Read the earlier parts of Sophia’s story before this.
Almost immediately, the first learning had begun.
The difference between the act of sex, for an abuser on the one hand and on the other, a cunt, is not so much; yes, the cunt is being used, knows she is being used, knows she can have no expectations of respect or consideration, still less pleasure. But still, there is an unavoidable intimacy, a degree of equality; during sex the abuser is significantly vulnerable and exposed— Sophia had been privy to Duncan’s animal panting and grunting, knew that he had reached some level of orgasm he had not been able to achieve with her before, that he too had had a deep and powerful experience.
But after the sex? Then the differences become stark; so stark that there is almost nothing in common between the abuser’s experience and that of the poor cunt.
For Duncan, as soon as he had recovered, was off her. Still largely dressed, he spent a few moments re-establishing himself— she could not see, but heard him zipping his flies, washing his hands; heard him humming a little, under his breath— clearly at peace with the world. Then a clink— on entering the room, she had seen that he had arranged for a tray of drinks and sandwiches to be brought up— likely pouring himself a glass of wine after his exertions.
But she; stretched out over the high and narrow bed end, which was digging hard into her belly, head engulfed by the heavy covers, breathing hot, damp air, desperate for a cool drink, her legs splayed wide (he had kicked out at her ankles until he had been satisfied)— arms outstretched as he had put them, palms up (he had gripped her wrists, hard, throughout the fucking; she had bruises there for a week), hurting and horrified…
Not fucking; rape. Rape, he told me. Rape, as he threw me onto the bed, put the covers over my head, pushed my face down; I must think of it as rape.
“This is not Duncan having sex with Sophia. That may never happen again. This is a cunt being raped by her abuser. You need to understand that. You will need to discover whether you can bear to be cunt; if you are willing to live with a future of rapes, and— if you are— what sort of a cunt you are going to be. We can help with that— mostly by raping you and shaming you and hurting you, but all the hard work will need to done by you, really. If you encourage us in the right way, and we enjoy it, we’ll rape you more; if you bore us, we’ll stop bothering with you. You’ll have to find your own way through that.”
The words replayed in her mind, as if on a loop, as she lay there, broken, desperate, destroyed, in shock, unable to process any of it.
She was a person, a human being, never mind that they had been on such intimate terms— emotionally, intellectually, physically, even domestically on occasion, for so many months. How could he do it to her! How dare he! What sort of a monster was he?
These thoughts burned in her— they had to; they were real, justified; alongside them, though, ran the questions about herself; how not to go crazy; how not to jump up, right then, and start giving to him what he fucking deserved for having done such terrible things to her; start screaming bloody blue murder at him for having done such a disgusting, shameful, vile thing to her; for having hurt her so horribly, for having disrespected her, abused her, degraded her so.
But even as all that cycled and recycled in her brain, there lay, deep in her, grim and despairing, the reality; the deep and awful certainty, the sick truth, that she was not going to do any of it.
That she couldn’t even start to save herself, let alone protest, react; couldn’t jump up, couldn’t shout, couldn’t tear into him. Not because there was any physical problem; in fact her body was full of tense, febrile energies— where that fucking had left her was the opposite of where sex with him normally took her. Instead of feeling soft, happily trembling, all her stresses and contradictions temporarily resolved, calmed; instead of being filled with a warm sense of satisfaction, safety and joy; instead of that glorious aftermath, she was instead full of anger, distress, warring tensions, pains of all kinds— sharp, aching, burning— all of which expected, demanded and required from her urgent action for relief.
But those urges toward movement were powerless in the face of the dead weight of helplessness and despair, of fear and shame, of guilt, doubt and humiliation.
He had been right; she would be diminished; she felt it, powerfully, overwhelmingly. Even before he had made her shame herself with the landlady, even before he had so shockingly tortured her with the pins, before he had raped her, he had made her feel like a foolish and naive child, a silly innocent next to his worldly experience of pain, and dire responsibility, and weighty moral choices.
But the crude and casual way in which he had jammed sharp steel pins into all her tender places; the way she had let him, that she had allowed herself to be so roughly raped in such humiliating circumstances— all that had multiplied the damage any times over.
