This will make more sense if you have read the previous parts of the story.
… you’re mine, now, in any case; past the point of no return.
On her knees, in the street, these words from Anne-Marie produced two opposing, powerful reactions in Liana’s destabilised mind— on the one hand real fear, verging on panic, at what the implications of being ‘past the point of no return’ will be— and on the other hand a powerful release of tension, a burst of gratitude, like a miraculous flower blossoming inside her, at the removal of all doubt as to how she stood in relation to Anne-Marie.
Of the two emotions, it was the flood of relief from what had become an unbearable strain which won out; it was shaming to feel relief at having been definitively demoted from anything like a lover, to something for which the only word Liana’s mind can propose is slave, but a resolution to what had become an incessant, unanswerable nagging in her mind was undeniably, overwhelmingly welcome.
To be filled with nameless fear produced new turmoil, for sure, but it was the kind of thrilling fear that was almost indistinguishable from ecstasy— like the moment before the car tipped upside-down on a funfair ride.
The dissonance of these two sensations made her feel horribly weak; weak almost to the point of collapse, and if it had not been for Anne-Marie’s knowing, certain touch at her shoulder, Liana might well have slumped into a welcome swoon.
But that hand— the hand of the woman who, until two weeks ago, had been her wonderful, masterful, elegantly sardonic lover— the woman who had saved her from the bland aimlessness of the dead-end life she had fallen into, who had showered her with blessings and comforts, who had brought her back to life, who had taught her, shown her, what sex could really be, who had filled her with joy— that was the hand of the same woman, now revealed as more— so much more— not just wonderful but magnificent, not just masterful but in complete command, not just elegant but consummate, not just sardonic but sadistic— the woman who now considered Liana to belong to her, and whose rule promised both the abject terror and the helpless exaltation of sexual subjugation.
And there was nothing to be done; nothing, at least, that Liana could imagine doing.
Nothing, that is, except do what she could to offer herself into the force that now held her, try to shape herself so as to be carried along with it, rather than be smashed by it, rather than be broken.
Nothing, that is, but what she wanted to do in any case; to allow herself to be taken, to give herself up to what would be required of her, open herself to it, offer herself to it, suffer with as much acceptance, as much humility, as much sweetness, as much gratitude as she could muster.
And with these thoughts, at last, came some resolution of the paradoxes. Whether in response to the imposition of fear, or of ecstasy, terror or exaltation, pleasure or pain, there could be a single commitment— to offer herself up, with humility, sweetness and gratitude.
Picture: Liana, kneeling in the street
It was a dream, then— for a little, fleeting while, before reality invaded— before the hard reality of what having accepted all this meant; a voice, harsh, full of suppressed viciousness, a cut-glass accent, a hissed, vicious sneer from some passer-by;
“For shame, pute. Get up, salope! Dégage!”
It was like being burnt. The person who had spoken, whom Liana did not dare look around for, despite a strong need to find out who it was, what they might be about to do, that person’s shoes were in her peripheral vision; very expensive, very conservative black patent shoes, elegant ankles in dark tan stockings, older legs. The woman— Liana knew the type; rich, deeply conservative— both politically and socially— deeply judgemental, utterly self-possessed, entitled to an insane degree; the epitome, to be exact, of a Parisian French haute-bourgeoisie; the woman had stopped; she must be staring, seeking to impose her righteous will— that Liana stop shaming the public street— by force of projected distaste. And Liana, knowing that she was less than dirt in this high-status woman’s regard, felt it like acid, acid eating into her; because she deserved it. Her own mother, though nowhere near as high up the social scale, would have had the same instincts, on seeing something like the spectacle Liana was presenting in the public street. Especially a street like this one, so chi-chi, lined with expensive, exclusive shops.
