her, to the reality that, very soon, he was going to be fucking her, abusing her, and that this excited her all suggested that she was going to be a push-over in the ‘physical’ part as well.
Immediately, then, because it seemed obvious, necessary, she had shifted again, moving aside a little, so that his view of her breasts would not be so obscured by Norah’s black-clad body; not through sluttishness, but as a matter of propriety. She was his little cunt. Her breasts were his.
As Norah soon demonstrated, the collar was one used on dogs; big, strong dogs, as a powerful control method. It could deliver, at the press of a remote button (or even under the control of a computer, said Anne-Marie), an electrical shock, the intensity of which could be varied, from mild to debilitating.
This was the latest model— the issue with these devices was that they could not accommodate a large battery— shocking big dogs or pretty cunts, of course required significant energy— besides being pig ugly, the stupid things had always run out of charge at a crucial moment, when they had been tried at The Castle. These new models, though, could be recharged by the wearer— and a training regime to enforce this was included. Very simply, as the device got below a certain threshold, it began to administer warning shocks, in a particular pattern— the sign that the dog or cunt should take itself off to the charging point. Wireless charging made it easy— all the cunt had to do was keep her neck within ten or so centimetres of a discreet wall mounted plate, and the thing could recharge in around 20 minutes. The warning shocks got stronger over time, so that the cunt would quickly learn to get her collar charged as soon as possible, the end result being that her controller could stop thinking about batteries, secure in the knowledge that there would always be juice to hurt his girl with.
Of course, new batteries could be also be swapped in with ease if delay was unacceptable. The next upgrade would have this swap feature automated at the charging point, so that a cunt need only spend a minute or so there, let the machine do its thing with her, with the old battery being put on charge immediately for future readiness.
What was this for, beyond increased intensity of micro-training for Coraline (such a few little words, such a blackness in the girl’s heart)? Anne-Marie would show him.
“Up, little cunt, and turn around— keep your skirt up now; Elegant! always elegant!”
“Now, see how Norah has placed her fist on the corner of the desk? Move forward now, a little at a time— keep your legs wide— spread them wider, in fact, until … that’s it.”
“Now, lift your right foot, very carefully, right off the floor; let all your weight land, through your pussy, onto Norah’s hand, onto her knuckles. Yes, I see your look. Yes, it will hurt her, but Norah has known worse, I can promise you. Now, the toe of your foot only may touch the floor again— a little further out, further back. Elegance, pretty, elegance! Now, the same with the left foot.”
It was appalling, and heart-stoppingly astonishing, to be in such a position— all her weight, as Anne-Marie had said, concentrated on her sex, Norah’s hard, bony hand, her sharp knuckles almost burning into her sex, such was the pressure, her outstretched legs unable to give her any support, any relief, the tips of her toes only useful to keep her balanced, her hands obediently occupied with the business of holding her skirts up.
Anne-Marie was wonderful, consummate, to have brought her to this. Her sex was already desperate to grind itself into the fist, but she dared not move. Maybe, maybe, in this desperately shameful position, she might be permitted to come— to provide a show for Alain? The thought was squirmingly perverse, but desire consumed her completely as it suggested itself— she could hardly keep herself from writhing like a needy, over-excited puppy, so urgent was the need for release, relief, for catharsis - no matter how shameful, no matter that they could all see just how it was with her (worse; she wanted the shame, she realised, wanted Alain to know just how dirty she was, how much of a natural she would be for him; she hated herself then, for being so pathetic, for having been so easy to suborn. Alain was already her owner, she saw. Nothing else could make sense of such a creature as she was destined to become— was already becoming).
“Alain, come around to my side of the desk; the view is better; you can see how it affects her, watch her tits move.”
“Oh! Excellent …” Anne-Marie was grinning, amused, and it was at once wonderful to have made her happy, and terrifying to understand that this meant something cruel was coming…
“I see that already you like that— you like the pressure, little cunt, do you? After such a long period of denial. Good; well, now, now you can begin to move; very slowly at first. You can guess already, I think, the role of the collar— you are to excite yourself, slowly, carefully, for our entertainment; make it lovely— keep your skirt up— higher— nothing must be hidden! That’s better; Good little cunt.”
It was true; shamefully true; although Norah had set her hand so that her hard and bony knuckles were uppermost, and it was those which Coraline was rubbing herself against; not at all what she would have chosen for herself, the reality was that the hard physicality of those knuckles (and yes, the shame, too, she couldn’t hide from it) was intensely exciting, that she wanted more, wanted to ignore Anne-Marie’s orders and go faster.
“Show us now, show us all, show us in your face, just what you are feeling; you are not permitted to hide yourself in this. And, there, there, it is working, you are wanting it, aren’t you little cunt? You are wanting to show us all your orgasm, just what a slut you are; you are speeding up, eh? Control; control girl; this is for us, not for you. You are nothing. And you will soon be less than nothing. Alain is here; you exist for his pleasure; you exist to be made nothing, less than nothing, That’s it, repeat those words for us as you pleasure yourself.”
