You will find that this makes more sense if you have read the previous part of Odile’s Story.
You can find all the episodes here.
Odile found herself stalled, empty; in some sort of fugue state, or waking coma, as Nadia climbed in and settled herself into the limousine style leather banquette, as Claude and Nadia exchanged brief confirmations, as Claude slid the door shut, as the vehicle moved off.
She knew that this could not last, that in some way she ought to be working on herself, serving her Monseigneur, but her thinking had become slow and cloudy— nothing really seemed to mean much— and she found herself unable to form any decision as to what she might do, unable to convince herself to move, unable to get beyond her transfixion by the *thing*— by the unpredictable, senseless but highly impactful impositions of the machine in her pussy, one minute vibrating sensuously, triggering pleasure and arousal pathways, bringing forth sighs and moans from her (noises she dearly wished were not audible by Nadia, but could not control, perhaps in part because she knew that her Monseigneur preferred her not to hide her arousal; that she understood why— that her vulnerability, her open-ness to rape ought to be advertised) then inactive for seconds or minutes, leaving her sighing in frustration, before initiating another mode— perhaps more pleasure, perhaps sharp and sudden pain, perhaps that horrid physical squirming, as it contorted itself deep inside her, as if it really were a small animal, burrowing away in her sex, a thought too disturbing to contemplate— and yet there it was in her slow-motion mind, delivering wave after wave of revulsion and despair.
It was more than enough to deal with, and she gave in; like an abandoned rag-doll, lying exactly as it was thrown down, helpless and meaningless until somebody decides to make it do something, to do something with me, to me.
It felt like another defeat; weak and tragic, but equally, a blessed relief, to accept this of herself, to simply give up any pretence at having any meaning, any purpose. Dimly, Odile was aware that Nadia was making brisk calls, had her laptop out, was busily working, and simply let herself drift, almost into sleep, until, with an abject squeal, like a wounded animal, she was shocked back into life by a vicious jolt in her sex, wrenched upright by the pain, whining with the aftershock, whimpering in fear; knowing how ridiculous, how pathetic she was, but with no reserve of self-control to draw upon; her mind might have been absent, but her body still felt pain, experienced fear, had basic reflexes.
Nadia made a sharp noise of irritation and disapproval, looked up and admonished, sharply, as to an annoying pet, impatient;
“See to your position now, pretty. On your knees; facing me; up— up! That’s it, your pussy is to be accessible from behind, so no letting your bottom rest on your legs. And spread wider, too, little one, show me that shiny wet cunt. That’s half a start on a display position, but right now I’m busy, so we need something less intrusive. You need to become part of the furniture— a footstool, in fact; lean forward now— hands out and back, palms up— you know what He likes; face right down on the floor, turn to the left, look at the wall. Shuffle forward now— come closer. That’s it. There.”
As if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, then, Nadia put her foot onto the side of Odile’s face; not stamping down, but not gently, either. Odile had been humiliated enough by shuffling with her face in the carpet, but this opened up a pit of black despair for her.
It’s too much! Too much!
The words formed in her head, but even as they did she knew that their apparent outrage, their protest was fake, weak, embarrassing. Because it wasn’t outrage, it wasn’t protest, it was just stupid whining. Because in reality, she was being abjectly servile, enabling this deliberate show of disrespect, of dominion, of power; she was turning her head, just a little more, in order to give better support to Nadia’s foot; shuffling her knees outward and forward, hoping that lifting and opening her sex to the maximum might avoid disapproval, or another cruel shock inside her.
There were tears building in her eyes, but she blinked them away, urgent, determined; almost without thinking, not to let them fall. Tears might be forced from her, but Monseigneur’s preference was that she should keep them at bay as long as she could. She had not thought about it, but reacted automatically.
She knew that she should feel angry, should wish to reject such thoughtless compliance; it made her stomach twist to realise that she felt a little pulse of warmth, of pleasure, at the knowledge she had thought to do this, to work to control herself, in service of her Monseigneur, who was not even there to see it.
Like a puppy in training; learning to enjoy the sensation of doing the right thing even before being commanded.
Whatever she might think about it, though, Nadia’s approving comment brought another little flush of unlooked for, precious pleasure;
“Good. Good little girly.”
“Just a little higher, now— remember, push until the position is not just embarrassing, but uncomfortable— make it extreme. Positions which are obviously stressful attract notice. Also, because of the difficulty of holding such positions, you will end up quivering after a little while, noticeably having to make a real effort, feeling distress. That too will attract attention— although it goes without saying that you must control yourself at all times, and never, ever become an irritation.”
