Read the earlier parts of Sophia’s story before this.
He looked at her intently, for a moment, with a smile that was almost sad on his lips;
“You will be remarkable in your defeat, lovely Sophia. You will stay innocent until the end. You need have no fear of being corrupted; always remember that you are the innocent here; you are blameless, we are the perpetrators. Keep that knowledge deep inside you, through everything. It is your truth.”
He leaned forward then, and took her right hand in his left, and lifted it to his lips, almost formally, before pressing a firm kiss onto the back of her fingers, looking into her eyes.
She didn’t know where to look; her embarrassment deepened; such gentlemanly behaviour was not out of the ordinary for him, and it was always sincere, but in the light of what had just passed between them, of what he had told her was coming, the effect on her was to reinforce how serious he was, deepening her sense of fear. Since he very much emphasised self control, if he was going to be gentlemanly and formal about hurting and shaming her, he would expect her to at least try to take everything in as calm a way as possible. She had no idea if she would manage to perform.
“You’re to go to the ladies, while I go up to the room. Take my knife, and turn those jeans into a micro-skirt— cut the legs off, cut the crotch out. Hack the bottom off that slip as well, to well above your belly button. And take your panties off, too. When you’re done, stuff all the pieces into the bin, and find the landlady. I want a box of pins— map pins, dressmakers pins, drawing pins, it doesn’t matter. Make sure she gives you something.”
“Then come up to the room; number 6. I’ll take your other things.”
He gave her his well-worn pocket knife, something he always had with him, which had come in handy several times, and made it clear he expected her to get moving.
She couldn’t, though, for the longest while; just looked at him, chest heaving; it was happening— he was really going to do awful things to her, make her do awful things. She was going to be shamed and hurt, deliberately, by the man she trusted most in all the world; and she had asked him to do it to her.
Strangely, the fear melted away as they sat there, looking into each other’s eyes. Again, his calm, his patience, his complete lack of aggression or nastiness did to her what no amount of bullying or pressure could have; it demolished her. It exposed her. If he had attempted to force her, she would have had something to react to; something to fight back against. But since he was simply watching and waiting, apparently willing to do so for as long as she needed, there was nothing external to her for her to work with. She was forced to look inside herself.
It took a little while, but what that time taught her stayed with her. Because what she discovered was a shock; that there was nothing inside her. No morals, no self-preservation, really; just a collection of received wisdom and clichés. It was shocking, to discover that there was actually very little there, when it came down to it,
Oh, there were all sorts of nanny voices, social expectations and memes; she well knew what she ought to find inside her, how she ought to react. But this was Duncan, at his most careful; his most sincere, his most serious; whatever she did, she must be equally sincere if she were to deserve any chance at all with him.
Slowly, very slowly, it dawned on her that she needed to know; needed to know what being hurt and shamed at Duncan’s kind and gentle hands might be like. She had to know. Letting him do as he wished with her, playing her part as best she could, with as much seriousness and control as she could find in her, was necessary, too, if she was to discover what she could about this experience.
Gradually, it occurred to her, that this was the most serious thing she had ever faced in her whole life.
If— somehow— if she found that she could live with the … with being hurt and shamed— if— such strange thoughts these to be having— if he was right, and somehow she found herself responding to such treatment, then … well, then it might be that he could persuade her to go further, to let them, let the group control her— this was definitely the most serious thing. This afternoon; the next hour or two, would change her life. If it goes how he wants it to, the thought came into her mind, it could end up with him burning the letter D into my ass-cheek, and his friends regularly whipping my poor pussy until I scream and beg, before raping me. For that to be my life.
Perhaps through repetition, perhaps because she had a void inside her, this thought in her mind no longer filled her with desperation as it had before. Stranger still, somehow, that ending— an ending to the afternoon which did not shut down that eventual future, where she found a way to live with pain and shame, seemed to be obviously the desirable place to get to;
I want to find that I can live with him hurting and shaming me, so that I can let him do it to me again, maybe even let those others do it me as well - the realisation filled her with wonder.