And now she was being further diminished with every second that she stayed as he had left her; obscenely splayed, feeling his cooling come beginning to trickle down her inner thighs, presumably mingled with the blood she had briefly glimpsed as he had thrown her down, blood from the cruel pins he had driven into her sex. It was destroying her that she was making her weakness, her uselessness, her lack of self-respect all so painfully clear to him, by staying as he had abandoned her while he enjoyed his wine; quite probably enjoying the sight of her in her defeat.
It didn’t matter, though, how much she drove the awfulness of it all to resound in her head, it made no difference. Nothing, she thought, nothing she demanded of herself could overcome the limp helplessness, the deep lassitude which possessed her. And it was not just helplessness, not just limpness; for it would have been easy to let her legs go floppy, to let them bend at the knees, instead of maintaining their taut, splayed arrangement, which was already causing a hot ache in the tendons where her inner thighs met her groin; but she could not bring herself to relax, for a very simple reason; she could not bear to risk his displeasure.
It was painfully simple; he had made it clear that any delight he had found in her personal, emotional, intellectual, being had been sacrificed, vitiated, by his ascertainment of her weakness; her vulnerability; a vulnerability which he had exploited, ruthlessly, a weakness which had opened her to what he had done to her; somehow to have made it seem obvious, important— desirable, even— to show him that she could behave like a wanton slut— like an O. That she could be suborned, cozened, weakened until she had found herself willing to consider providing him and his associates with a rare prize, the capture of a pretty young woman— herself, at her own will— for use as cunt; as a sex slave— a creature which existed to be sexually violated and abused at will.
And she, degenerate, slutty and sexually needy as she had discovered herself to be, had allowed him to exploit that weakness, so that she had lost, thrown away forever, any chance of ever again being more to him than a fuckable body, a compliant and pleasing cunt.
Worse, some part of her had awakened, which was almost eager to be valuable to him in that way, which revelled in the idea of being the rare and special girl whom he could make use of like that, a girl whom he could offer to his associates, secure in the knowledge that she would be as compliant and helplessly responsive with them as she was with him.
And in that new state, she had nothing, nothing whatsoever to hold him with, nothing apart from her ability to be the sort of cunt that he enjoyed; submissive, obedient, accepting, wanton cunt; of just the type represented by the O in the book.
He had left her, displayed like that; legs obscenely spread, damaged sex spread wide, sticky with mingled come and blood; he wanted her shamed like that, and no matter the damage to her, the physical pain, the psychological destruction, of having her defeat, her diminishment made so graphic, so obvious, she simply could not find it it within her to decide for herself that she knew better.
She must be like O.
Bitter, salt tears flowed; slowly, silently but without cease, making the hot humidity of the air she was breathing all the worse; her mouth opened to moan, dry and sticky, but she dared not let any sound escape; the last thing she wanted was to draw attention to her misery, her shame. Her tongue felt bloated, distorted, a sea of pain to match the burning ocean at her sex, the deep pools of fire at her nipples.
When she heard the door open, then shut, when the room went quiet, so that she knew he had simply left her as she was, she imagined, for a second or so, that she might feel better, not to be constantly wondering how he was looking at her, if he was looking at her, what he thought of her, how dreadful, how disgusting she looked; but there was no relief, for no sooner had she realised that he was gone than all sorts of more awful imaginings possessed her— that the landlady, or the pot-boy, or some other guest might, by chance, open the door and become a witness to her shame, her disgrace, her weakness; that he might have abandoned her, left her to navigate her defeat, and its aftermath, all by herself, taken what remained of her clothes with him; that he had gone to fetch one or more members of his group, to offer her to them, to be further violated.
There seemed no end to these pathetic daymares— fresh ones kept suggesting themselves to her frayed and vulnerable mind— but none of these, either, had the power to get her to move, to help herself.
The longer it was since she had been abandoned, the longer she held the lewd pose he had ordained for her, the more it felt as if some test was underway, that by keeping her pose— indeed, exaggerating it— taking care to keep her hips tilted upwards, her heels off the ground— no matter the pain in her thighs, her calves, her ankles, the small of her back, and now, her neck, too— no matter any of these— she was at least demonstrating her commitment, her compliance, something perhaps to be salvaged from the total collapse of her dignity, her self respect, her confidence.
The opening door brought a flush of intense distress as to who it was— could it be some stranger, who would be either horrified and disgusted to see her so displayed, or gleefully excited by it (how to determine which might be worse)? Still, though, still, she stayed fixed in place; it had become all but impossible to imagine herself ever moving, without some …
… without him;
“Well, pretty, you continue to please; your behaviour is correct. Cunt has no initiative; unless it has a very good idea what is expected of it, it should generally stay as it has been left.”