For approval to be instantly followed by more onerous, more shaming demands was somehow welcome, too; being tightly, continuously controlled was so much better than waiting for Claude had been. Being bossed about, being humiliated, being trained left no room for self-destructive thinking.
That she knew, saw so very clearly that this was a downward spiral made no difference; there was more, and it was still a pleasure to comply;
“Suppress your feelings as best you can. You can be certain of one thing; no-one is interested in what it’s like for you. You’ll never be sure what the right balance is between advertising yourself as available for abuse, and avoiding becoming an annoyance. But never mind, there’s always pain to let you know when you’re getting it wrong.”
There came another terrible hit of electricity, then, deep inside her, and, even though Nadia’s words had told her something was coming, even though she had tried to prepare, it was impossible not to jerk and wriggle, and squeal and gasp, and the tears spurted anyway and it was beyond awful, as Nadia pressed down hard, with her foot on Odile’s face, her voice cold;
“Control yourself, cunt. Accept it. You’ll be getting much worse than that, soon enough, don’t you worry. Here’s another one, a notch up; get ready for it, and take it, this time; I don’t want for an instant to feel as if you might not be there for my foot.”
Every fibre of Odile’s body rejected the notion that she should just wait, knowing that another shock was coming; that she would do her pathetic, helpless best not to react to it, to stay still as the terrible thing was inflicted upon her. Yet somehow she managed to achieve a result which satisfied Nadia when the pain jolted, searing her mentally as much as it did physically.
Knowing that she had allowed Nadia to take her down yet another step, she tasted bitter ashes at the back of her throat as she made herself let it be, made herself accept, feeling the shame eat away at her, suppressing the howling awfulness of that, too, doing the work Monseigneur had talked about last night— the work of diminishing herself, degrading herself, damaging herself for Him, so that He could rely ever more completely upon her weakness, her abjection, her ever more perfect submission to His cruel desires.
She understood it all— in outline, at least— how she was being worked on; it was clever, subtle, but not at all difficult to see. What was difficult was her own compliance, her abject, determined work on herself, her crushing of her own instincts for self-preservation, for decency, for self-respect. Her active work in the service of deepening her own shame, despair and mental weakness.
Numbly, she found herself realising that she was thinking in just the way she had predicted that Lauren would do: not judging Andrew harshly, but rather pouring her scorn and disrespect onto herself. I am judging myself for having accepted that this appalling device can be put inside me at will, rather than Monseigneur for his cruelty in imposing it upon me, just as Lauren will judge me.
I make no judgements of him at all, she realised; None. His membership of a cruel club, his overt and perverted sadism, his casual conversation about his vile intentions toward Maya, lightly talking about violating her, his deliberately pushing me into a choking fit that felt life-threatening, his petty meannesses— not feeding me, all but offering me to the stranger in the gallery, describing just how violently he would like to rape me, with such brutal detail, some version of which obviously lies in my future if I cannot escape him— all these and more are to be laid at his door; he would not resile from them if I challenged him.
He is brazen, deliberate, unapologetic in telling me how cruel he will be, how it pleases him to be so, how he enjoys my suffering, how he will brutalise me, destroy me… and yet … and yet … in my mind, this sadist, this monster, this terror of a man is the hero of our story, while it is me who is the dirty, shameless, immoral whore, weak and despicable, deserving of every vile treatment imaginable.
I was boring, yes, limited, yes, pathetic, even, before he took me. I had no interesting life, no interesting friends, no exciting prospects … all that is true. But I was not unkind, not cruel, not abusive. I was not confident perhaps, but I was not horrified by the thought of being seen by my neighbours, not ashamed of how my boyfriends treated me. Neither was I often terrified, not often in pain, not often ashamed, never sexually humiliated in public, never physically assaulted, never sexually assaulted, not raped, never beaten— by my lovers, even; never-mind by total strangers.
These thoughts, though; savage as they were— deliberately and purposefully so, as Odile tested herself— they made no difference; no difference at all. Far from arousing some resistance in her, they had in fact the opposite effect— that of making her subjugation, her lack of capacity to resist, seem all the more inevitable, pre-ordained, part of the natural order of things.
I’m a nothing, thinking these thoughts. Nothings cannot be heroes. And is it even possible, to be cruel to a nothing?
Even now, thinking these thoughts, suffering the disgrace of being subject to the random inflictions of this thing in my pussy, in the hands of His two differently cruel employees, I cannot think of Him as anything other than my Monseigneur, my overlord, my benefactor, the one to whom I owe such detailed, complete and degrading respect, gratitude, commitment, service, consent, obedience.