He breathing slowed, her belly fluttered; it was a disturbing feeling, but it was not unpleasant; indeed, something like an agitated calm had overtaken her— as if she were about to go on stage, or take an important exam— there was a great deal of nervous energy in her, wound up a little tightly, but at the same time, there was a feeling that she would be OK, that she would come through it; and a large part of that calm was him, was Duncan, smiling slightly at her now; had he seen anything in her face of the sequence of feelings and thoughts which had been running through her mind?
She found herself blushing again at the idea of this, but, in another difference from earlier, she did not hate that her cheeks were betraying her. Quite the opposite feeling was in her, a new and welcome one, since it brought them closer together— the feeling that he now had every right to know her innermost thoughts, even the shameful ones.
If he had asked her, she would have told him then, told him everything, every detail, even the still strange idea that she was going to work toward coming out of the afternoon with an acceptance of his abuses of her.
Her chest was still heaving, but more slowly and smoothly now, and without thinking aout it, she found herself rising, then leaning over the table, bending at the hip, finding his hand with her mouth (somehow certain that she should not use her hands on him— the idea seemed wrong, now), kissing the back of it as sweetly and openly as she knew how, taking her time, liking the fact that her breasts were swaying free for him, suddenly breathless at the idea that she was about to turn herself into a cartoon bimbo by slashing at her expensive clothes.
He’s going to hurt me with the pins — the thought came onto her head, fully formed. And, softly astonishing herself, she found herself thinking that she woud be pleased to be hurt that way, for him. That she was pleased to have realised in advance, so that she would be ready for him, so that she could be calm, accepting when it came to be time for him to hurt her, something which now seemed a necessary and important part of the day.
Following on from that thought, she found herself painfully aware of how long it had been since he had told her what he wanted, and that, if he was going to have the power to hurt her, making him impatient, keeping him waiting was probably not a good idea, and she straightened, blushing again, and found it ridiculously, embarrassingly necessary to do a little sort of bob, bending her knees, instead of saying anything by way of an acknowledgement that she had kept him waiting, before she walked toward the back of the room, where she hoped to find the toilets. Speaking directly to him, as with touching him with her hands, now seemed like something which needed forethought, perhaps even permission.
As it had been for months, walking away from him involved making sure that her walk was attractive, controlled, sexy; when she felt his eyes on her, she was unable completely to relax— it mattered enormously to her that she not let herself down by missing an opportunity to have him appreciate her, have him see that she was performing for him, that she thought about him, about what she hoped he might like, a great deal of the time.
In the tiny toilet, with its small mirror, she found that she felt utterly stupid, hacking away at her clothes; found herself shockingly incompetent, too, when she had told herself she would take everything as seriously as Duncan was; she became quite flustered, and made a terrible mess of the jeans. Everything took longer than she had imagined, and in the end she gave up trying to make the skirt look anything like an even length all round, and concentrated on making it short, judging that in order to please him, she must make it much much shorter than she would have felt comfortable with.
By the time she started looking for the landlady, it seemed that the place must have closed for the afternoon— everything was quiet, even the bar-room, and she had to ring a hokey little bell on the counter in hopes of attracting attention.
Picture: Sophia, in her ruined clothes
The landlady, a robust middle aged woman, looked at her with surprise at first— then disapproval, then concern, while Sophia had become tongue tied, overwhelmed by the sudden realisation of what she had done to herself, to her clothes, and once again, she was flushing, her cheeks and chest hot and pink.
“It’s not my business,” the woman said, “… but … well, is he treating you alright?”
This gruff but kindly-meant question nearly destroyed Sophia. For of course, Duncan was not treating her alright; far from it; he had spent the previous hour terrifying a young and inexperienced woman, half his age, with the prospect of unimaginable cruelty, sexual perversion and degradation. She was on her way to him, having made herself look like a street whore, expressly so that he could hurt and shame her; and now, out of nowhere, there was rescue, there was the voice of sanity, which served, most immediately, to make obvious the madness, the cruel craziness of Duncan’s plans for her; plainly deranged and hideously frightening, and she … she must reject the rescue, the kindness, the sanity, because …
Because, what?
Surely, she had to take this chance, now that she was away from Duncan’s magnetic hold on her, she had to let this woman call her a cab, and …
… and, what ?
Let every hope and dream of a life with Duncan in it turn to ashes?
