The Story of S Pt15.

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

There had been a long moment, then, with Essy frozen, her eyes trapped by the magnetism of Francesca’s; she was frozen internally, too, unwilling to let herself think about what had just happened. It was done, no point thinking about things; she wasn’t in charge, in any case; she was theirs now.

But how hard it was for this woman to be looking into her soul, seeing— knowing, clearly, just how shameful a creature Essy must be, to have allowed herself to be brought to such a position, without coercion, without force, not paid or blackmailed— urged, in point of fact, to escape. Instead, though, she had come to this cafe, night after night, for over three weeks now, in the hope that someone would do this to her.

She tried to revile herself— Stupid slut. Pathetic sex addict. — to see if some resistance could be stirred, some will to action which might help her evade the terrible fate which had been laid out for her, a fate which, after her experiences with Mark, she knew was no fantasy, but stark and brutal reality.

It did no good; the electric feeling was still alive in her, and she knew that she could not bear to go back to the greyness. This was how life had to go. Even if it was a tragic, a keening shame, it was at the same time a promise of feeling, of intensity, of meaning— even if that meaning was being provided by her subjugation to the will of these powerful people who were promising to destroy her.

At last, she was released from that basilisk gaze, as Francesca stood and made her way to the counter, and Essy could once again lower her eyes. Her heart, she realised, was going crazy fast, her breathing rapid too, and terribly shallow, so that she felt light headed. The shaking got worse for a few seconds— really bad— but the fit passed quickly, leaving her feeling light again, as if she might float away, even though she was physically frozen, stuck in the chair, knowing that she would not be able to move until Francesca commanded her to, or abandoned her.

And then Francesca was back, standing, holding a large pair of heavy scissors— kitchen shears, Essy realised— the kind of think you would cut a chicken apart with;

“Come, pretty; up with you! Give me your bag— put everything in it— phone, keys, the lot— nothing left in your pockets. That’s it now; we’re off to the toilet— to your left, at the back. We’ve adjustments to make.”

As with Mark, Francesca seemed to like walking behind Essy, and, as with Mark, she had immediately become hypersensitive about her walk, about being sexy, without being slutty, as Mark had required of her. It was so strange to Essy to be doing this for a woman— she had never been sexually interested by other women, but this Francesca was very definitely to be displayed for.

In the cramped little toilet, Francesca said;

“I’m going to do violence to your clothes now, girl. Ordinary clothes were what we asked for, but, if you value your hide, you will never again present yourself to me wearing more than absolutely necessary— and I am going to show you now just how little is necessary. Arms up! Legs apart!”

Even as Essy was hurriedly complying, Francesca was at her; assured, direct, unhurried but unhesitating.

The sharp point of the scissors was snagged into, then pushed down through the fabric of her jeans, just below the waistband, at the crease between her leg and her groin; a long, smooth cut then, down and in towards the join of her thighs, cutting right across the crotch of her jeans, the cold metal shocking against the tender, warm skin of her inner thigh, making her gasp, which had Francesca snicker as she repeated the cut from the other side;

“Cold steel, sharp points, razor edges, right at your soft little cunt, and in the hands of a ruthless sadist, too— imagine what thoughts are in my head, hm?”

Essy was frozen, trembling again, wanting desperately to close her legs, clasp her hands protectively at her groin, but not daring to shift from the ordained position.

The legs of her jeans sagged away at the front; she knew naked thigh must be on show, but not much changed, really, until two more cuts, similar in approach, were made at the rear, crossing with the cuts from the front, and then the crotch of her jeans fell apart into flaps, cool air between her legs.

A neat diamond of denim fell to the floor, a neat cross quartering it— the junction of the key seams which had held her jeans together— and for some reason it transfixed Essy, momentarily, as if it were a metaphor— for the parts of her which held her together, which were being surgically removed, so that what was left behind was infinitely weaker.

Then, horribly, the scissors slid inside the gusset of her panties, and the threat and the fear of what could be done to her took a fierce hold.

It was over very quickly, though, without even a nick, shreds of lycra fabric falling around her feet. A couple more cuts around the outside of each jeans leg and they too fell away, leaving her with only a ragged, deeply slit denim micro-skirt, her sex and behind barely covered by triangular central flaps at front and rear.

Next came the waistband, the scissors following a complete circle around her belly, the loose band snipped apart, so that the tiny skirt rode low on her hips, only held up by the zipper.

Francesca was not finished though; the scissors were at Essy’s shirt next; starting high at her back between the shoulder-blades, angling down under her armpit and round to the front, levelling across at the lower swell of her breasts. The same cut on the other side, and the lower part of her shirt fell away, slipped down her body, to catch at her hips.

