The Story of S Pt12.

You will want to have read the previous part of this story.

Indeed I have; but read on pretty— you’re only on page four.

His smile was as normal as ever; a simple smile from a man enjoying time with her; How could he be so relaxed, so casual about such transgression, such cruelty?

And the conflict between his easy, almost conspiratorial smile Aren’t we having fun together? — and the obvious implication that there was more; much more in the book which he would do to her, which would go further, degrade and despoil her further. And this undid her all over again; gripped her, became the knife which ripped open the near tenderness which had grown in her during her reading to him; the contrast again between his cool, casual enjoyment of his power over her, his abuse of her, and her own constant turmoil, pain, shame, fear, desperate, pathetic neediness.

This time she did not cry— did not want to cry— saw how it was that his encouragement of her crying fit had been just another entertaining exercise in his domination of her; this time her distress galvanised her and she was up, up on her feet suddenly, throwing off the robe, needing to be free of everything, walking rapidly, jerkily (everything hurt so much!) away from him. Not far, not going anywhere, just needing to use up some of the violent emotion with physical action.

She was filled with violence; violent thoughts, the memory of the many astonishing violences imposed upon her under his control, the future of violence which must await her, the violence she has imposed upon herself, repeatedly, in order to serve him, the presentiment of awful pain, deep psychological trauma, crippling shame.

She jerked and darted, backwards and forwards across the place; rapid, clumsy, desperate. Arriving at the front door, she stopped, the idea of opening it, escaping presenting itself in her mind— even naked as she was— but it was not escape she sought. In fact, she didn’t really want anything in her frenzy— it was more more that she was an overwound toy, with no way to deal with her tension but to jank and jerk and stumble about, noises coming from her that were more animal than human, moans which wanted to become screams except that somehow she couldn’t let herself scream.

After some time of this, her vision blurred, her head in constant motion, shaking from side to side, mostly looking at the floor, unable to face anything else, no thoughts in her mind at all really, only feeling, only hurt and confusion and despair, stumbling from one end of the apartment and back again, round and round, until something came to her, and she simply did it, without stopping to think; blundered her way to the kitchen sink, put her head under the tap and ran the cold water, full strength, fumbling for the plug, pushing her face down into the cold water, somehow hoping it would calm her, then wondered if she could drown herself, to find an end to the violence in her, the terror of her future. When she discovered she couldn’t, that her body wouldn’t let her, that it wanted to live, she jerked her head up, expecting to find herself back in the mindless stumbling.

Instead, though, it seemed that the cold had done something. For there was a word in her head; a word she needed him to hear, and she was in motion again, rapid at first but quickly slowing, as befitted the word, as befitted her approaching him (violent and unrestrained and hydra-headed as the emotional tornado inside her had been, there had been no anger toward him, no change in her feelings for him, no change in her need for him; it had all been about the impossibility of accepting what her needs, her feelings would do to her, if she should let him take her to their logical conclusion; if she should really, fully, let him have her, let herself be destroyed, remade).

She still had no idea, no understanding— all she had was the word, and she made herself walk beautifully for him then, slowly, letting her hips switch, feeling her breasts sway, tossing her head to straighten her wet hair, hands at the small of her back, blushing as if this were the first time she had been naked for him, she offered herself to him, full of wonder and gratitude to find him as she remembered him, calm, still relaxed on the sofa, watching her, interested as she knelt on the floor in front of him, carefully spreading her thighs wide, then wider, deliberately pushed her hips forward, set her shoulders back, deliberate, obvious about how she was presenting herself to him, eyes down, blushing hotly, trembling at it all, but not able to stop herself from doing everything she could to make her offer obvious to him.

At last, then, the word could come out. She said it again and again, unable to say anything but the word, needing, urgently needing to have it convey a meaning which was felt so intensely, but for which she had no other words. At first she could hardly get it out at all, so tight was her throat, so frightened was she of him, so in awe of what he had done to her; she was almost inaudible; but her voice, small as it might be, was clear, full of sincerity, steady, and the next time it came louder;

“Please …”

And then, a few seconds later, louder, clearer still, with conviction, but soft still, very, very soft;

“Please …”

Each time she said it, she found herself working to make it more soft, more heartfelt, make her voice clearer, remove all trace of demand, more of a heartfelt begging. At the same time she was moving to make her offer of her body more honest, more open, more complete, more pleasing.

She didn’t know what word it was any more, by the time she ran out of everything, everything but holding herself for him, opening herself to him, and fell silent.

When, after a long silence, he asked her;

“What it is that you are pleading for, pretty?”

She discovered that she still had no idea about how to answer him, as over the next minutes, slowly, carefully, not pushing her, he probed;

“Interesting; I know exactly what it is you are asking me for, but you, who is doing the asking— asking so beautifully, so needily, so sincerely— you don’t?”

“Maybe I can help you? Let’s see, are you, perhaps, asking if you can put some clothes on?”

