You will want to have read the previous part of this story.
This is a harshness 5 episode. It’s also horrible and deliberately ugly. You don’t need to read it. The next episode will not require you to have read this to follow Essy’s story.
Pain.
Pain everywhere; aching pains, stabbing pains at the slightest move, a deep grinding hurt in her heart, nausea; mouth, throat, sex, anus, nipples all burning, her head split by blinding shocks if she moves; an electric ache, as if the front of her brain is in a vice, her mouth dried up and stuck, full of foulness.
Stink. A vile stink and a cold and clammy viscous stickiness.
Disoriented, vision blurred by the worst headache for years, upper lip sore— she’s face down on a cold, hard surface, her mouth open, her teeth mashing her lip against the tile …
I blacked out …
… but … but not here.
… her head has to lift; a terrible bright slash of sunlight hurts like an icepick.
I’m on the bathroom floor.
I stink of piss, and there’s piss on the floor. I’m in a puddle of it …
And then she wrenches, flips herself almost completely over as memory surges back, and she is trying to get out of her own body, not to want to have to live with what had happened…
She’d floated back into consciousness quite quickly after her faint, but, still groggy with it, she had only half registered being picked up, carried like a baby, not until he’d dumped her on the bathroom floor, then disappeared, returned with a bottle of vodka, stood over her; she naked, slumped, huddled, pathetic; weak and whimpering; his face was set hard, standing over her in his sober, old-fashioned heavy clothing, his smile grim and unconvincing.
This is going to be a test, lovely Essy. This is not for me, but for you. You don’t want this; really, you don’t. But I want it for you; I want it for me; I very much want to be the one who landed you; you’re so very gorgeous, and you’re so very vulnerable, and you take cruelty so softly, so sweetly, so helplessly, and the way shame and pain change you is like a drug to me, so I want to take you all the way; see you lose yourself, watch it happen to you, know that you are part of it, see the tragedy unfolding, knowing that I did this to you.
“But also, truly, I think you should say no. You should escape. So, this; … I’m going to make it ugly, and miserable, and leave you with that, and then … then I’ll let the others decide how to handle you. You should walk away, pretty, you really should.”
“But first, this.”
He’d taken the vodka bottle and drunk from it as if it he had just run five miles without a drink. Then he leant down and grabbed her head and pushed the neck deep into her mouth and upended the bottle, so that she had to drink or drown, and then he had another swig and then made her have another, turn and turn, until the bottle was gone and she was sticky and smelling of it from where it had bubbled from her choking, spurted from her nose, run into her hair.
She had been mewling and moaning in fear— thinking from his words that he was going to injure her, even kill her, terrified, and he had done nothing to calm her, only staring at her, very intense, his smile gone, until he had bent and yanked her up into a sitting crouch, got behind her as she shook and whimpered, squatted down— she could feel the warmth from his thighs either side of her body and it comforted her, for a half second, made her remember how it had been on the sofa, just a short while earlier, until, with a snarling grunt, he had hooked his hands under her knees, lifted her up bodily, as he stood up himself, then slammed her, face-first, thighs split, into the wall.
Her body was flat against the tiles, head forced sideways, his whole weight leaning into her, her legs up at her sides, bent double, his hands under her knees, feet dangling, her arms loose, useless; she was like a rag doll.
“Here it comes, cunt.”
His voice was calm and weirdly flat as he said the cruel words, and it made them all the more harsh, and then she felt his cock, and it was shockingly hot, and he was pulling her about until it was at her and then;
AAAAIIIIEEEEchchchCCK! Ah! Ah! Ah! Aaaahhheeek! No … no ple …Pleeeeease! … plea … Ahk! ahk! AAAAAAACGH! Ah! Ah! … Ah! Ah!
He had speared her in her asshole, rammed himself into her, letting his hands under her knees drop so that her own weight impaled her on the invader which hurt so much.
He was yelling too— she was tight, and dry and frightened and it was awful and it hurt and he was destroying her, going at her like a piledriver; not so much fast as unstoppably destructive, relentless, breaking things; again, again, again, grunting harshly as he smashed her against the wall, nothing in it anything to do with sex or even pleasure.
It took forever; time stood still; she wailed, broken, lost, ruined, the whole time, not even in direct response to what was being done to her; that violence, that pain, that shame was only the surface of what he was doing to her, which was taking everything, degrading everything, removing everything from her; utterly devastating, to be treated so much like a carcass; endless awfulness until his pace picked up and he howled and jerked in her, quite briefly, no sound of satisfaction or pleasure as he did so, leaning against her, panting, crushing her after he had pulled out— the horrible, devastating sensation of that bringing a shriek from her that was hard for her to hear, so lost and despairing was it; that such sounds should come from her own throat…
Then she was on the floor and he was talking in a strange, flat, dead tone;
“This is not for me, you understand. This is for you. So that you know, so that you step back.”
And then he had pissed on her; and that too, was awful, but the intentionality behind it was, again, worse as he made sure to soak her face, grabbed her hair, mauled at her jaw so it went in her mouth, pulled back and got her eyes. And then he’d dropped her.
“I’m going now. Here’s the book;” he’d dropped it, open, face down into the spreading pool of piss.
“… read it if you can, and know that we are more serious, more intense, more certain, more thorough; more - that we are real.”
“You’ll get some text messages, maybe. They will tell you what you can do, if you are insane.”
“I very much hope that you are, because I want to do terrible things to you, watch your eyes, see them fill with tears while you hold yourself so that we can do them to you, hear you ask for more.”
“I very much recommend that you become sane, though; that you see your life, now, as precious, and find a way.”
“I have no regrets; I haven’t enjoyed a girl as I have you for some time now, and I know that I have shown you new things about yourself. But you should not ask for more.”