Her only armour against this agony of shame was the belief that, by kneeling, grovelling so in the street, she was pleasing Anne-Marie, pleasing the woman who it had just been confirmed ‘owned’ Liana— whatever that might actually mean. Far from protecting her, though, far from protesting at such nasty rudeness, Anne-Marie instead leant in again, and added her own despite;
“You see, pretty? Everyone will know you for what you are, from now on. It is obvious. That your cunt is open for use. That you are dirty, easy, weak. If they are not the sort to immediately take advantage of you, they will be mean, since they both fear and despise your availability for fucking.”
She straightened up, then, smiling a hard, smile, full of pleasure, as Liana fought an internal battle to stay still, hold her pose, keep the little silly smile on her lips, fight back the tears.
This was how it was going to be; she was going to have to find a way to love it. She had, to, or it would destroy her absolutely. Her heart felt as if it were being seared and crushed, at the same time; an actual, physical pain in her chest, which demanded physical action, which demanded change, which demanded relief from the intolerable pressure— it just had to be borne; swallowed, accepted, leaned-in to, suppressed. She had to smile at Anne-Marie; offer herself, be pretty, be desirable. She had to open her cunt, because that was the part of her than Anne-Marie wanted, the part of her that Anne-Marie used.
“Come, let’s get you some pretty new things. I want to show you off.”
Anne-Marie led, then, simply walking off, leaving Liana to scramble to her feet and follow, however weak and shaky her legs, however hard it was even to breathe; blinking back tears, feeling the laser stare of the outraged woman still fixed on her, flushed with shameful, weak helplessness, trying to walk elegantly, to keep up with the only person in the world who could make sense of this vortex. The person in the world whom she knows will force her to let the vortex take her, take her deeper. The moment of peace with all this had been so sweet, but so terribly short; everything was again turmoil, tumult, madness, all too fast, too hard, too frightening.
Those words; …your cunt is open for use — going round and around in Liana’s head; terrible, wonderful words, making her breathless with the thought of the sensations she would have forced upon her as the truth of that condition, the despair it would induce in her when she was not with Anne-Marie; what those two forces would do to her, how it made everything else that she meant to herself small, meaningless. She didn’t know what these thoughts actually meant, but her whole being was possessed by the feeling of them; destructive intensity, shame, violating intensity, pain; degrading intensity, despair, humiliating intensity, self-hatred.
Anne-Marie. Her dependency on the woman— her owner— Mistress, she saw— from now on. Her life, her sanity, depended on Anne-Marie. Who would continually attack her sanity, diminish her, enforce that dependency still further.
Which Liana wanted, wanted so badly; the yearning, the deep fear of abandonment, rejection, spurning, which had grown in her so powerfully, taken roots in her, during the past ten days, was resolved by this new idea. Of herself as Anne-Marie’s possession. No longer in charge of herself, but simply the creature of Anne-Marie’s desires.
The question, of course— and it was an agony in Liana’s heart that she felt it all but certain that she would fail to be the answer to it— the question was whether she could actually perform, could actually give to Anne-Marie what she required from her possession. If she could not, then, it had been made clear, she would lose interest in Anne-Marie’s eyes, she would be abandoned. That attention which, it had been revealed to her, had become an embedded need, somehow a basic requirement of existence; that attention would be denied her. Even the thought of it was unbearable.
And thus the inevitable dreadful conclusion— she was going to work with Anne-Marie— work avidly, conscientiously, carefully, urgently; conspire with her owner to degrade herself, diminish herself, undermine herself, with that her dependency would become all the more cemented in at the core of her existence.
This was how it would be. She would answer the question through encouraging Anne-Marie to degrade her.
She found it in herself to laugh, then; a harsh, self-lacerating laugh. Laughing at the idiot girl, who was throwing her life away for the sake of - what?
It was impossible to know.
The laugh rang hollow; because whatever it was was that she was throwing herself away for, it was more real than anything else she had ever felt.
Liana increased her speed; Anne-Marie had disappeared round a corner into a busier street and the fear of losing her was like suffocation.
