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 hung in the frame; face-down, thighs forced apart and sharply backward, hands flapping at her sides; painfully strained at her jaw, shoulders, hips and knees, blindfolded, her tongue and throat dry from her mouth being held open; cold was seeping into her bones, the fear eating at her, a dull weight of hopelessness waiting to claim her if she let herself think about her future, about losing even her womanhood.
She heard muffled voices outside— Claude and Nadia, their words unclear, then doors, then engine sounds, first loud, then diminishing to silence, the everpresent faint hum of the city.
She had been abandoned.
She hung there, refusing to let herself cry; telling herself she must work on maintaining her arousal to keep it all at bay, to do her duty; to keep her sex ‘hot and slick’.
It was too hard. Again, too hard. She couldn’t get past her fear, her despair, the awfulness of having been left, splayed, naked, so horribly exposed, vulnerable.
He had told her, had He not? Again and again— that it would be too hard; that she would at some point be unable to meet His demands, that she would need to save herself, that she would at some point choose safety and sanity over intensity, over fear, over shame and disgrace and ruination. That she would fail Him.
To be trapped as she was, strapped into the cruel frame, suspended, gagged with her jaws locked open, in pain that got worse by the minute, fear lapping at her mind, growing by the second, not knowing where she was, no sight, no voice, no money, no phone, nobody at all to help her, certain that whoever might come would be a creature of his, an abuser or a complacent enabler of abuse; to be trapped like that was …
I must bear this. I must. I can’t lose Him. Not now— now that I know how it can be. This is just the price. And it’s not so hard, really. I never deserved anything anyway, never had anything anyway. This— even this, is … is living …
She struggled to manage herself, to avoid the spiral of despair which led only to madness. She had been through this; she had stayed with Him last night, had weathered several storms of fear and despair, had pleased Him with her self-control, had been …
‘Rewarded’— really? How can I have been forming that word in my mind? Rewarded, how? With diminishment, with disgrace, with humiliation, with cruelty, with shame, with a sordid, perverse beating? Rewarded, by Nadia’s use of that terrible machine on me, inside me? With her revealing my shame to Lauren, with her treatment of me in the van? Rewarded?
It was no use. The outrage, the anger, the pushback, it was all sham.
She had been rewarded, and she knew it; rewarded by His continued interest in her. Claude’s punishment of her was a reward. Nadia’s degrading her with that vile thing was a reward, and she knew it in her body that she was grateful, pathetically, stupidly, shamefully grateful.
But this? This terrible position, the cold, the blindfold, the fear— the ever rising fear …
Was it a test? He had tested her the night before, tested her to her limits. But then, He had told her that He would always push her further, push her until she broke.
And so her thoughts went, round and around in her head, endlessly trying to answer the unanswerable questions;
How did I come to fall like this?
What am I to Him, truly?
Why does He want to do these things to me? What awful wrong has been inflicted on him, that He is so cruelly twisted?
How can it be that I find it in so many ways to be wonderful, remarkable, to be used so vilely? That I can feel gratitude for such abuse?
What will become of me, when at last He abandons me?
There were no answers, but she learned something; she learned that thinking about him, concentrating on Him, was a way through. It did not protect her— if anything, the opposite; she felt weaker, more helpless, more frightened, more convinced of his dominion over her with every hopeless abandoning of a line of thought, ever more suffused with a deep and helpless sadness; a soft, useless grieving for her lost self.
But madness did not take her. Because, however unknowable He might be, however uncertain her own future, He was, in and of Himself, the epitome of certainty;
As long as He wants to control me, it doesn’t matter. There will be no answers, ever; of course not, only abuse, and fear, and indignity, and being fucked. But He is the answer. My answer, now. Forever.
It didn’t make it better. Nothing would ever be better. But it would be real.
Real pain, real shame, real fear, real fucking, real abuse, real intensity, real rapes.
It will have to be enough.
But how could it be that she could accept such ignominy? Sadness claimed her.
By the time they came for her (it might have been an hour, it might have been three, she had no way of telling), she was utterly defeated, exhausted with the incessant mental tornado of contradiction; softly crying with the sadness; weakened by pain and cold, and fear.
She had not, though, been drowned by any of them, had not been overtaken by hysteria, and she had installed Him even more deeply into her self-image, certain of her own dependency upon him, however terrible the implications of such surrender seemed certain to be.
Whatever the resolution of any of this was, it lay with Him.
With my Monseigneur.