Let her new found joy in sex wither on the vine?
Never find out what her response to pain and shame might be?
Live with an emptiness inside her forever?
Again, she’d spent far too long in her own mind— her agitation must be plain on her face, because the woman’s expression had become one of real concern;
“My dear, you don’t have to say anything. Just … just come and sit in the office and I’ll get a taxi to come and fetch you. We won’t make a fuss— I’ll lend you some money— looks as if he has your stuff …”
“No! No. Please!“
Something like panic had mounted, rapidly, in Sophia’s chest at this; sudden clarity, too, about what she wanted. Which was Duncan. She wanted Duncan, and she wanted him on his terms. What she wanted was for him to hurt her and shame her. What she wanted was to show him that she could accept whatever pain and humiliation he chose to inflict upon her, that she could take it, that she would take more of it. What she wanted was for him to continue to find her remarkable, continue to find her interesting, continue to be interested in hurting her and shaming her, even if that meant him introducing her to his cruel friends so that they could use her as well.
Beside that, the thought of rescue (rescue from pain and shame, something that by itself seemed urgently desirable; the safety of this woman’s orderly little office, a cab likewise— all dear and desirable and good and warm and friendly …)
But with no life, no wildness, no sex, no heart-stopping emotion, no space …
She made herself smile, even though she could feel the tears brimming in her eyes, knew that the woman, shocked into silence, must be seeing them too…
“No, please, I … I this … this is … just … just something we do. I …I’m terribly sorry to have … to disturb you, but … I … I need a packet … some … some pins? Would you have some? Map pins or dressmakers pins, or … or …”
The woman was staring at her, and her face was hardening, her eyes narrowing; Sophia thought she might die of shame and embarrassment at that moment, knowing that the woman was judging her, probably judging her as a sexual pervert, perhaps a whore, not liking what was happening, not happy that it was happening in her pub, and rapidly deciding that she simply did not want to know what the slutty girl and the suave older man were up to.
Without speaking, she went behind the bar, rummaged in a drawer and produced a small clear bag of map pins, the kind with little coloured plastic blobs at the top, and handed them over.
“Tell him I don’t want to hear anything, and that I’d rather you leave first thing tomorrow, before breakfast; or better still, this evening, if you can find somewhere else to go.”
And she turned and stumped off, through a doorway and down into the cellar, talking to herself beneath her breath, leaving Sophia shaking, near to tears, her mouth twisting with shame and despair at not only having been treated with such disgust, but knowing that it was deserved.
Her mouth was full of bitter bile as she blindly stumbled toward the stairs, moving slowly, as if her legs were made of lead, desperately holding back sobs, clamping her jaws hard to stop her teeth chattering with the awfulness of having been judged, at having earned the judgement, at having been exposed.
The potboy was at the top of the stairs watching her ascend, waiting his turn on the narrow old stairs, presumably after some errand, and she felt his hot gaze on her, assuming he must have heard the exchange with his boss (mother?).
The boy had probably never met someone he would assume was some sort of prostitute before; she flinched as he stood back against the wall of the corridor for her to pass, somehow feeling that he would be within his rights to grab her breasts, or put his hand up her skirt; but he simply watched her as she made her way to the room, and scratched, pathetic, at the door, quivering with despair.
Duncan’s face, when the door opened, was hard; almost blank as he looked at her. There was no empathy at all in his eyes at her sorry state. At the same time, there was no pleasure, no glee. He was cold and analytic, dispassionate as he looked her up and down, making no move to let her in.
When the noises of the boy’s feet on the stair turned into the noises of him in the stone flagged corridor below, Duncan said;
“The outfit looks good. Slutty. We’ll keep it, but I want you to strip in the corridor. Knock again when you’re naked.”
The door shut in her face, and the bitter tears rushed up again, so that it took everything she had for a minute or so to keep the crying in check.
This is shame the words came into her head; and it’s unbearable.
Nevertheless, there was nothing to do, all her bridges having been burned, but to take off the ruins of her pretty slip, and the wreckage she had made of her expensive designer jeans, and stand naked in the corridor, scratching at the door again. He took his time to open it, and she accepted this as an intentional cruelty, which somehow she felt she deserved.