Then a long cut up from her cleavage, following on around, low at the back of her neck, beneath the collar, then around and forward again, down between her breasts to separate collar and upper front from the rest of the shirt. This was quickly disposed of, as was the loose lower section which had bunched at her waist, until she was left with only a yoke of fabric across her upper back, just enough to anchor the scant covering to the upper parts of her breasts. So much flesh on show, a single button all that remained to hold things together. As with her panties, a few snips saw to her brassiere;

“I’ve to be careful here, too, eh, pretty— not to indulge myself by threatening those sweet stiff nipples with these monster scissors, hmm? Maybe, one day— Who knows? Can you imagine? Two quick snips, and those pretty tits ruined?”

Essy knew that this was all just cruel teasing, but at the same time, a part of her knew that it was closer to reality than she dared think about.

It was terrible; the fear and trembling were real, but she was also fizzing with energy, with the electric feeling; it was not the lovely, not at all, but it was heart-stoppingly exciting.

Essy in what's left of her clothes

Not sexually exciting though, until, with a jolt, it suddenly was, as Francesca’s fingers went between her legs, and directly to her sex; confident, invasive, but subtle, too, the fingers knowing, skilful, so that Essy could not stifle a sobbing, high-pitched moan, soft and desperate, surprised and ashamed to discover herself instantly juicing for another woman.

“Well, Mark said you had a hair trigger. That’s good. I won’t want ever to find you dry down there. Ever been with a woman?”

“N … No.”

The flat of the scissors was suddenly under her chin, lifting it high. It hurt— the steel was sharp-cornered and real force was used, but Francesca’s voice was mild.

“That will be ‘Madam’ to you, from now on. And keep your gaze lowered, pretty. I look at you; you don’t look me in the face unless I make it so. Watch my feet, cunt, and learn to guess.”

“Sorry. Yes. No … No, Madam.”

A hot blush burned Essy’s cheeks as these markers of her degraded status were casually, ruthlessly imposed, one after the other; belittled, feeling very small and ridiculous and shameful, all at the same time as the sexual heat in her rose and another moan escaped her, breathy and whiny.

“OK, pretty, that will do for now.”

Francesca’s hand rose from Essy’s sex to present at her lips, and there was nothing for it but to open them and to lick, softly, subserviently, cleaning her own sex juices from the elegant bony fingers, the immaculate lacquered nails like sharp claws.

“Down on your knees now; off with those clumpy boots. Put them in your bag with everything else.”

Within three minutes, Essy had been rendered barefoot, with nothing but crudely cut rags covering her upper breasts and her groin, been terrorised with implications of what a large pair of scissors could inflict at her sex and her breasts, and been taken halfway to orgasm with her first experience of a woman’s hand at her sex; her heart was in her throat, her knees were weak, her whole body quivering, heart pattering far too fast, her pussy spasming with desire, nipples hard as stones.

As she sank to her knees, instantly obedient, she heard herself murmuring;

“Thank you, thank you, M … Madam.”

Because she was, genuinely, experiencing a deep, warm wave of thankfulness, at the same time as an urgent need to signal to this frightening woman that she, Essy, intended to submit, to please, to accept.

She would live.

It would be hard; she would be degraded and abused, frightened and shamed, but it would be a life of strong colour and vivid contrasts, and she would never have to worry about what to do next. It would not be her responsibility. It was appalling how eager she was for it all.

Even the scissors? asked a voice in her head, but she made no coherent response. It was unnecessary. If scissors were in her future, she would suffer. Abuses were certain, cruelty was certain; she had let Mark torture her pussy and her breasts, and asked him, immediately afterwards, to rape her, and later that evening reaffirmed her desire for him to feel free to hurt her as he desired; suffering was certain, for her, now. She would suffer what whatever was imposed upon her, when the time came; thinking ahead no longer made any sense. The future was not hers to plan, and she was grateful for that.

“While you’re down there, you should learn how I like my boots licked. Shuffle back a little— knees split wide, feet out wider, lift your body now, your weight on your knees and elbows. Yes, that will be hard, especially when I have you down there for half an hour. Head down, ass up high. Nipples should graze the floor, tits swinging free. Point your toes; every part of you is to be expressive, visibly straining to please. Get your arms to express your vulnerability; twisted back, up and high— palms up; your shoulders need to hurt.”

“Head right down now; push your tongue right in under the tip of the toe of the boot, take the point into your mouth as far as you can— soft, eager, generous and gentle; show me that you worship me; clean the sole of the boot as best you can with your tongue, mostly by moving your whole head, though, so that my boot is fucking your mouth.”

“Well, that’s ugly and awkward, but you can improve. You’d better. Other boot now— make it elegant; show me how much you are loving to demonstrate your subservience— even if you’re hating it.”