When she realised that it was two women, young-sounding, when they talked about her, about her body, as if it were simply a problem they had to solve, when they manipulated her, rearranging the frame (bringing her thighs forward almost made her scream with the pain, and indeed they were then forced forward so far as to cause new pain; her knees all but alongside her ribs); when she realised, at last, that they were in fact, if not the same two women who had ministered to her at the beauty parlour the day before, that they were of the same kind, she felt she must die of shame, and at the same time melt with relief; these were Monseigneur’s people— or at least in his pay; she was being prepared, it was clear from their laconic comments, to some specification, and Odile was certain that it must be His own, and was stupidly grateful; grateful that He cared how she was presented, that He was willing to pay these young women to prepare her to his requirements.
Her tears stopped; she was His, Once again, the unquestioning way in which his desires were inflicted upon Odile calmed her, made everything meaningful; she had only to lean in to this careless domination of her body by His proxies to lose herself, to put her own petty concerns into perspective; see herself for the weakling she was, effortlessly dominated by His will, even in His absence. It wasn’t safety, but it was Him in charge, and it was a deep relief to let herself be controlled.
They were not kind, as they manipulated her, as they beautified her; neither were they cruel or rough; they were practical and efficient; it was as if they were preparing a mannequin for a shop display, not dealing with a human being, a woman.
She found herself wishing that they could be mean; their matter-of-fact attitude was dehumanising, especially as they did not remove the blindfold until last, and then immediately placed thin vertical adhesive strips over her eyelids and onto her cheeks, to hold her eyes shut.
She was desperate to speak, to ask them any one of a hundred questions that presented themselves to her; that she did not utter a word was both a deep shame— that she could accept such treatment without even a consent, or an explanation; that she did not dare ask for one— and, equally, a stupid source of stupid pride; that she could suppress herself so effectively, simply to do as she believed He would have wished her to— to suppress her own needs in favour of serving Him more perfectly.
Indeed, they did not remove the tape from her eyes, even after they had strapped different shoes onto her (strangely, although she felt light chain ankle straps, the sole of the shoe was not held to her heel, all the weight of the shoe hanging from straps at her two largest toes), after they had replaced her choker with a heavier, harder one, notably tight, so that even swallowing required a conscious effort, careful execution.
Bands were placed above each elbow, and her arms linked by these, behind her back, her hands again free but rendered useless.
At this rate I’ll lose the use of them thought Odile, only for the thought to be recognised as another intention of Andrew’s; that continued restraint, physical or mental, on her use of her hands, keeping them mostly out of sight, must, over time, degrade her capacity, her dexterity. Both mental and physical blocks would grow to her ability to help herself.
It was awful, of course, but somehow, it was equally perfect,; the thought made her heart hammer. A sick fascination grew in her at the realisation that since this was something she could work on, privately, without needing Him, that she might find herself— I will find myself — working to push herself in this direction, knowing that it was a requirement of Andrew’s, that a girl who had incapacitated herself in that way might be a girl He wanted to entertain Himself with.
It would be so easy, so lovely, in fact to help him degrade her in this way. she had already started, she knew, but with no clear aim in mind, no simple idea of what was to be achieved, but …
The disturbing thoughts were interrupted then, as they began to move the frame so that her feet, for the first time in hours, touched the floor. After they had released her from the frame, helped her stand (she was desperately unsteady for long moments, as if the frame had erased her memory of how to stand, and the new heels seemed both extremely tall and very unstable); still, she was kept blind.
Neither did they speak to her, simply continuing with their preparations.
Cool fingers insisted upon entry to her sex, and when Odile, surprised, instinctively flinched and tightened, a mild, irritated Ssst! was all she got, before the other girl’s hands, from behind, took her left thigh and pulled it outward, so that Odile, if she was not to fall, had to adjust her stance, move her feet apart, while the first girl took advantage of the movement to fully insert three fingers deep into Odile’s pussy, almost workmanlike as she investigated, before reporting;
“She’s quite dry. Get the Rat.”
Horror took Odile, then; a rat! Did they mean to punish her for not being wet for Him, down there, by putting a rat to her? It made no sense, but then, what did in this new world, and Odile desperately wanted to protest, to clamp her legs, to pull away.
Except, that she would not permit herself to. Even though tears brimmed at her eyelids, her heart skipping beats, her belly churned; somehow she made herself stand, stand and wait, accepting even this.
It was a shaming relief, then, to discover that this was their word for the robot device; they had one for her, perhaps a little smaller than Nadia’s, and it was pushed into her without gentleness, set to some programme which was mostly composed of buzzing and contortions, with only few and mild shocks. These girls, too, had found an animal metaphor for the thing, and, not being subject to it themselves, had given it a nasty nickname— *the Rat*— the very imagery Odile had tried to banish from her mind.