Because, also, I was never, not once, fucked so thoroughly that I lost my mind; never taken out of my foolish, petit-bourgeois limitations on my own sexuality; never once gloried in a sheer excess of sexual wildness; never, even, not once, felt genuinely sexually interesting; never gave myself license to orgasm without my mind in overdrive, never submitted to my body without restraint.
I had not ever lived my own body’s life. Not really; not for years, at least.
I was a nothing, then, too. Only, ridiculously, I was not even aware of it. Honestly, that was more shaming than this— to have lied to myself so convincingly that I thought I was something.
This nothing is better; at least it is animated by His desire. The rag-doll gets used, now.
Even if the usage is cruel; how much better than never to be played with. Better to be raped to orgasm than never really have experienced sex at all.
A spasm shook her then; not from the machine, but from her visceral recall of the violence of his fucking her at the Museum.
Oh God, sooo much better!
As she had in the early hours, she surprised herself then by finding a sad, twisted amusement in all of it; tragic and profound as it was, it was also pathetic, laughably pathetic that she had been so helplessly, so deliciously, so terrifyingly ensnared; utterly under the thumb of a cruel and heartless abuser whom she could not even think ill of, could not help but hero worship for His superiority, His skill, His strength, His adamantine and shameless willpower, His iron certainty, His casual confidence which seemed always to be more than justifiable, His cruelty which was almost as welcome as it was hurtful, accepted as a gift, so personal was it, so intimate, so carefully crafted to hurt her in just the way He desired.
She could not, it seemed, find herself anything other than eager for the experience of being raped by Him, however awful the words might feel when she repeated them in her mind.
A further wave of helpless surrender washed over her. He was beyond challenge, beyond judgement. For her, at least (although it seemed likely that others— even Claude and Nadia, held Him on the same esteem), He defined himself; as well seek to judge Him as to judge a lightning bolt.
Another defeat, then; she accepted it with a sensation of sweetness in the surrender, even as it added another unassailable layer to her entrapment; if she could not bring herself to criticise a self avowed sadist and rapist, whose cruelty and perversions she had experienced at first hand, how could she even think about saving herself from him?
And if that is true, what right do I have to object to this thing inside me? It’s His, isn’t it? An extension of His will over me, His control over me, His promised rapes of me?
“His promised rapes of me,“— oh what a sweet and terrifying phrase.
How can it be that it has me softening between my legs, has my breath catch in my chest, even in this degrading condition?
I want it. I do. I want Him to do it to me. Do everything. Take me down.
Her hips surged, then; slow and sensuous, at the memory of just how violently He had ploughed her, yesterday in the park; how He had smashed her into nothingness, how she had lost everything about the world except for the reality of being the thing which He was fucking. How eagerly she yearned to be treated like that again, more so; how hot and warm her sex was for Him, and Nadia laughed at her; not with a sneer, that time, though, but in pleasurable satisfaction, in her own reverie of admiration for the irresistible monster who owned them both, who had conquered them with such apparent ease, who controlled them as of right.
At that moment, deep in Odile’s sex, the thing made one of its alien contortions, so horridly disturbing, and for the first time, Odile found herself working with it, leaning in to the extraordinary sensation of violation, finding a way to let it have her. It might as well; it was Him, she was His; and something happened; a wave of sexual intensity built rapidly, and then crashed over her, and she heard herself moan like a woman approaching orgasm. Not like Odile, not like the Odile she had been, just weeks before, but like a woman, a woman suffused with desire; overwhelmed by it, letting it have her, letting herself go, without reserve.
Even though she was on her knees, still, Nadia’s foot grinding into her soft cheek, the rest of the ride, for Odile, was almost peak lovely. She was nothing, and she would be tightly, claustrophobically controlled, and she would shamed in public, and violently raped, and made to experience intensity; sexual, despairing, agonising, humiliating, suffocating intensity. And one day, one day, perhaps, it would destroy her, as He had told her, but it would be worth it, for occasional moments like those.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Her lips moved, but no sound came out. The sensation of her tight nipples, grazing the carpet, was like searing pain and glorious joy at the same time, and soft tears wet her cheeks at the thought of the terrors which would be inflicted upon her poor soft body, on her tender pussy.
I’m on the edge of madness…
She knew it, and she welcomed it. What could it matter, if nothing were to be insane?
Odile, face down, ass up, in the van