He put his hand between her legs immediately, two fingers straightway pushing into her sex, shocking her with the ease of it, which meant that she was very wet down there, which meant that she was a pervert, which meant that she was doomed to be a sex slave, which …
“aahaaaAH! A! A!”
He had hurt her, down there; gripped and grasped and twisted her clitoris;
“Open your legs, wider, cunt.” his tone was calm, not vicious, almost bland, and quite soft, but tears welled up in her eyes as she obeyed. He had called her a cunt. Her wonderful Duncan had called her a cunt!
“Where are the pins?”
She put out her palm with the little packet;
“Excellent, keep your palm flat— it’s my table” and he emptied the pins out into her hand, fingered them a bit, counting;
Picture: Map pins
“Twenty— that’s five each for tongue, both tits, and your pussy. Hold still now; put your tongue out, and no flinching.
She was astonished at how obedient, how steady she remained for this outrage, as he pushed the short little pins into her— five along the perimeter of her tongue tip, down from the top, then four around each nipple; north, south, east and west, it taking some cruelly hard pinching to hold the soft flesh in place so that the blunt little points would actually penetrate; then one directly into the centre of each nipple, the pinching those times worse than the pin pushing in to her, she desperately trying to remain silent, not to attract attention, muffling her squeaks and squeals of despair and hurt and humiliation as best she could, hot tears spurting from her eyes.
She was in total shock at what was happening, but somehow her brain was still working, thinking about what was going in a weirdly matter-of-fact way, noting that the main impact of the pins was not terrible pain, or physical damage, but shock value; psychological impact— because it was evident that the little holes would heal rapidly, without scarring, as long as the wounds were dressed with antiseptic, given time to heal.
What really hurt was the knowledge that he enjoyed doing this to her, that she would let him do it to her; what that meant for her future, what it said about her (lack of) character, about the empty hole inside her; about how weak she was, how vulnerable, how those others would find her easy, that she was going to be used abominably, that she was going to find it impossible to resist.
And then it was the turn of her sex, and the psychological impact, and the pain factor, went through the roof. Still, she managed to hold her position, palm out, legs spread, standing in the corridor in nothing but her wedge heel ankle boots (the closest things she owned to walking shoes), as he pushed two pins through the outer labia on each sde of her sex, then, with gruesome inevitability, the last one went into her clitoris, up from below, forcing her up on tiptoes with the shaming, horrifying pain of being impaled there, of holding herself open so that he could do it to her, of stopping herself screaming so that he would not be interrupted as he destroyed her.
And then, quite suddenly, it was all done, and she was a human pincushion, and he had called her a cunt. Shame and pain like nothing she could have imagined, from which she would have run screaming had she been told in advance what it would be like, and yet, there she was, still in position, letting Duncan kiss her. Kissing him back, even though her tongue hurt like fire, deliriously grateful for the feel of his large warm hands, one at her belly, the other cupping her breast, melting in to him, hearing herself mouthing words into his ear, hearing herself lisp like a toddler, her tongue was so swollen; My pussy; my pussy, please, hurt my pussy, fuck me, something, anything, oh please oh please I beg you, do me. Do me now.
And then rapidly they were in the room, and she was face down, bent over the high, hard wooden footboard of the bed, Duncan fucking her violently (the pins all facing out from her vagina, so that his thrusts did not hurt him, but drove the sharp points into her belly and inner thighs), the bed creaking and clunking as he rammed himself into her wide-spread sex, harder and faster than ever before, his cock like an iron bar inside her and she was happy, actively happy to know that she had been part of him being that turned on, that he was so carried away that he was fucking her without paying any attention to her at all, just hammering into her hot cunt, mauling at her clitoris with one hand, causing her terrible pain, hurting her poor pincushion breast with the other hand, and then, quite quickly, he was hoarsely grunting into her ear— a sound she’d never heard from him in all these months, as he jerked himself off inside her, leaving her gasping and crying and laughing (yes, laughing) with the enormity of it all, at having survived it, at having finally given him something that he could not easily have provided for himself, at being his whore, at the knowledge that she was going to be a cunt, a sex slave, that she would not be able to escape it, that her life had acquired a purpose for the first time ever.
Read the next part of Sophia’s Story.