“I …I am nothing. I exist to … to be made nothing, less than nothing, I …I oh! OH! AaaOooh! AAAAYEEAGGGGHAKGAKGAAAGGGH!“
The appalling reality of the shock threw Coraline to the floor, the first sign of an impending climax having triggered Norah’s finger on the control button. Coraline had known, of course, that something like that was coming, something bad, had tried to prepare herself for it, but the closeness of a powerful orgasm had overtaken her and she had been completely open, seeking sensation, rather than bracing herself against pain. The impact of the shock was in any event so awful, so unlike anything she had ever experienced, that no preparation would have been enough.
She was jerking, panting, having wet herself, sobbing and shaking. She was ignored beyond a small kick from Norah, which served to shut her up, but intensified her agonising humiliation, her desperate distress, her despair at how easily she had let this be done to her, at the stark, cruel inevitability that it would be done to her again and again, now; that she would offer herself up for it; that when Anne-Marie made her ask to have it done to her, she would curtsy and beg, as she was already required to do for her spankings; round and round in her head.
Round and round, wearing a groove in her, a groove that was all part of the trap, the training, which was working so very well on her that she was falling in love with her own tragedy; sick with anticipation at where they would take her next, at how sweetly she would allow herself to be degraded, no matter how bitterly she cried in the middle of the night…
“We will have to learn more about the intensity, it seems,” Anne-Marie was smiling at Alain; “She will wear it permanently from now on.”
Alain’s face was as hard and grim as it had been since Marianne’s prognosis, but he had nodded, appreciative. He had left before Coraline was even off the floor, cleaning up her own mess, weeping softly in bottomless, abject despair, but with her knees spread widely, her ass up high, as per her training.
At the Garden Party, Coraline’s first outing in months, Coraline was, utterly, bemused.
Picture: Coraline, bemused
She had not been invited to attend her sister’s funeral; in fact, she had been expressly forbidden attendance. A series of unpleasant letters and emails, in her handwriting, and from her secure email account, the words crafted by Coraline to Anne-Marie’s instuction— words which she had hated to write, since they misrepresented everything that Coraline had been, before … It didn’t matter. The words she had composed had cut her off, forever, from all the people whom she had cared about, who had cared about her. She was, now, truly, alone; just little cunt, surrounded by those who knew, all too well, what to do with her, what they wanted from her, how to control her, how to have her curtsy and say thank you for their abuses, their take-downs, their diminishments and abuses.
But that was ancient history. There was only little cunt now, little cunt and her twice daily ritual of self abasement through public masturbation— never with her hands, always with inanimate objects, often for an audience, always ending in horrible pain and shame, never in release— although mostly, these days, she could control her bladder. Anne-Marie was not at all amused by piss.
Her bemusement was total— she was not happy, not sad. She was not frightened, not expectant; she was away, away from everything, lost, while at the same time very aware of her physicality, the reality of it; her nearness to Alain, her Lord and Master, even though she had hardly seen him since that day at Anne-Marie’s, the discomfort of the corset, the soreness of her bottom, her nakedness under the little dress, the strangeness of freedom from the shock collar, the imminence of her immolation on the altar of her sister, the destruction that would be visited upon her in just a few short hours.
It was at once lovely, to be so prettily costumed, in a normal dress, to have had a thorough make-over at a salon, to be with Alain (though he had not spoken to her, hardly touched her, hardly even looked at her, still in deep mourning according to what she overheard from Anne-Marie), and awful, that so many people here knew what lay in store for her, what she had allowed herself to become, what they would see done to her if they stayed on after the closing ceremony for the wilder evening (she herself had no exact idea what her initiation would entail, save that it would be awful, that she would be destroyed by it; Norah, her face hard, her eyes lit up with pleasure, had made sure that this was clear to her, as Coraline had rocked herself against the older woman’s sharp, bony knuckles, working herself towards a climax she would never be permitted to experience, working towards a terrible, cruel shock, knowing it was coming, knowing that, at the last, she would be unable to resist giving herself over to pleasure, which would be destroyed for her).
She kept looking at the other girls, so happy, most of them— apparently, at least— enjoying themselves; laughing, giggling, dancing, flipping their skirts for the watching men, suggestive, explicitly enticing, as if trying to provoke them to excess, (indeed, twice during the afternoon she saw girls simply grabbed, as of right— one by the hair, one slung like a sack of potatoes over the shoulder of a large, boorish youth— and dragged, carried, out of sight, into the wilder parts of the garden; heard squeals and squeaks and louder, agonised cries. The men returned, the girls never).
Girls who can provoke attacks are ‘taken off the board’ during the afternoon session of the Garden Party, then brought back after the closing ceremony, if they can still perform, in whatever remains of their finery, hooded, mouths jacked open with a dental clamp, then chained up in a line of trees for general use. This disincentive is matched by an incentive— a ‘boost’ equivalent to ten ‘doses’ a week to the girl’s score, for the next four weeks. A ruined party, degrading public use, set against four weeks of liberation from exacting targets— the balance was different for each girl, ensuring the desired uncertainty and tension, while simultaneously meeting the varying interests of different Members— all part of Anne-Marie’s management genius.
