Story of Sophia, Pt 9

Read the earlier parts of Sophia’s story before this.

The ‘phone call changed everything; not that anything got calmer; rather the opposite— Sophia was immediately possessed by a light but insistent feeling of nervy anticipation, which filled her with darting, restless energy. Over the next days, although it waxed and waned, it never really went away— it became hard to sleep for more than a few hours at a time.

She had never experienced anything like it; she had read about soldiers’ feelings before their first battle— the unknowing, mixed with the certainty that enormous stress, extreme risk, unavoidable violence were coming, that there was no escaping them, something out-of-all recognition more demanding than anything they had ever experienced. That they would be challenged beyond the possibility of imagination.

And that was how it felt to her; the strong sense that she was to be changed further still; beyond how Duncan had already changed her, and more impersonally; the certainty too of the danger to her, both the immediate— she would be hurt and shamed and degraded (astonishing to form these thoughts in her head, to know that such experiences could be real for her, that it was possible— even certain, seemingly — that she would voluntarily expose herself to them)— and equally long-term— the explicit certainty that they would work on her mind— intentionally condition her to accept such treatment as her normality. A deep and trembling anxiety about an unknowable experience was with her permanently; there was no escaping it.

Strangely, though, but impossible to deny, things were better— in fact much better— than through the preceding days, in spite of her feeling more frightened and nervous than she had been: verything had become immensely more real and threatening when that woman, a complete stranger to her, had called her slut, and she had meekly accepted it. A woman— a modern woman— simply could not, under any circumstances, allow another woman to call her a slut with deliberate intent to belittle; not without strong and negative reaction; it was simply impossible that that had happened.

And yet she had accepted the word, had been meek and submissive. Still, there was no getting away from it:— everything was much better.

The most obvious change was that the struggle to reconcile Self-hating Sophia with Just keep pretending Sophia was over. The power of her repeated Yes had settled it. She was to be neither. She would be what they would make of her. A sex-toy, a slave, a cunt— whatever they wanted— it was no longer her responsibility.

With this appalling but certain understanding it was possible to simply let the old Sophia go; to love her previous self a little, to mourn her, to pity her for her failure to make a life which could have been meaningful enough to be proof against Duncan.

Now she could look in the mirror with tenderness, with acceptance, with soft, hopeless regret. That girl had failed. She would become something else now, would be taken and reshaped by stronger, greedier wills than her own, and she would not fight— because there was nothing to fight for.

The battle had been lost well before the ‘phone call; that had simply been the formal surrender.

It was terrible, to have been defeated, to know that she was to become less than human, but that’s the thing about losing a battle. The possibility of fighting has been removed.

Something else presented itself to her on the way home that day, sitting in the train, lost in her mind, eyes half closed, strangely happy in the sadness of defeat, almost luxuriating in it.

The nagging, impossible question which he had posed her that evening had been answered— in part at least.

After he had fucked her ass on the bed, after he had hurt her so badly, so intimately; making it clear to her just how much he was enjoying himself as he had raped her— not just through the sex, but equally— perhaps more, even (though she would never know; a constant thread of sadness alongside all the rest was the awareness that the more she was diminished, enslaved, as Sophia was replaced by cunt, the less she would be talked to— he had told her this directly— that this inevitably meant that she would understand less and less about those who had her at their mercy; it was like a loose tooth, this knowledge; appalling and yet fascinating; impossible to leave alone for long; I am going to be walled up in myself; hardly spoken to, hardly listened to; my mouth is for giving pleasure, my ears are to receive orders; cunts aren’t for talking with, cunts are for fucking)— it was certain, though, that he had enjoyed making her suffer, hearing her stifled screams, brutally suppressing her struggles.

Picture:Sophia, FDAU, buggered

She had fought so urgently, so desperately, but pathetically ineffectively in the face of his will, his strength and his unrestrained violence, muffled squeals and yelps uselessly signalling her rejection, her denial of what was happening to her; at one point he had flipped her over onto her knees, and planted one foot firmly between her shoulder blades, putting all his weight onto her back, so that she could do nothing more than flap her hands and kick uselessly with her feet as he ploughed her, speared her, seared her. When he had tired of her kicks, he had hooked a hand under her right knee and hiked it sharply upward onto the bed, splitting her open all the more, forcing her to keep her left foot on the floor for stability in the face of his violent thrusts, which in the new position penetrated her more deeply than ever, bringing a sharper note still to the appalling noises coming from her throat. Far from eliciting mercy, though, her anguish had simply inflamed him more; in the final stages of his rutting of her, working himself toward his climax, he only became more frenzied as he jerked himself so deep inside her that she felt he must have done permanent damage to her innards.

