This will make more sense if you have read the previous parts.
The man who has delivered her says something brief, his tone respectful, then tucks the free end of the chain he’s been leading her with up through her collar, yanking it tight, drawing a despairing little cry from her as it tightens on her clitoris, and then ties it off before abandoning her, the door closing behind him.
She feels bereft. Anonymous, perfunctory, crude he had been, but the tank had left her so needy, so hungry for interaction with other people, that she had projected all sorts of imaginings onto the anonymous holder of her chain. And now he had left, without warning.
I’m nothing; nothing at all here. No-one says goodbye to a dog, do they? And Anne-Marie made sure that I understand just how much lower I am than a dog to these people.
She is horribly aware of her vulnerability; certain of the imminence of terrible demands upon her. The interludes when she had been removed from the tank had not ever offered her the slightest freedom; she had always been a helpless, fully controlled victim of more-or-less mechanical, programmatic abuses.
But now she is relatively free— she can choose how willing she is, or make attempts to resist, however doomed they would be.
At some level, she knows, she is on test; the videos shown her, the cruelty, the deprivations meted out to her were a training regime; her lover’s appalling words (the man she is still learning to refer to— even in the privacy of her own mind— as ‘Master’) are burned into her memory— had replayed themselves endlessly during her time in the tank;
“… an accelerated regime will be most appropriate for you — rather cruder than the usual programme, with an emphasis on violent and explicitly cruel treatment, both physical and mental.”
This day, she is certain that she is being tested. She has no idea what the test will be, or what she will need to do to pass, but she is horribly certain that the penalty for failure will be more time in the tank, and she is piteously eager not to ever be put back there; willing to do everything she can to give them what they want from her.
She feels herself actually trembling with fear.
She wants— desperately wants— to be, to do, to accept, whatever they want her to be— anything, so long as it is not the tank; her whole being is urgently agreed on that. But it still isn’t easy to stand there, naked, chained, almost blind, in the silence, knowing that there are men; men to whom she has been presented, given, men who are looking at her, men who will surely abuse her. Men whom she is determined to give value to as they abuse her, men whom she needs— with a need that is as sharp as pain— needs, desperately urgently, to please.
As the silence extends, her trembling intensifies, her fear intensifies, her need to please intensifies. She must be failing already? Don’t they want to hurt her? Don’t they want to touch her, fuck her, have her suck their cocks? It’s terrible to feel herself wanting them to abuse her. But she does.
Hesitant, clumsy, desperate, she decides she must offer herself more obviously, must open her legs— move her feet apart, push her crotch forward.
It’s awful to do this, knowing she is being watched, knowing that they can do anything, anything at all to her. But she does it anyway, feeling her belly clench again and again with the fear.
A couple of easy, contemptuous noises of amused approval both shame her and demand more; she pulls her shoulders back, straightens her spine, tightens her belly, thrusts out her chest, then, horrified at herself, but unable to resist once the thought has occurred to her, slowly— so slowly— opens her mouth, puts out her tongue, pushed down onto her lower lip. It appals her, how loose her jaw has become, that it is easier for her to let her mouth open in this lewd and obscene way, than to keep it closed. The picture her mind’s eyes builds for her of herself, displaying so wantonly, horrifies her and fascinates her in equal measure. From somewhere the idea comes to swivel her feet outward, making the opening of her thighs, her crotch, even more obvious, and again, once she has thought it, she cannot not do it. Anything, everything must be offered to them, given to them.
It’s awful, presenting herself so shamefully, not even able to really see any of them— the firelight is bright in her eyes, they are sitting in the shadows, the lenses blur everything.
Is he here— her … Master? Is he a witness to her degradation, her abysmal weakness, her total defeat? Again she is furiously blinking back tears as she quivers, as she tries to smile with her slack mouth.