It was stupid just how welcome, how reassuring his voice was, how deeply calming it was, no matter that he called her cunt, that the import of his words was so horrid. Those cruelties would have to be processed later; for now it was enough to hear him, to jerk in astonished response to his casual caress of the flank of her thigh, her buttock— as if an electric shock had gone through her, galvanised by the sexual heat it unleashed in her, the almost immediate flush of need in her ravaged sex, the sobbing moan it dragged from her throat, the yearning, stretching roll of her hips as she sought to move with his hand, to prolong the touch.
He laughed at her;
“Just so, pretty; ever needy; let’s see now, if you have it in you to come for me, despite everything. I have smoothed things over with our host; she will permit us to remain.”
He gathered up first one leg and then the other; reaching out and lifting her knees (blessed relief at her taut groin), to bring them up onto the bed end, so that she was kneeling on the wooden edge, still face-down, head buried in the covers, arms outstretched. Somehow, just being manhandled by him— and manhandling was the right word; he was not in the least lover-like in his manipulations; neither gentle nor rough, but as casually matter of fact as if he were arranging furniture— being manhandled by him felt like a reward;— gratitude and relief spread through her; he was back, he approved of her, he wanted her— as cunt to abuse if as nothing else; she had not been spurned, as surely he had every right to do, revealed as she had been to be sunk in perversion; an easy, wanton, shameful slut.
When he reached forward and put his hands under her body, took her breasts in his big hands, and lifted her, she did everything she could to make it easy for him, despite the hurt at her poor nipples. Once she was upright, kneeling unsteadily on the bed end, his arms all that kept her from toppling, he had her lean back against him (so strange, so welcome, so confirmatory of her diminished status, to feel herself naked against the rough wool of his jacket, as if she were a small child).
Next, he put his hands under her knees and lifted her bodily, her back against his chest, head lolling, thighs split, her knees pulled high at her sides; she saw herself, as he turned, reflected in the big mirror on the wardrobe, naked, obscenely splayed, her pussy red and puffy, limbs pale and slender against his dark bulk; helpless, passive, controlled. Something in her wilted, then, and gave up. Another defeat, another acceptance. The image would remain with her, would come up again and often in her mind’s eyes, emblematic of her condition; no solid footing, entirely dependent upon him; caught, naked, without purpose, defeated, displayed, shamed; being carried along by his strength, her sex held open, her breasts softly swaying, accessible; a small and vulnerable creature, overtly offered for sexual usage, entirely under his control.
He placed her, sideways, on the heavy armchair, arranged her left foot on the opposite arm, her right knee on the closer one (like a sprinter in the on your marks position, some part of her mind realised). Standing behind her, one arm around her waist, he slid the other up her inner thigh toward her sex, making her quiver in anticipation of the pain being touched there could bring.
And indeed there was pain;
“Let’s relieve you of the cruelest one, shall we?”
And, without ceremony, he had simply pulled the pin from her clitoris. She would have screamed, full-throated, had not her fear of being heard by other guests caused her to swallow the noise, knowing herself to be foolish, desperate, pathetic as she strangled it, lips clamped shut, whining like a beaten cur.
“Really!” He chided, although his voice was soft; “In time you will understand such pains as that as more of an experience than a true hurt. But now, let me…”
He had laid his first and index fingers along her sex, softly, very softly, so that his finger tips were grazing the entrance to her vulva, her clitoris snug against the pillows of flesh where his fingers met his palm, so that she was touched, but with the very lightest of pressure.
She was sore there, she knew, but somehow, the awful pin gone, her clitoris throbbing, the light pressure of his fingers felt more like warmth than hurt, and he gave no signs of moving them, of inflicting pain, so that for some while, they remained still, joined together in some tragic perversion of a lovers’ embrace, and, terribly weak, she was blessedly able to lay her head back against his shoulder, and relax into being held.
As the seconds wore on, she experienced an urge in her sex to feel his fingers more directly, to move herself against him. If it had been between them as it had been the night before, as they lay together on that very bed on which he had raped her, she would have wantonly pressed herself against him, grinning at him as she advertised her willingness— her eagerness— to be aroused again, to be fucked again; but now, only a day later, but in a different universe, she was, ridiculously, shy.
