You will want to have read the previous part of this story.
Life had become strange to her.
Everything was strange to her; her own body, full of new knowledge about itself, about what could be inflicted upon it, what its responses were; her place, unrecognisable; neat, organised, full of triggers for astonishingly visceral flashbacks. She didn’t live, so much as float in and out of focus.
Her body did things, and that was how she lived. There wasn’t much else, in that time.
Eventually, that morning, she had levered herself up from the floor, drunk cold water from the tap for long minutes, then slumped and slept again, waking in the same pool of drying piss, in the greying light of dusk.
But she had cleaned herself up, run a bath (sharp memories of him washing her, just a day before), had cleaned herself, cleaned the floor, eaten simple, soft food— cereals, milk— slept again, in her bed; woken and somehow remembered that she had a job, had called them, weathered the storm of anger at her disappearance, grovelled, lied about some non-existent family emergency, let them vent until they had asked her when she’d be back; they needed her.
But it was all so unimportant, now.
She was a different thing.
A creature, which knew that the world was not as it looked, that it was not real. Not for her at least.
Because it was flat; dull, devoid of intensity— everyone acting as if violent sexual intensity at a level which made everything else seem trivial— as if that intensity was not the most real thing about being alive.
Things appeared to matter to people; they got upset, bored, ecstatic even; but those were not feelings. Not by comparison to what she had felt with him.
She was a ghost. He had killed her, but somehow not taken her from her body.
It was strange; The whole period— the days with Mark; days of shocking, appalling infamy, damage, pain, shame, violation, degradation…
All of it.
She carried the marks, the slow-healing physical hurts.
She carried the sense-memories, too; trauma, she supposed it would be called.
But also of the devastating, shocking, shimmering orgasms, the unbelievable feeling of being naked before him, knowing that she was doing everything she could to get him to rape her, of him knowing everything that he did about her weakness, her eagerness to be shamed, to be the subject of his abuses.
Of the all-consuming fascinated humiliation of having offered herself up for more, even after that first night, that terror.
And that last day, that last night, too.
I let him sexually torture me, asked him for it, and then came for him, after which he raped my throat, so that I thought I would die, and then I let him bathe me and cuddle me and read his book to him and then I asked him to do everything to me, with no mercy. Offered myself to him. And then he raped me again, worse than ever. And he’s the only thing which matters in my life.
It was all there, always, alive in her; immediate, full-body sensory recall of what it had been to be his; so many distinct, sharp, violent, electrifying, glorious, devastating, horrific, delicious moments…
And the lovely, too … that utterly novel sensation of being free by having lost herself in him, having given herself up to him, of being nothing but a suffering vehicle for his pleasure.
Everything was grey. People smiled and chattered and gossiped and bickered and acted as if things mattered but they didn’t. Not anymore. Not to her.
It wasn’t just grey, but bitter; because all those things which had brought the lovely— all those defeats, all those acceptances, those things she had accepted as having some mystical power over her— the geas; not talking, not looking at him, not eating unless he fed her, presenting herself naked, offering herself for rape, holding her hands behind her flapping uselessly, proclaiming your helplessness— they were still in her, still felt strong; they were the anchors to whatever she was now— but they could not be enacted, they meant nothing, without him to perform them for.
She could be naked— kept herself, always, naked in her place, she could walk on tiptoes for him, she could bind herself with belts, she could hold her hands, she could be silent, she could keep her eyes on the floor, mostly— she could do these things, did do these things, being strict with herself, but they were hollow, miserable, pathetic.
Just as she was.
And the text messages never came.
She had no idea what she would do when— if — they ever did. None.
There was no point having ideas. She was past that.
She would do what she felt like doing; what her body wanted to do, when the time came.
If they did not come, she might emigrate, might throw herself in front of a train, she wasn’t sure.
She no longer owned herself.
Until he did, until his gang did, her body owned her. And she did what it did, for there was nothing else to be done.
And so she went to work, and acted— mostly successfully— as if she cared, as if the nonsense mattered. And strangely, she did excellent work.