The question made no sense to her for the longest while; she could see him smiling at her, and eventually, she realised that this was partly a joke, and partly a jolt.

It was funny, because the idea of her thinking to ask him for clothes was ridiculous to her— she was naked for him, by default, forever; that was obvious, somehow; decided, indisputable. And that was the jolt— that it was so obvious that she should be naked, on her knees, hurting, because she was with him.

The jolt kicked in as she started to smile at the joke, and what could have been a small laugh wanted to turn into a sob and she stifled it, hard, castigating herself.

Jokes are for him, not for me.

And, as simply and obviously and heartbreakingly as that, laughing joined crying in the list of things which being his creature had removed from her life. Another casual deletion of something of her humanity. It was bleak, but also beautiful; she felt it as beautiful. Made herself feel it as beautiful, for fear it sent her over the edge.

“OK, so it’s not for anything obvious, then, that you are asking. So, let’s be serious; are you pleading for me to stop hurting you? What you asked for earlier? It’s too much for you, perhaps— you want to go back to before?”

The effect of this question on her was enormous— far more than a jolt— she jerked, physically, with the urgency of her need to tell him that even the idea that this was what she was pleading for should be banished from his mind.

“No! No! that’s … please, Sir … don’t … don’t think that…”

She could hear herself, and it was ridiculous, pitiful, pathetic; she would love him not to hurt her, not to do such terrible things to her poor body, to her most sensitive parts, not to be so cruel to her. But still, still, she needs to reassure him;

“No … no, that … please; please, sir, like I said… I … I meant it, truly; you … you should … should hurt me, if … if you want to. If … if it pleases you, Sir. When … whenever you feel like it.”

It was terrible and wonderful to say that — she felt it in her body, crushing her chest with terror, then a deep in-breath at the lovely of it, of having confirmed her defeat to him so urgently, so abjectly, so terrifyingly.

He was watching her— she could feel it as she regained control of herself, unbearably aware of how swollen and pink her sex was, how blatantly she was pushing it at him, how much she would welcome an end to this questioning, almost tasting how deliciously, eagerly helpless she would be in her response if he should simply push her down and rape her, rape her throat, rape her pussy, rape her asshole again, even beat her with the heavy belt; how grateful she would be to be freed from this emotional storm; asking him to do it, to do something to her, with each soft push of her hips, blushing at his amused aside;

“Needy little cunt.”

He let the phrase, the disgusting, shameful, crude and demeaning phrase hang in the air for the longest moments, as her hips worked for him, as her breasts moved, as her tongue tip flickered out to wet her lips, as her breathing became audible, betraying her with its noise, the intensity of her nakedness, her vulnerability as she showed just how much of a needy little cunt she was; her terrible exposure to him mounting until, without anything obvious happening it her mind it simply became obvious to her, perfectly clear and important, and she spoke, soft and clear, even though a swollen feeling in her throat made it come out husky and low pitched, throbbing with sincerity;

“Please … Sir. Please … it … it means please, please, don’t stop; don’t let this be fake, just … just a trick … don’t … don’t ever be … don’t be kind; take … take what you want from me; anything, don’t … don’t leave me the slightest hiding place … because … because all of this will be nothing if you … if you don’t … if you don’t go all the way, and … and I can’t bear the thought of … of having ruined myself so completely if … if you don’t … don’t get everything you want from me; every little thing; no matter … no matter how bad, how awful, how cruel, how … how destructive.”

The storm was great in her, then, but she held it in— just; held it back, held it down. That was her problem, not his, she must not drive him away with her emotions, and she laboured desperately to keep her voice even. It was impossible; she could hear the rawness, the fear, the agony, but still, she worked, fought herself to keep her speaking measured, clear, sincere, serious, as unemotional as possible.

It was terribly hard, but she did not lose control; kept her head up, her eyes down, looking at his shoes the whole time, with a strong and powerfully affecting feeling that he was staring at her opened sex, sure that she was ugly down there, her labia so puffy from the multiple abuses of the day, the vulnerability of her position eating into her, the horror of all this being her reality, now, forever; the astonishing neediness in her for it all to be true, the sucking vortex of neediness in her; trembling, shaking with it all.

The silence then was long and terribly hard to bear; she had done something, demanded something of him, spoken her mind, without asking permission; she was consumed by doubt, and shame and fear, but above all, by the intensity of need for his approval. Gods if he would just rape her, hard as anything, how grateful she would be! Her whole body yearned for the violence of him, to obliterate her and her ridiculous, foolish thoughts, her stupid, pointless feelings, her meaningless, insistent, pathetic concern for herself…

It lasted and lasted, no matter that she was suffering, it lasted and lasted, until, without warning, he moved her on.

Leaning forward, casual, confident, slow, he gently cupped her chin at the side, and softly brought her head up, right up;

“That’s it, pretty, look at me; I want to see you hear this.”