“That’ll get her going while she walks. Never fails”.
That problem handled, the girls moved unhurriedly on, attaching a long chain, thin but heavy, to the back of her collar, then passed it forward, between her legs, and pulled at it, gently enough, but relentlessly, so that it worked its way, cold and unyielding, between the folds of her sex, making her sigh and wail with the shame of it, the sensation of it, as it pushed the rat deeper inside her, the shame intensified by the unmissable note of sensuality in her voice as the thing began to get to her, as the chain was pulled upward, mashing her clitoris, the implication of her cries not missed by the girls, who giggled to each other;
“Hotting up already!”
The chain was fed through some attachment at the front of the choker, and then, horribly, Odile discovered that she was actually to be led, pulled along in that manner, the chain moving between her sex lips, across her clitoris, with every step.
She discovered, too, how devilish the heels were. For they were only held to her feet by the toe straps, like flip flops. The ankle chain was fixed to the heel, but so loosely as to be no help at all while walking; unless Odile walked with extreme care and smoothness, it was all too likely that she might fall off her shoes, at which time the ankle straps would come into play, making it impossible to step out of the shoe and save herself. It felt real for Odile that to fall in that way was to likely break her ankles; it was frightening, and Odile knew she must concentrate of her walk.
They walked some little way, during which Odile’s being unable to see the way, together with her difficulties with the heels meaning that the chain was often pulled tight, sawing itself into her sex. It seemed they went outside— presumably in the yard Odile had been delivered to, and then into a warmer building. There followed a stair down, which thankfully the girls helped her with, though without any kindnesses; the one behind her taking hold of the chain, and some of Odile’s weight, the one in front letting the chain loose and placing Odile’s feet, one at a time on the next step down, the Rat reacting to the shifting of her pelvis as she went slowly down with contortions of its own, so that there was never a second that was not sexually disturbing and shaming and frightening, all at once.
The bottom of the stairs wasn’t the end of it, though. It had become chill again, with a smell of damp, and then there was a growling, as if from a dog. A large and unfriendly dog, though it was not out of control.
“Ooh, that nasty dog! You get it and I’ll do the chain; it always sticks its wet nose up my skirt!”
“Get it yourself! Does the same to me, and I don’t like it any better than you do. They say He has it trained to … well … you know. With his girls.”
“It’s true! That strange Nadia said she couldn’t comment but I could see it in her face. And Mina said she saw one of them afterwards— all scratches— claw marks— along her back and sides, and a nasty bite at the bottom of her neck at the side.”
“Ha. Rumours! No more than I’ve heard. Still, it’s a nasty brute, however well trained it is. You’re at the front, you fetch it, and I’ll do the chain. Push the dog at this one; hers is out and ready, and all juicy, too if that Rat has done its job.”
Odile had not thought she could be shocked any further that day, but, even if it was silly gossip, the idea that Andrew had a dog trained to rape his girls was enough to turn her into a pathetic, squirming jelly. No matter that her dream of just a few dys ago had been of a werewolf or something, that had been a dream, an unasked for fantastical nightmare. That it could even theoretically be real made her totter, stumble, and she had to be caught by the girl behind her, else she would have fallen.
She was stricken, appalled, unable to process.
It made no difference. The girl in front handed the chain to the one behind, and grumbling, took a few further steps, echoing now from a cold stone floor— some larger space?— and the dog made a whining now; eager for something.
Metalic sounds, an un-greased hinge creaked, a shocked squeak from the girl; “Down! Get off me you nasty brute!”, then a rapid clacking of claws and then, no easier to cope with for the forewarning, a cold nose pushed right between her legs, right at her sex, followed immediately , shockingly sensuous, by a hot tongue, very strange, covered in slime, lapping at her there, Odile screeching and gasping in distress and shame, the girls laughing nervously, the chain noisy as something was down with it.
“Keep still, you brute … There … that’s done it. Now dog, do your job.”
There was a click, and then, as if from far away, there was a klaxon noise. Immediately, the dog abandoned Odile and clacked off, walking quite slowly, until, awfully, the chain tightened into her sex, forcing dog saliva inside her, making it obvious to her just how ‘hot and slick’ she had become, the tension making it necessary for her to walk.
I’m being led by a dog, naked and chained, to god knows where, and I have no choice in the matter. Oh please, please…
She had no idea what she was pleading for, and in any case she dared not speak out loud.
“Don’t give him any trouble at all, Missy”, came a voice from behind her;
“He knows where he’s going, and if you let him lead you, that’ll be all that matters. Don’t think you can resist him, though; he’s been attack trained, and he’ll stand for no nonsense.