After he had destroyed her (for so it seemed to her at the time), he had once again abandoned her without comment or caress, and gone to restore himself— she heard him showering— then once again he had left the room, after saying to her quite casually, as if everything were normal, as if he had not just raped her, as if she were not sobbing and shivering on the bed, her asshole distended, sticky with blood and come, her head still shamefully tied into the pillowcase, breathing with difficulty, devastated;

“Get yourself cleaned up and come downstairs, I’m hungry, and there is more to say before I leave.”

She had lain there, suffering as if he were still at her, for some timeless age, unable to believe that she still had to live with herself after having aided and abetted him in her destruction, but his words were with her and she could not ignore him.

It was hard, but mechanical enough to free herself, to shower, to dress again in the scraps which were all she had. Her mind had gone numb, but as soon as she opened the room door, heard voices from below, everything became shockingly real and immediate and she had almost collapsed in despair.

It was one thing to be treated like the dirtiest of street whores, to be disgraced and degraded in private, for it to be known between the two of them; couples had bedroom secrets, it was generally accepted.

But dressed as she was, the pins in her nipples obvious through the thin fabric of the slip, walking as gingerly as she was (too sore between the legs, front and aft from his violations, and from the pins in her sex, to do otherwise), her eyes still puffy, her hair damp from the shower (she had begun to dry it but given up— did not dare to keep him waiting), she felt as if she were a walking advert for what had just been done to her, for what she had encouraged him to do to her.

She cowered and cringed at the top of the stairs, horribly conflicted; she must please him, she must … and yet … and yet— she simply was not at all confident that she could control herself.

In the end, she had the decision made for her; the pot-boy appeared from the narrow stair leading to the floor above with a hamper of laundry, and she almost ran from him, in the only possible direction— toward the stairs, from whence she could not but descend.

Later, she realised that letting herself be put into positions where bad decisions would be forced upon her was to become her life; that what Duncan had done to her was to force her to decide— decide between enslaving herself to his gang of sadists, or living in permanent indecision between self hatred and self-delusion. Having decisions forced on her had both saved and condemned her, and she began to find herself actively manoeuvring herself into situations which would give her no choice, so that she would not have to choose for herself; and since those who aspired to control her completely were playing the same game without mercy and with cruel intent, the choices she made were always those which would guarantee further entrapment; each choice a further defeat which she had brought upon herself.

There was nothing for it but to control herself as best she was able, to walk as smoothly as she could, to present herself to him as best she could— she must, at all costs, never give him a reason to find her unattractive. This simple thought, pathetic and weak as it was, felt like the most important thing in the universe, and indeed, over time, extending itself to all the others, it did indeed install itself as the primal law of her existence.

Unattractive cunt does not inspire rape. Unattractive cunt is useless and will be discarded.

In the countless hours of her life which stretched between the periods of intense use and abuse, of being hurt, of being raped, during those long periods when the emptiness of her existence threatened to tip her into despair, work to maintain and enhance her attractiveness was a lifeline.

They liked her, always, to appear as ’natural’as possible— slavegirls are not permitted much in the way of artifice or frills— but (without her owners making any effort at all) she was tacitly encouraged to learn how enormous dedication, effort and sacrifice could help. Endless routines, exercises, treatments, ruthless self-inspections, attention to the minutest details, studying videos of herself in motion, finding ways to move, to inflect, she strove, constantly; the knowledge that, one day, never far off, she would cease to be considered ‘worth the upkeep’, and be disposed of; that knowledge always present in her mind; worse than death; infinitely worse; the ultimate terror would not be an imposed cruelty, but a simple loss of interest in using her as a sex toy.

This was the basis of her ’trademark’ as a slavegirl; her heartfelt murmured thank you in the midst of torment, accompanied by some small visible sign of rededication to her submission, to present herself more invitingly, the effort often rewarded with crueller impositions, themsleves demanding further evidence of gratitude.

Cruelty was attention. Attention was the meaning of existence. It was simple. Sometimes it was beautiful, entrancing, and there could be delicious experiences of flow, even in the midst of brutal treatment; sometimes it was hateful, grinding, desperate, every moment more atrociously unbearable than the last. But those were her feelings, and a slave’s feelings were irrelevant; the thank you would be heard; soft, broken, full of pain perhaps, but filled with desperate, agonised sincerity.