Francesca’s ankle boots were sleek black leather, high-heeled, sharp pointed toes with a tooled silver capping, hard and uncomfortable in the mouth, but that wasn’t what hurt; it was the strong taste of dirt in her mouth, the bitter residue of whatever cleaning product the floor had been wiped with which brought it home; these weren’t sexy games; this was full-spectrum degradation.

I will be made to do this with others looking on. Probably then it will be their turn and Francesca will be watching me lick their boots. I’m not resisting, not at all— I’m trying my very best for her. I can feel the need to please, burning in me, and it’s not just fear.

Mark was right; they are going to find it easy to do this to me, because I’m so needy and weak.

“Now you wipe dry as best you can with your tits. Just rub your nipples against my boots by shaking your shoulders. I know— pathetic and useless, isn’t it? Just how you need to feel, all the time, really. Sometimes I’ll want to go on tiptoe on your nipples; be on the alert for that— it’s fun when there’s someone to rape your ass at the same time. But we need to get on; I have a reservation for dinner. Up with you now!”

“No, pretty; we’re leaving your bag here, along with the scissors. When I’m done with you, later, you’ll have to walk back here and hope they’re still open and that they kept it for you, or you’ll be sleeping on the street.”

“Mostly, now, when you’re with us, you’ll have nothing; no ‘phone, no keys, no money, basically no clothes either. Eventually, you’ll get used to it, but it seems to take the longest time— perhaps because strong feelings of vulnerability and anxiety will be well justified; some of the gang like to set up public humiliation experiences, have strangers take advantage— girls begging for food and rides at truck stops and the like; all very cliché, but it does add to the fun for us. Of course, it also helps you get that deep realisation of just how little ability to look after yourself you have, how weak and useless you have become, how little we care about what happens to you, how disposable you are.”

“Off you go— turn right, not left— we’re leaving via the fire exit. Oh, and I forgot to say; tiptoes, please, and of course that model walk— I want to see your tits swaying, your nipples jiggling and your hips switching.”

Out through the dirty fire-door, obviously the route to the refuse area, down a mean little concrete stair with a crude iron handrail into a dingy back alley. The sun was waning, dusk waiting in the wings, the air cooling fast.

“Stop now, let me show you something clever. See my bag? Nice isn’t it?”

Indeed it was very smart— striking and stylish; long and thin, like a large slice of melon, in dark, glossy chestnut leather, with a single strap curving to make the whole thing a single hoop.

“Now, here’s the fun part.”

A careful twist at each end, and the strap was detached from the bag, and straightened itself out— some springy core inside the braided leather binding.

“This is what I’m going to beat you with, right now. You need to be hurt, pretty; properly hurt, taken beyond what you think you can bear, as often as possible, if you’re to be broken. You may be easy, as Mark believes, but you also have a strong core wich will have to be constantly degraded, and there’s nothing like the despair generated by repeated willing submission to cruel and random beatings for that.”

“Ha! Yes, I imagine that does hit hard, set out as coldly as that; it is truly a pleasure to be the one to induct you, pretty. It’s the most fun, taking lovely sexy innocents and watching them hear about and then experience all these new and heartbreaking horrors which they know will come to define their existence.”

“Very well. I think I’ll have you facing the steps, bent at the waist— get the end of that handrail deep into your mouth, pretty; I want you gagging on it, hurting your throat. Legs apart; wider!”

A blaze of pain brought a wild jerk and a piteous mewl from Essy;

“Wider, I said, little slut; don’t you dare under-do things like that; remember— you begged for this; it’s perfect, or nothing.”

“That’s better— arms up and out— you know how. I’m not going to do much, in truth— we’re going to a fancy place and I can’t take you there covered in weals— but I imagine this will still be hard enough to make a real impression.”

This was an understatment; already, the exposure of the situation, the agonising dread that one of the cafe staff could appear at any moment, at the thought that behind one of the dingy back windows overlooking the alley, there might be a witness to her shame was making it hard for Essy to breathe, to hold her degrading pose, as Francesca used the end of the springy rod she now held to flip up what little of the skirts there were, expose her open crotch to the world.

But even this awfulness was soon violently eclipsed as, within only a couple of minutes, Essy was taken beyond herself with desperation and despair, as, with real force, the stiff, leather-bound rod cut into her buttocks again and again, her useless hands flipping and flapping her terror, the thick iron rod of the handrail bruising her throat, mashing into her teeth if she jerked too much, tears spurting uncontrollably from her eyes.

“Tiptoes, I said, missy! This one’s going between your legs for that little lapse.”