At some point, Coraline suddenly decided that she might as well, on this, her last day as herself, her last day of relative innocence, she might as well have some fun, before she is violated, before she is destroyed, and, with a little flounce, although still completely deferential, on the alert for any sign that she was doing something wrong, she had set off toward the dancing. Perhaps, if he saw her with the others, at risk of being carried off into the woods, Alain might notice her.
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered any more; except that she would be fucked. If she knew anything at all, it was that she wanted, very much, to be fucked. After that, she would begin to be nothing; nothing but little cunt.
Picture: Coraline, off to dance
Epilogue
Coraline never came close, for Alain, to becoming a replacement for Marianne. As he recovered, though, he discovered that, just as his departed wife had predicted, his old hardness and desire to control and punish had returned, with a vengeance.
Coraline lost everything, lost her name, even, in the time she spent at The Castle, the C of her name, and that she was the little sister of the much loved Marianne (who had donated generously to the charities which supported various communities of ex-Castle girls), being combined so that she came mostly to be called Sisi. Anne-Marie still calls her little cunt on occasion, but she rarely sees Anne-Marie now.
Alain has never brought her to his home, where he had lived with Marianne; not once. As soon as her torrid and terrifying three months at The Castle was completed, he immediately had her indentured, and then sent her to Brazil for significant remodelling. He had realised that he very much did not want her to remind him of Marianne. On the rare occasions she sees herself in a mirror, the girl she sees there is strange to her. Strange and wonderful, too; each time, she is overawed by the sexuality of the creature in the glass, finds herself redoubling her commitment to display this carefully trained and edited body in Alain’s service.
She is kept, now, at his private office, more like a pet than a human. During office hours, she lives, naked, on this counter top in his office. At night she is chained in a small cupboard with a bucket, hands behind her back, pulled high to her collar, a chastity belt in place— she cannot restrain herself from masturbating when left alone.
Picture: Coraline, now Sisi, on her countertop
A beautician prepares her each morning— empties her, bathes her, styles her hair, does her makeup, feeds her bland but nutritious pap— she is discouraged from using her hands.
She is thoroughly exercised each evening, under Eric’s control. Eric keeps her sane, fucking her vigorously most days, keeping up her routine whippings— mostly light these days, since she is so thoroughly subjugated, so willing to comply with any request, however degrading, and always pathetically eager for sex.
Alain is cold, cruel and uncaring with her. He doesn’t use her often, only occasionally fucking her mouth or her ass in the office, and then almost mechanically.
When he really does want her it is often late at night, and he is half drunk, half crazy with grief when he crosses the road to the private office. Things can get very dark. Sometimes, afterwards; she, broken, trembling, often bleeding, always in despair, he, calmed after the frenzy of abuses and rapine, talks to her about Marianne, commands her to talk, too, to reminisce with him. He’s not kind, or fond with her, even then; it’s all about Marianne. These are the moments she lives for, though; precious times, even though her blackness, her bleakness, her night terrors are always much worse after such sessions, after she has been forced to remember Marianne, who had been a loving sister to Coraline, the happy, innocent girl she had once been, the girl who was free, with a bright future ahead of her. The girl who had a name, who was never going to be raped, or whipped, or degraded.
Eric is wise enough to thrash her more viciously, for days after these sessions, and she is wise enough to be grateful to him afterwards, no matter how piteously, how urgently she begs for mercy during the thrashing. Little cunt must not allow hope, or even the memory of it, to blossom in her chest; for there is none. It is kinder to beat it out of her than to let that happen. She gives herself ever more deeply to Eric each time.
Anne-Marie had explained to her that she could never be sold, never be passed on, should Alain no longer want her; her family was too influential to risk that, no matter that her face had been changed. She has understood, without anything being said, that, when the time comes, Eric will be the one to dispose of her. He will be cruel, she knows; take the chance to do things he has never been able to do to her. It makes the businesses of giving herself to him, opening herself to him deeply emotional, each time; opening her mouth, her legs, her ass; letting him destroy her, again and again. She has become pathetically servile for him, shamefully eager to please, to debase herself.
She composes poetry in her head, sometimes, and memorises it; occasionally about Marianne, but mostly about sex; about being fucked, about being hurt; about the terrible glory, the desperate bleakness, of being a nothing.
It turns her on, all too often, and his assistants laugh at her, seeing her hips surge, the colour rising to her cheeks, her tongue wetting her lips. Sometimes she has to lick the countertop clean of her own juices. Sometimes Alain lets them take her down to the basement. Sometimes she is lent to business contacts. She gives herself to them with shy eagerness, carefully encouraging each to unleash their darkest urges upon her, to make the fullest possible use of her. After all, it is the only thing that is special about her, that she can be used without restraint.
She knows nothing, has nothing, is nothing. Nothing but little cunt.
She rededicates herself to Alain every morning, and means it. That is all she has; she is Alain’s nothing.