The dining room was only sparsely occupied; worse than if it had been busy; she dare not look at anything; although she kept her head up, her eyes sought his feet and found his knees and latched on like a drowning person grabbing a life-jacket; it felt pathetic, but it was what got her through;

Feet walking a line, hips switching, breasts moving in time, all smooth, all just exaggerated enough to make it clear that I’m asking to be looked at, wanting anyone watching to think about fucking me.

The words appeared in her mind and gripped her.

This is how a slut exists; in constant consideration of how she is offering herself for sex; in full knowledge that everyone can see her for what she is, that they will judge her. Knowing that she wants to be fucked, knowing that she is willing to risk disapproval, even rape, as the cost of her neediness for sex.

I am going to become a slut; a helpless, determined slut. And everyone is gong to see it.

It was astonishing to have such thoughts, such awful thoughts, and for them to immediately make perfect sense, burning themselves into her as if they were the laws of science.

But it helped her control herself; helped her walk well, despite the pain, despite the shame, despite the fear.

He had just hurt her and abused her vilely, and enjoyed it, but there, then, so soon afterward, the pain and shame so strong and fresh inside her, she was finding strength in him— more exactly, in the terms of her commitment to him, her acceptance that his assessment of her attractiveness as a sex object would determine her future.

It was such a terrible trap, because it helped her so much. She was trembling with it all as she arrived at his table; not a bad trembling; somehow she felt exalted; she was doing all she could to be the perfect slut for him, so that he would turn her into an even more perfect slut, and he would rape and abuse her for as long as she could be the perfect slut for him and …

“There you are, pretty. You’ll learn to be faster, I’m sure. Time spent in self-pity is unacceptable— I’m sure you’ll see that immediately. Now, perhaps you’ll kneel, lay your head on the banquette.”

He was sitting in the bay window, on a built-in upholstered banquette; there were no other chairs at the small table, where there was only one plate.

She was to kneel, in public; he had not ordered food for her; her heart was hammering, fast; she could feel her cheeks heating up; it was all so real, so intense, so ruthless; it had happened so fast. Just two hours previously, they had been talking at the table over in the corner, talking like two equals, lovers even…

He was relentless, overpowering, casually ruthless in his demolition of her, of Sophia, and …

… and she was grateful.

Grateful as her knees bent, grateful as she obeyed, grateful as her chest felt fit to burst with the intensity of it. She was acting like a slavegirl, in public, in these skimpy, ruined slut’s clothes. She had become a lesser person already, could not speak— could not imagine speaking to him; could not lift her eyes to his face, could not imagine ever doing it again, her eyes fixated on his knees…

And she was kneeling, and she was laying her head on the cushion; so weak, so nearly naked, her body quivering softly with it all, the pins in her sex and nipples throbbing, everything tingling, shivery, unreal, and yet it was at the same time so powerfully immediately the most real thing since …

… since he had pulled out of her after raping her ass.

This is what I will live for; this; moments like this; all the time between them merely preparing, waiting, seeking to be worthy of this.

She heard the pot-boy approach as if from a parallel universe.

I’m kneeling on the floor, a half naked slavegirl, in an ordinary English country pub on a Sunday afternoon.

“No, no, nothing for her, thank you.”

It was weirdly pleasurable, to let herself be so obviously demeaned. It felt right. Healthy, wholesome, even, to have it made clear what her status was; her life would be so much simpler, like this. All questions answered by him, most questions simply irrelevant to her in any case, since she was not to be a full person.

And suddenly her sex stirred; insane, after what he had put her through, to be thinking of him fucking her. Insane perhaps, but it was so, and she made herself fan the tender ember of it, encourage herself, until she felt the urge, and let it happen; let her hips move, slow and emphatic, and then again, half turned her head, let her mouth fall open, relaxed her shoulders, lifted her bum a little.

“Ha! Wanton! Careful or I’ll give you to the pot-boy, ask him to open your ass up some more.”

Astonishing, to have this be so welcome; that he had noticed her, found her entertaining, as if the crude words had been a caress.

Terrifying, to know that he could do it; that she would have no strength to resist him.

“But no, pretty, you’ll have to wait. I’m going to leave you here, soon, and I have some things to say.”