Because nothing really mattered to her, it had become easy to make choices. To do what would work best, because there was nothing getting in the way. Always look for the maximum intensity— the choice which was least grey; the thing which felt most like her time with Mark; no matter that everything was grey, there were still shades, and she saw them. Some things were more real than others, and that was what she chose. And it always worked. People noticed it, and told her how great she was doing. It was very strange indeed that dead, detached, ghost Essy was a valuable creative asset.
Strange, but ultimately uninteresting.
Still, there were no texts.
She had read all of The Story of O book now. She had read it several times, many times in fact; read it obsessively, alternately horrified, powerfully aroused, overcome by tears and despair.
The constant meditations upon love in the text were among the more painful, because they so cruelly made clear the distinction between O’s lovely, almost mystical surrender to her lover, and her own condition, where there was not, never had been, any confusion at all between the possibility of love between her and Mark, and the callous reality of his vicious and selfish abuses.
Picture: Essy, reading 'The Story of O' Click here to reveal.
When O had been told that it was her sex which defined her, it had been particularly in the context of the others whom she was possessed by, of the Roissy club that this abuse, this degradation had made her, first, more precious in the eyes of Rene, then, in the case of Sir Stephen, increased her use-value. But with both of these men, the issue of love was live one, however doubt-filled; O had always the concern, the possibility, the hope for some aspect of a loving relationship, no matter how perverse.
Essy, though— this remainder of Essy— had nothing; nothing at all but the promise of degradation, abuse, rape and pain. Nothing but incessant cruel requirements of her to offer herself attractively for such terrible usage, without hope of anything; indeed with the certainty that she would be used up, depleted, become worthless to him, and would then be abandoned without a second thought.
The very end of the book, then, took Essy hard, every time— and she re-read that short paragraph often, flagellating herself with it, burning it into her mind, wanting to forever crush the stupid, painful hopes which repeatedly arose in her mind, when she was half-asleep, or in the trance state after a particularly terrible bout of sobbing (for she sobbed often, without specific reason, just assaulted by despairing grief in the middle of some ordinary activity, felled by it, would fall to her knees, curl up and be consumed by wracking, visceral sobbing), those hopes of some romantic ‘happy ever after’ with Mark— a Mark somehow still just as masterful and cruel, but now also dedicated to her, committed to stay with her.
The stupidity of such thoughts, coming to her when she was least able to quosh them before they took a hold, the pain of having to extinguish her ridiculous, babyish hope, that was hard to bear, and the hard, cold lines from the book became a litany, eventually known by heart, etched into her mind:
In a final chapter, which has been suppressed, O returned to Roissy, where she was abandoned by Sir Stephen. There exists a second ending to the story of O, according to which O, seeing that Sir Stephen was about to leave her, said she would prefer to die. Sir Stephen gave her his consent.
Many other passages of the book took a powerful hold on Essy’s mind, too; those where O was almost transactionally whored to other men, then viciously beaten by them powerfully reigniting and sharpening her memories of that first, terrible night with Charles and David, the certainty in her that there would be more, and many nights like that. Then the many sequences on whipping, which rent Essy’s soul, filled her with sagging, helpless dismay; and of course, dreadful in their different ways, the description of the placing of the ‘irons’ into O’s lower lips, the weight and obviousness of them, and finally, most terrifying of all, the branding, the burning of Sir Stephen’s mark into her flesh with red-hot metal.
Somehow, despite Mark never having mentioned it, this too lay in her future, she was sure, if she was not rejected as undesirable before then.
These scenes filled her mind at random times, sitting on the bus, while painting a backdrop, sanding a repair, cooking her simple meals (she had been changed by Mark in other, less obvious ways, too; her place was kept clean, now, and she cooked, carefully, simple meals, but with fresh ingredients).
Like sense memories of events that had not yet occurred, she would suddenly be overtaken by some hallucination of being held down to be raped by an obscenely fat man, while another extinguished a cigarette in her mouth, or felt herself, tied, clamped, bent forward, feeling the appalling searing of a red hot iron being applied to her inner thigh.