It was the final stroke, but it devastated Essy beyond comprehension; it seemed impossible that a woman, who knew just how tender, how sensitive, how bound up with vulnerability a girl’s sex was, that a woman had swung that heavy, springy crop directly along the crease of her sex, the metal end of it snapping directly onto her poor clitoris, still engorged from the recent fingering.

“Your ass takes the whip well, girly— taut and luscious; we’re going to enjoy that. Now we go on to the next part of this little piece, pretty. Hold your pose; I’ll be only too pleased to beat you some more, but I rather think you’ll prefer pleasure— although who knows?”

And with that, Francesca’s fingers were back at Essy’s pussy, once again directly invading, confident in their manipulations; the other hand snaking round from the front to gently but threateningly take her sore, swollen clitoris between long hard fingernails, softly pulling, twisting, teasing.

The transition, for Essy, from sobs and mewls of pain and humiliation, into little pants and moans of sexual arousal and humiliation, was a great and terrible shaming of itself; to be whimpering with undeniable— almost hateful— sexual arousal at the ministrations of a cruel mistress who had just laid a heavy crop directly into her tender pussy somehow shook her very deeply, even as her hips bucked and twisted of their own accord, even as, knowing she must, for her own sanity, strive to end all resistance inside herself, to give herself over as a helpless slut, to abandon all self-respect, to move and flex and moan for this amazing and frightening woman.

Then came a terrible shock, as it became obvious that the invasion was going to be prosecuted to a horrifying extreme, as Francesca’s four fingers pushed deep, as her knuckles shouldered their way between labia already stretched to the point of pain, as the sharpness of a lacquered thumbnail was felt, deep inside her vagina. Francesca did not stop at that, either; thrusting and shoving, rough now, the awful metal rail hurting Essy’s mouth badly, her shoulders shrieking with mounting strain, her feet and calves, too, from having been on tiptoe so long.

It was too much; feeling a fist form, deep inside her belly, feeling Francesca begin to pump in and out, even her slim wrist and elegant hand so much bigger than any cock Essy had experienced, harder, too, with bony knuckles and more length than could possibly fit, all being rammed into her poor distended pussy with such force, such freedom, with such cruel and deliberately destructive intent.

Essy was devastated, horrified; she had never conceived that it was possible to be treated so, that such degradation could be meted out by one woman to another; her whole soul rejected it, decried it, refused to accept that this could be happening to her.

And yet, horribly, violently, it was happening to her, in the most sordid and humiliating of circumstances, and she was holding herself open to it. Treacherous, too, something in her was responding, finding the experience shamefully affecting, feeling her belly shudder and melt with unwanted heat.

Her whole body shook, violently, as the reality of it took her, and she lost herself, temporarily unhinged, gave herself to the brutality, the violence, the humiliation of it, and shamefully began to rock into Francesca’s thrusts, weakly at first, but with increasing helpless urgency, while all the time the cruelly clever manipulations at her clitoris intensified, until, horribly, Essy realised that she was going to be made to orgasm for her tormentress through this degrading travesty of a fucking, then immediately found that she was determined to come, no matter how shaming, how devastating; that she needed to, in any case, that she wanted to be shamed, wanted to give this woman the pleasure of having destroyed her.

It was not pleasure, though, which finally took her, but anguished pain and further humiliation.

As her belly spasmed, as wild, plangent noises came from her throat, as her hips jerked and writhed, as Francesca pulled out and punched in, again and again, as the first shocks took her, those long shiny nails had taken a vice grip of her poor clitoris, then wrenched and twisted and ripped at her sensitive nubbin to devastating effect, sabotaging her climax with a terrible agony, so that when she finally got up the nerve to look, the following morning, she was astonished to find everything intact, if badly swollen.

It took quite some time after that for Essy, staring, bleak and desperate at the wall, consumed by a powerful and searing self-disgust, devastated by everything which had been done to her, carried out so casually, so confidently, in such a short period of time, herself having made no protest, done nothing at all but invite and enable the abuse, drowning in the helpless horror of it; it took some little time for her to have calmed sufficiently for Francesca, looking on with keen appreciation, to move things on.

“Come now, pretty; that was just a tickle. You’ll learn soon enough that there is no bottom to the torment, no limit on the depth of the despair we can impose. Straighten up now, and listen! I’m going back in, to wash up and get the car. You’ll wait here, very demure, and Luly will come for you, and walk you to the car. You’re to do just as she says.”

“Of course, if it’s all too much for you, there’s nothing to stop you from going back in, getting your bag and running off with your tail between your legs. Nothing at all but that helpless need in your belly, that is.”

She smiled, patronising, but indeed almost sympathetic, before setting off up the stairs, saying;

“I’ll see you in a few minutes then, pretty cunt.”