“Firstly, a simple reminder. Now that you have some idea, perhaps, of what it might mean to give up on yourself, to surrender yourself to monsters for nothing more important than their passing entertainment; now, you may wish to save yourself. I will cease, quite soon, to remind you of the reality— that this is all voluntary. That there is no enforceable power which could enslave you, outside of your own mind. You can save yourself. More, if you feel that you must save yourself, but lack the strength, you can ask me to save you from yourself, and I will do what I can.”

“You will tell me now, very simply, whether, after the terrible things I have done to you, you regret your earlier decision to ask me to shame and hurt you. You must look up, now— I need to see into you.”

Regret! Of course there was regret! Regret for her tongue, her nipples, her sex, her asshole, regret for the sensations of terror and shame and pain and panic, regret for her lost innocence, regrets piled upon regrets…

But, if she is to answer honestly— and she has never been able to be anything other than painfully honest with him; it’s been that way since their very first casual conversation— her oversharing then, he had told her, the first intimation to him that she was vulnerable, needy…

It was horribly hard to look up at him, to focus, to face him, after what he had done to her, after she had asked him to do it. It was like a physical fear, and indeed his gaze— as mild and attentive as always, hurt her terribly; He knows! He knows just how weak I am, how slutty I am, how much I will allow, that I can be made to orgasm while in pain; he knows!

Harder still to speak, but his patience made it inevitable, and she heard herself, low and urgent:

" I … I don’t regret asking you to do those things. It … it’s crazy, but … no. More. More. I … I need to … to thank you for … for all these months of … of joy and … and learning, and … and … that’s it."

then;

“Please … please…”

She tailed off, desperate, pinned by his gaze, chest heaving, intensely emotional, cheeks burning.

“That’s the other thing: before, while I was ripping into you, you said that too— the ‘Please … please …’ You are to think, while you are waiting— for you will have to wait, now, while the others have a chance to learn about you— you are to ask yourself, what you were pleading for.”

She had been unable to answer, unable even to think clearly about his question, until after the ‘phone call.

But in that moment, sitting on the train, she knew at least a part of it— perhaps all of it.

She had been pleading for it all to be real. Everything; the rape, the whipping, the branding, the mysterious gang of sadists, the heartlessness, the cruelty, the dehumanisation. She needed it to be true. For if she was, truly, to give up on her humanity, if she was to become nothing but some degraded sex-toy, it must only be in service of people who were deathly serious about it; who would follow through, who would enforce this new existence, make it real, make it engulf her.

People who could take full responsibility for her.

People who would ruthlessly enforce her slavery.

She opened her eyes and looked around the carriage, at the variety of people, all being themselves, and wondered at herself;

How could I ever have imagined that I could be as these? All so self-possessed, so absorbed in being themselves.

Never in my life was I fully occupied by my existence, until that afternoon. Never, not for one second since then, since he had me take my sweater off, have I been less than 100% focused.

That was what I was pleading for. If they give it to me, I will give myself to them. I already have. I have no idea if they will be what I need of them. I never will— they won’t tell me anything unless they wish to, to entertain themselves by my responses. It’s too late. I will always be pleading, always be uncertain, always be weak.

Was it as sweet as it felt? Or was it the tragedy to end all tragedies? Or, almost worse, was it nothing but grubby sordid perverts degrading each other?

Sophia trembled, knowing that, already, the answers to these questions were beyond her. That she was as a cork, bobbing in their maelstrom; that in reality, all she could hope to do was not drown too quickly.

That any joy, what pleasure, what peace she could possibly find in this existential storm which had engulfed her would be through allowing it to take her; have her entirely; through abandoning herself to it.

And, all unlooked for, she felt her sex softening, surging softly, felt her pulse quickening.

Her soft small laugh at herself was tinged with fear at the knowledge that she was never going to escape. That the truth was that she wanted to be drowned. Drowned in intensity, no matter what the cost.

I want to be taken. Mercilessly, greedily taken by someone much stronger than myself; more certain, someone ruthless and powerful who will force me— as brutally as it will need to be— to live a life of extremes.

She was shivering, trembling all through her body then, with the need, the hunger for it, so deeply, terrifyingly bound up as it was to the fear, to the certainty of shame and pain and despair and grinning cruelty she would have to welcome, if no, not if, but soon! she was to have this life, and found herself again, in a voice taut with desire, saying it, over and over;

“Please … please … please …”

Read the next part of Sophia’s Story.