She would be stunned by these visions, stilled, made to tremble, as if paralysed; condemned to let the sequence unfold in her mind, her mouth working but silent, as in her head she heard herself screaming, hoarsely, at the limits of sanity, but being granted no mercy, no kindness even, nothing but pain and shame and destruction…
These occasions, in the aftermath of such traumatic interludes, were the only times when she permitted herself to masturbate.
These sessions were not about sex— she was almost mechanical about it— seeking a relief of stress from the mental oblivion which orgasm might provide. Savagely, obsessively, she would grind her sex against some object, some corner, some bump (she found that she could not permit herself the use of her own hands)— the protruding top of the leg of one of her kitchen chairs was often where she ended up; tipping the chair, then righting it, forcing it into her sex, hurting herself as she made herself repeat in her mind the scene which had just played out there; urgently, painfully forcing herself towards the kind of orgasm Mark had told her would be her lot— damaging, destructive, degrading, painful.
The first times she had tried this she had been unable to arrive at a climax, but she had persisted, desperate for the catharsis, the release of built-up tensions, which only an orgasm would deliver.
When, finally, she had managed to bring herself off, it was to a re-enactment of the branding scene in the book, and she knew herself to have been perverted. Afterward, she had knelt on the floor, numb with it all, for an hour at least; shaking, waiting for some part of her to rebel, to see that this was too much, too far, to be simply waiting, to have put her life on hold, until strangers who would do such things to her should deign to command her presence.
No such rebellion occurred (she knew, deep down, that it never would; that she was past hope of redemption), and it became almost a daily occurrence; degrading orgasms to fantasies of suffering the closest she could come to Mark.
I am lost.
And still for a week, more than a week, no texts. For another week. And another. It didn’t matter; there was nothing that mattered, really.
She was lost, and could not find herself. Only they could find her, whatever she was.
No texts.
Until, one day, without it being special in any way, there was.
“Cafe Otto, between 6 and 7pm, every night. Sit at the small table, third to your right from the door, or as near as is possible. Large salad Niçoise, eat it slowly, with your left hand, don’t use your right hand at all. Dress normally. One day, we might come for you.”
“If we do, it will be just for a conversation. Everything starts from zero. But you have to be perfect. Everything about you, perfect. Work at this; it will always be work for you.”
Unknown number.
When, a day later, she had tried to call it, sent replies, the number was dead.
She made no decision about what to do about the message, about going to the cafe. Her body was in charge.
It had noticed. It had very definitely noticed.
Wonderingly, for the first time since Mark had dirtied her, abandoned her, she had felt sexy. She had thought about whether the horror of that last fuck had removed all interest in sex from her, so vile, so cruel had it been.
But here she was, reading the text, thinking about Cafe Otto (she had no idea what it was really like, had only looked it up— a side street on the edge of Soho; nothing special), feeling something stir in her belly.
But still, that was all.
Her body would know.
Or it wouldn’t.
But she would never know.
She was over.
She was sure of it, certain of it, until, almost immediately on first meeting with Francesca, she had realised that— far from being over— she had been in a cocoon.
That the days after Mark had left her, when she had felt so detached, she had been changing. Changing inside— like a caterpillar which had disappeared, gone into a shell, dissolved into soup, then been reborn as something else.
Except she wasn’t a butterfly, or even a moth.
She was a victim. A pure victim, entranced by the idea of being utterly possessed by the will of others, of being made to become a helpless sex toy.
She had felt it the moment Francesca had appeared; regal almost, despite her severe mannish outfit, her hard sardonic smile, her cool, knowing eyes, as she had stood, waiting, while Essy’s mind raced, in turmoil. A woman! Like the Anne-Marie in the book, I am to be subjugated and abused by a woman, as well as by men!
And still, Francesca stood, until it had dawned on Essy, like a smack across the face, that she was to stand and acknowledge this arrival; show respect, as if she were a child meeting an important adult.
And the act of standing had been like coming out of the cocoon.
And when she saw Francesca looking at her body (as they’d instructed, she was back in her old uniform of jeans and work shirt), she had known it.