It was hard; terribly hard to look at him, with what she had allowed him to do to her, what she had so shamelessly given herself into, offered him, begged him for, this day, what her reading of the book, her soft acceptance of its cold cruelty, of him having done so much of what it described to her … she felt the shame redouble, intensify; what could a man think of a girl who had encouraged such vile and cruel abuses, such depraved sex, outright torture?

“It was cute to hear your little speech, pretty; to hear about your desperate needs, how much it matters to you. And you said it so nicely too. I liked it; my poor sore cock is so hard it hurts. But there are some things you need to understand, pretty, before I rape you again.”

“Firstly, you must understand that what you want, what you need, are meaningless; uninteresting apart from any entertainment value to others it may provide to deny you those needs. If you are used, it will be at the will of others. How you are used will be up to them, not you. If— as might well happen at times— there is fun to be had in treating you with kindness, encouraging you to feel safe; happy even— than that is what you will get. You will seek to please, do your utmost to provide satisfaction, whatever is asked of you— including pretty and sweet responses to kindness or mercy. It may help you to meditate upon this— that from now on, every treatment of you is an abuse, even if superficially kind— because every treatment of you will be enacted upon you without consent or consideration; as long as you submit like this, you are nothing more than a toy; all that we do to you will be selfish manipulation on our part, however you experience it.”

He left a long silence then, as his other hand softly took her nipple and gently, lovingly fondled it until it stiffened, even though his every touch was pain, so cruelly had he abused her there earlier, and she worked, worked on herself, to access a sexual response, found it, shamed herself, let her hips move, felt her blushes rising, as she did everything she could, ridiculous, humiliating, to encourage him to do more, to abuse her more, to disappear into him, into his desires, panting loudly.

Terrible, wonderful to hear his small knowing laugh;

“Little slut. Eyes open, please; on mine; you will obey, remember?”

He was not threatening, but softly laughing at her; she felt the threat anyway, and it was all of a piece with everything else, and it was harder even than before, to let him see in her eyes just how needy she was, just how he was hurting her, just how frightening the thought was of his cock entering her anywhere— throat, sex, anus all horribly sore, raw, bruised. Knowing that she would not resist him, would welcome him, on another level, despite the pain, the shame, the ravaging of her self-image.

“Ask me. Make it very sincere; ask me.”

And she did, so hard as it was, so much deeper than ever before, but she did it, her voice throbbing with unshed tears, soft and urgent as she could make it, pushing her breast into his hand, her body surging gently for him.

“Please Sir, please rape me, Sir. Rape me hard.”

“Good. Very inviting. I’m going to hurt you for sure. It will be bad. You’ll have no joy of it, I promise. Just what you asked for, of course.”

“Be careful, lovely Essy. Be very careful. There is a point of no return, and I want to take you there. I know how to take you there, and you— you are wide open to it. But still, in the end, there is a choice you will have to make for yourself; which only you can decide, deep in yourself. Once it is made, though, there will be no further choices; only abuse.”

He kissed her then, soft and warm and loverlike, and she, after freezing for a long few seconds, helplessly gave herself into that kiss, shamelessly, gloriously subservient, opening herself up to him, responding to everything, initiating nothing, inviting him to control her, controlling herself for him, her heart beating very fast with the cold terror that his words had burned into her, the lovely blossoming hard and fierce, burning her.

It was over too soon, and he pulled back, laughing at her again, her emotions impossible to hide as she gasped and panted and blushed and writhed, blinking back complicated tears, overwhelmed, unable to name the emotion, since it was a boiling mix of everything, as destructive as it was glorious.

It was astonishing to be so naked, so utterly emotionally exposed before this man, a self-identified rapist, abuser, torturer, for her whole being to be concentrated on offering herself to him, utterly defined, at the cost of all else, by her need for his attention, his interest in her.

He was taking everything from her, every precious thing, but it was what she wanted him to do, needed him to do.

He watched, and she knew he was watching, and was devastated by it, and opened herself to it, until he spoke again.

“There is a second thing— from the book— which you seem not to have noticed. I have indeed done many things to you which have their counterpart in O’s story— in the start of O’s story— but the part which you missed is this; like Renee, I am only the procurer. I seek not to own you, but to deliver you into the hands of a system, a club.”

“If you do— and the choice must be made relatively soon— if you do make the choice I have described, you will become the helpless possession of a loose but powerful group of sexual sadists.”

“Your shame, your submission, your defeat, will be entirely impersonal. You will become a toy in a toy library, rather than my plaything. You will be held in common, abused with equal rights by many. You will not know, even, who all the members are of this club, so that your experience will be of total strangers having full rights over you— to abuse, rape, hurt, degrade and shame you.”

Her throat closed up with the agony, and seemed welded shut, as her chest fought for air, air which was denied, and, quite quickly, as horribly welcome as it was frightening, a deepening red mist clouded her vision and she slipped into unconsciousness.

Read the next part of this story.