Terribly, crushingly shy.
It made no sense, but it was real; she could no more advertise to him that she was interested in having his fingers give her sensation than she could have spoken. She felt her breath catch, her skin tightening, her throat constricting, and the pulse in her neck throbbed, thickly, heavily. Time slowed, stopped; held on a point, until he spoke;
“Just so, little one; you want it. I know that you do. It is well that you wait to be commanded; as I told you, you are more ripe for this than you could possibly know. Move for me; it will hurt, but you will go slowly, carefully, looking for the heat that will get you there, even as you cause yourself pain. There is no hurry, none at all. I have you, pretty cunt, and the only thing that matters in the world is that you give me your pleasure, your little death.”
Her shyness had intensified during this speech, and she could not, could not at all imagine ever rubbing herself against him, then; the idea of letting him see and feel her seeking for pleasure in that way intolerable.
But he was patient, his body warm, while the air of the room cooled her skin, and, after some long while, he constant, reassuringly remaining steady, warm, holding her, she, without even intending to, felt her hips surge, softly, knew she wanted it, and was unable to contain the slow, telltale cry, soft and stuttering, that was equal parts reaction to the sharpness of the pain and breathy surprise at the pleasure, until the pain won out, and the utterance became a sobbing sigh, the high note dying off only slowly as the pain ebbed.
It was not so long, though, until once again her body’s need overcame her shame, her apprehension of the pain, and she pressed herself against him; more knowingly that time, understanding how to deliver pleasure to her sex while minimising pain.
Inside her, too, impossible to deny, was the sick knowledge that she was confirming to him his assessment of her as ‘ripe’
Ripe, to be degraded. ‘Ripe’, to be whored to his collaborators in cruelty, as poor O had been whored to René and Sir Stephen’s acquaintances and business partners. ‘Ripe’, to be treated as nameless cunt. Ripe, to be beaten and raped and violated without mercy. ‘Ripe’, to be suborned into doing for them the work needed to diminish and degrade herself, to beg them to control her, to pervert her, to despoil her.
That she was proving to him that she was not the sort of girl he should take on country walks, visits to the zoo, art galleries; not the sort of girl with whom discussions of artistic theory or politics or morality were worth having. Not the sort of girl who deserved care, or love, or even comfort.
That she was proving to him that she was a needy sex-junkie, who would permit all and any outrages, simply to achieve sexual release.
And still; still, despite the great clarity with which she saw just what she was doing to herself, knowing that he must see, see just what a slut she was; still, she succumbed to the urges; the next time followed on more quickly, and then the next, and the next …
… until from somewhere a great wellspring of shame and sadness opened up inside her, and she buckled back against him, pulling her hips back;
“I can’t, I can’t… Please … please…”
And then; only then, did his fingers move, for the first time; moved to curl slowly into the hot wetness of her sex hole, moved softly, but inexorably, his fingers curling up and in; all so, very, very slowly, until, unable to control herself, she was softly yipping with the sensation of it; until her hips, too, of their own accord, joined in, began moving again, much faster; until she was mashing herself against him, urgent then; heedless of the pain, heedless of the shame; she felt it powerfully, knew that she was giving him reason upon reason to consider her exactly the sort of wanton slut who could be fucked at will, raped, abused without guilt, enslaved, since she so clearly deserved it, would be unable to resist him.
Far from giving her cause to stop, though, the knowledge fed that part of her which wanted to let him see just how vulnerable she knew herself to be for such treatment, that part of her which felt that such treatment, however socially unacceptable, however degrading, however humiliating, was desired, welcome, in fact deeply appropriate for a girl like her; that part of her which knew that to be made to submit would be a route to being fucked as she wanted to be; fucked hard, regularly, violently, heartlessly, aggressively, destructively … So that, as she felt her climax coming upon her, awful and wonderful at the same time, she heard herself saying, over and over, in a loud under-breath, as if it were a mantra;
“Please, please, please … oh please, please, please …”
Again and again and yet again, until, at last, in a blaze of pain and cathartic release which could not at all have been called pleasure, she was overtaken by a violent quivering, crying out repeatedly in her agony, in her extremity, in her shame, tears almost jerking from her eyes as she spasmed in the throes of a climax like none previous.