They are talking, saying things about her; she is beginning to process words again, to understand a little. What she hears is no surprise, but still, hard to accept, hard to live with;
“… tits jiggle with the whip … tasty looking cunt … make her scream … fuck her tight little ass …”
This is it. This is what I asked him for. This is better than … at least, I thought it would be. Doesn’t matter anyway. Too late now; they have me, and they’re not going to let me go. They are so much stronger than me, more powerful; it doesn’t matter what I think, doesn’t matter what ‘right’ is, doesn’t matter what legal is, or decent, or sane, or just, or safe, or …
All that matters is that they own me, and that they are ruthless and cruel. I must please them, as best I can. And in order to please them, I’m going to have to become the willing and eager sex toy they require. Anything else will mean the tank, or worse. It’s there in me— I know it is— the capacity to give myself over to sexual depravity; to forget everything but sex. Sex and pain and fear.
All these thoughts— she is so tired of them; all have endlessly cycled in her mind during the endless empty hours, days in the tank.
She sinks to her knees, her thighs still spread wide.
And someone speaks to her; a jeering, brash voice— loud, self-satisfied, cruel. If her old self had heard that voice she would have turned her back, ignored the speaker; no-one who talked that way could ever be anyone she wanted to be anywhere near, let alone anything more. He’s so loud, what he says is so simple, that she understands him, and wishes she hadn’t;
“Ask us to destroy you, cunt. Beg for it.”
However she might have wished for something from them, some sign that they were interested, had found herself wanting to be used, in whatever form it took, this nearly oversets her; she finds herself panic-filled, chest heaving, breathing fast and deep, as if she were about to run for her life, but …
… but there’s nowhere to run to, nothing to be gained, and everything to be lost by even thinking about running. The words burn her— at least it feels that way, as she says them, her voice so weak, hesitant, feeble that she hardly recognises it as hers, but she gets the awful words out, somehow;
Please … S…Sirs, I … I beg you to … to … “
Tailing off, appalled at what she is being made to do, she forces herself to start again;
“I beg you, Sirs, to … to destroy me. Please … please …”
“Oh we will, pretty cunt. We’re going to fucking wreck all your tight little holes and thrash you till you’re bloody.”
And they do.
“String her up, Jacques!”
A foot, placed squarely onto her hands, still locked high up between her shoulder blades, thrusts sharply, and she cannot protect herself as she topples helplessly forward, twisting as best she can to protect her nose, her face, the side of her head smashing onto the stone floor, immediately totally terrified, panicking; suddenly fearing more than sexual cruelty, more than whipping even. This brute destructive violence:— it comes to her that they could kill her— intentionally or not— with this level of careless assault, and her desperation becomes extreme; desperation to comply, to please them, to present herself as sexually attractive, offer herself as sexually vulnerable, sexually needy, to give them not the slightest cause for complaint, and she scrambles to arrange herself as she remembers her Master liked, in what he called the FDAU position; Face-Down, Ass-Up; spreading her knees wide, feeling her breasts swaying wildly, hating how servile, how useless she is, but not for even a second considering any other option.
Harsh laughter, then hands at hers, freeing them from the chain that held them, straightening her arms down behind her, only for her wrists to be linked again, it becoming horribly apparent that they are now fixed to another chain, one which must come down from the ceiling, which was now being pulled on by somebody, noises of some winding mechanism, to laughing encouragement from the others;
“That’s it, yank her up, see if you can dislocate a shoulder— or even both. I raped one of these sluts after her shoulder had popped, once, and the way she squealed and wriggled was fucking unbelievable.”
There was nothing in her mind, then, but the awful, tearing pain at her shoulders, a pathetic, clumsy scramble to get her feet under her, to lift her body, the tension on the chain lifting her wrists up, the pain forcing her head down, making her utterly desperate to raise her body up, but completely unable to do so, until something banged against her foot, and something at the other, too.
“Step up onto these, cunt, and step carefully— on your toes, mind— they’ll tip, easy enough, and a fall then really will rip your shoulder out.”