Oh god I’m dressed like this and she wants to know if I’m worth fucking and of course of course she is going to fuck me and I’ve come here so I’m lost. Lost already. And I’m so stupidly desperate for her to want me. Why aren’t I in a little dress like Mark bought me? Why aren’t I naked?
She had hardly spoken; just trembled and listened; listened as if her life depended on it, looking at Francesca’s hands, mostly, only the briefest of glances at the woman’s face, only once met her eyes fully, before looking down, shocked at how frightened she was; smiled little short-lived smiles— all offer, all eagerness, all weakness, as Francesca had laid it out, what would be done to her, if she made herself worthy of their attention, their time, their effort.
She was terribly, terribly shy, as well as frightened; filled with embarrassment at the truth of it— that this woman knew just what Mark had been able to do with her, how easy she had been, how easily suborned, how betrayed she had been by her body’s response to sexual usage, to cruel and shaming abuse. To have another woman know this of her was crushing beyond imagination. On the second meeting, Francesca had shown her some video David had shot of her being raped in the hotel room, of her being brought to a hateful orgasm, and then others, shot by Mark, of her on the table in her kitchen, bound with the belt, head in a bag, her body marked by his abuses, displaying herself so lewdly it seemed impossible that it could really be her.
But at the same time, she felt like a little girl; a nervous, hopeful little girl who has just met a wonderful, awe-inspiring woman of the world; a woman she needs to be worthy of, needs to do everything she can for, to seek favour, even while knowing that she can never be good enough.
Why?
So that they can turn me into a degraded sex slave, lost to decency, deserving of no respect at all. Just a cunt to be fucked and hurt. A cunt that desperately strives to be worthy of being fucked and hurt because there is nothing else left to it.
It was terrible; the dread in her was overwhelming, but it didn’t matter; that fluttery feeling, of a fizzing, almost electrical field of light, animating energy occupying her whole body— the feeling she had felt that first day with Mark was back, and back so strongly, stronger than ever.
Everything was colourful again, and …
“Yes. Yes, please.”
At the third meeting, when Francesca had told her what would be required of her, how it must go, how slowly and carefully and thoroughly she would be broken, how much it would require of her, what labour, what sacrifice, what commitment, what suffering, how it was inevitable that she, Essy, would be crushed by it, that she would never recover, never live a normal life.
Her husky-voiced sincere answer— painfully heartfelt, more of a plea than an assent, had been her immediate, automatic, grateful response to a terrible question;
“Will you help us turn you into a broken sex toy? Will you work at it? Work hard to help us take everything from you, until you are locked away inside that lush pretty body of yours, your only access to meaning through being abused for the pleasure of others? Will you play this game with us? So that you can lose everything, and we can have a pretty sex toy to play with until we get bored with it and throw it away?”
“Yes please.”
She had said it again and again.
And that had been it, she thought; except that the woman wanted more: Francesca had smiled at her— a brief smile of self satisfaction; hard, greedy, powerful, cruel, which had made Essy tremble and at the same time fill up with that fizzy feeling, and then;
“I promise you, pretty girl, that I personally will make you regret that request a thousand times over; that you will scream and cry and beg from the depths of your soul to be released from your own promises when you experience the extent and cruelty of my sadism, and that of the others who will have access to you. And I promise, also, that there will be no release; I will grant you not the smallest scrap of mercy, even in your deepest, most heart-rending despair.”
“And so I ask you, one last time, will you help us destroy you?”
Essy’s trembling intensified; some deep force made her look up and into the woman’s implacable eyes, only to be trapped by them. Her fear became transcendent then— the cool savagery of the woman, her lopsided smile showing how much she was enjoying herself as she, a virtual stranger, made such dreadful promises to a trembling, terrified young woman alone in the world, so recently, so thoroughly, so violently raped, beaten and traumatised by Mark. It took all of Essy’s strength, then, not to crumple, not to cry, not to run; and yet the energy was there, on her tongue, in her lips to repeat the dread words.
“Yes; yes, please.”
It was going to happen.