A meaty hand jams itself between her spread thighs, grabs her roughly by the sex, making her squeak, then lifts her; relief at her shoulders, but now her feet are off the floor, flailing uselessly as she struggles desperately to find the little platforms which will make her safe, somehow this crude manhandling carrying with it a new and sharper humiliation— such weak, stupid sounds I’m making, such pathetic wriggling about, useless; no wonder they disrespect me so - what is there to respect?
Eventually she finds her footing, and the pain at her shoulders eases a little, until a few more turns at the crank have her whining again. Now she is perched on two tiny platforms, each only big enough for the toe part of the high heeled shoes, maybe 15 centimetres from the stone floor, quite far apart. She can feel how unstable the platforms are, and urgently tries to settle herself, feeling just how widely opened her crotch is, and, as was immediately proven to her, how both her sex and her mouth are at just the right height to be presented with a stiff cock, wielded by an impatient and ruthless man, so that she is roughly penetrated by two men simultaneously, squeaking and gagging from the cock which has invaded her throat, already breathless, her sex on the other cock so tight from lack of use during her time in the tank, tightened too by the chain which he’d pulled to one side, sawing into her swollen labia, and she was being raped. Violently, crudely double raped, bound so viciously that she could not even struggle, but had rather to concentrate on holding her position, desperate for every snatch at a half breath, horrified at the spasming of her belly, fearing that she might vomit, sure that this would bring terrible retribution, her shoulders suffering agonising tearing when the two men at her both happen to thrust in time, at other times their frenzied, uncoordinated fucking wrenching at other parts of her, pulling her apart.
Her willingness, her desperate eagerness to please is meaningless; they are pile-driving into her without regard for anything she might be able to do to serve them, the others cheering them on as first, the man in her throat fills her airways with thick, cloying semen, strong tasting and strange, sending her into paroxysms of choking and snorting, while the other man’s pace increases, his hands on her hips making sure he goes fully deep into her, she screeching as he hits the entrance to her womb; like being electrified internally, horrifying as he jerks into her, his control lost to her; her tiny, pointless victory.
As suddenly as it had started, then, it’s over, and she is hanging in her bondage, panting and sobbing and moaning to herself, half aware that her tormentors are agreeing among themselves that now that those who were impatient have been served, that it is time to thrash her.
And thrash her they do, without a pause; two or three short dog-whips being used, different men taking turns at her, starting straight in on her with brutal force, so that she is rapidly brought to full-throated screaming and tear-stained, urgent begging for mercy, yelling that she cannot stand any more, that they are killing her, pleas which only bring laughter and crueler cuts, to the undersides of her hanging, jouncing breasts, to the soft flesh at the inner crease of her thighs, and yes, to her sex, to her clitoris, smashing the taut chain into her tenderest, most intimate flesh, with shouts of near hysteric, gleeful pleasure greeting the blows which have her flexing the most wildly; the agony being that she cannot, must not allow herself to move as she desperately wishes to, needing at least the illusion that she can do something, anything to mitigate the cruel stripes being cut into her, that she must deny the imperative requirement to close her thighs, to protect those most appalling targets, her poor sex, and yes the crack between her buttocks, too, all for fear of losing her footing, the certainty of the pain and terror of dislocated arms.
They beat her until she can scream no more, until she has no more tears, until she is all pain, until she is nothing but the determination not to fall, not to have her shoulders ruined, until they are bored, until one of them says; Get her down from there— I wanna do the bitch’s ass.
And then the fucking starts. And that, too, lasts until they are bored, until in the end she is left alone, crumpled on the floor, sticky with come and blood and sweat and spittle and the whisky that had dribbled from her mouth each time they used the bottle to revive her.
She wakes, who knew how long afterward; in the tank, of course.
If wishing for death could kill, she would have died, then. But there was no way, even underwater, chained as she was, to end herself, so that she was still alive, some indeterminate period later (in the tank, there was no way to determine day or night, no regularity to the business of being force fed, force emptied; no way to know), when it was that they took her out again, took her to the preparation room in just the same way, prettied her, dressed her in exactly the same way, and then delivered her, the leading chain tight between her sex lips, not to a gang of sadistic rapists, but to Anne-Marie.
