Read the previous episodes of “Slave by Degrees”.

He left her for a while, until her breathing had calmed a little, before speaking; in his ordinary voice, as if nothing of particular interest had happened;

“Well, the order has changed, but I suspect it’s all to the good; It seems you have no sort of a blow-job technique at all, so provoking me into raping you that way was probably your best bet.”

“Not that I think you did it on purpose. Whatever you are, whatever you might become, right now you’re a delicate creature, not a slut. Nevertheless, you achieved top marks on that part of the test, as I suspect you will on the nakedness test, too, but now you will need to perform.”

“Up with you now, pretty, let’s see you strip for me, show me what you’ve got.”

It was awful in one way; his appalling matter-of-fact speaking, little turns of phrase, as if they were somehow a team, when she had just had her life broken in two; but at the same time, the implied intimacy of had it calmed her beyond all sense.

How does he do this to me? Change my mental state with a few inconsequential words?

Because he had indeed changed her.

Just before, minutes ago, he had made her feel as if he was raping her mouth— he’d said it himself, claimed it, rather than admitted it, as if he raped young women every day of the week, and enjoyed it too. By the same means, too, he had somehow normalised it between them; he had raped her, but he did not think it a terrible thing— the implication was that it would happen again; at the same time, though, he was not shaming her but rather complimenting her, telling her she was not a slut, but a ‘delicate creature’.

I feel like a little girl again— one that has been complimented by a big tall man with a beard and all the power and confidence she lacks, feels herself glowing inside at the approval, even though he’s frightening. It’s crazy but it’s also genuine, that warmth; something I want, that I don’t get, never have got, not from anyone else, not even close.

She was not calmed, her trauma had not been smoothed away— it would return, she was certain, when she had time to herself, to replay itself in her mind, in her body; the business of having a stiff cock forced deep into her throat so that she could not breathe, so that her whole body was wracked with convulsions, so that she feared for her life— that could not, would not be easily absorbed; nothing could erase it.

Nevertheless, it was true that she had been snapped out of her self-pity by his requirement, his order; she was to strip for him; already half-naked, she was to become fully naked for him; show herself to him, parade herself as a candidate sex object, hoping for his approval.

It was degrading— that went without saying— so that she tried not to think about that aspect, her mind instead jumping to the surprising, which was that, whatever he had done, she was acutely conscious of a strong desire to have his approval, even while her mouth was still sticky with his come, her throat sore, tears still in her eyes, and then, without a conscious decision having been made, she was rising to her feet, utterly clear about what had to happen next; she had to offer him her body; she had to hope, had to try her best; somehow she knew that if she was to survive that rape, she must have his approval.

Just as I knew it would be; he has become my world. He’s the one that raped me, but he’s the one I have to hope will save me from its consequences, because by inviting him to do that to me, I have lost all right to the support of everyone else I know. I ought to hate him, but I don’t! I dont! I did this; I chose it. I want it. Somehow he saw that I wanted it, and now he has me.

She was terribly, painfully shy as she stood, feeling her half-nakedness, her ruined makeup, her torn blouse (ripped somehow as he had manhandled her), her crumpled skirt. She felt as if her whole body was one big blush; she could not stand straight— she was just too ashamed; she know that she could not cover herself as she desperately wanted to, must not hide her breasts with one arm, clasp the other hand to her groin as she yearned to, but her her whole body nevertheless cringed away from him, shoulder curled in, her back hunched, her knees bent, her hips twisted sideways,

Again, his voice was soft, empathetic; he, who had just made her feel as if he was killing her!

“I know, I know it’s hard, pretty, but you must take off your skirt, your bloouse now, and then I’ll tell you just how you must pose for me, so that you can be following orders; it will help, I assure you.”

Following orders, the phrase made a part of her bridle, but she quickly discovered that he was right, it did help to remind herself that she was there to please him, that she must please him in this or verything else she had allowed him, had suffered from him might have been in vain.

She was conscious too, of being grateful to him for having helped her please him, even as she was appalled, under his instruction, to find herself standing, legs widely parted, hands reaching right back over her shoulders, stretching towards her buttocks, chin up, but eyes looking down.

Standing like a slavegirl on display, she thought, feeling how the position pulled her breasts up, felt her sex lips slowly peeling apart, quivering with embarrassment, heart thumping.

She saw his hand moving, not fast, but not slow; confident, assured, casual, and then— horror and glory! — all her thinking collapsed into the singularity of the touch of his finger tracing the crack of her sex, ever so lightly, making it clear that whatever the turmoil of conflicting emotions and demands making a mess of her head, her body knew that this was sex, powerful, desirable sex, sex as she had never experienced it before, sex as a drug that she wanted to experience more of, however shameful, as his finger slipped along smoothly, wetly, then all too soon abandoned her, all set a-tingle, her hips surging for him; a pang of need gripped her belly and she sighed, harshly, almost a growl, needy, uncontrollable as the sensation shook her body.

A deep and burning blush mounted— she could feel it, heating her chest as well as her cheeks; her nipples too, hot and stiff as the moan caught with a stuttering gasp; his wet finger had returned, to almost-not touch the hood of her clitoris, to almost not-work at the fleshy nub of it.

Almost, but not quite, as each tantalising pass increased the pressure, the range of movement, just enough to bring new sensation, just too little to bring her to another stage, making her shiver with sensation, with desire until, with a jerk, her need overcome her shame, her body overcame her mind, her lust toppled her fear, and she moved for him, urgent, breath coming hard and sharp, her body awoken after months of aridity, and she didn’t notice when he stopped moving his finger, the point at which it was all her working herself against him, working herself up, greedy for more, not wanting to break the spell of arousal which made it impossible to think about what this meant, possible to ignore all the reasons why this was not a good idea, to let him do this to her, let him see how much she wanted it, how weak she was in the face of his relentless insistence that she be subjected to such intensity of sensation, of eroticism, of sheer fucking arousal, hearing herself use the crude word in her mind— she hardly ever swore in her thoughts, even less out loud, but this, this called for such directness, because there were no other words which could do justice to it.

When she did realise that he was still, as still as one could be with a grown woman thrusting her sex onto one’s hand at least, the realisation hit her with a sudden shock of humiliation and— yes, fear— overtook her so that she stopped herself with a physical jolt, another kind of noise coming from her; a kind of little shriek, strangled at birth, full of shame and, again, fear.

And the fear came with a vision of herself, displaying so shamefully, writhing her whole body against him, showing him something about herself that she had never known, never even guessed at— that she was capable— more than capable— eager for— for what? Sex? Sex without love, sex without care, sex without a careful sharing of power, without even consent? Sex ‘under orders’?

Sex at all, came a wry thought, followed by, Is this just because I am sex-starved?

But it wasn’t, it wasn’t, she knew. It was his control, his calm certainty, his careless manner, as if, while he was certainly enjoying himself with her, he could take it or leave it; either way; something about that had her desperate to arouse him, to make it impossible for him to ignore her, not to want …

impossible not to want me so urgently that he’ll effectively rape me, came the realisation.

And the fear surged then; fear that, once he knew she could be like this, if she could not somehow regain control, regain some shred of feminine mystique, of proper reserve (What were these crazy words in her head? So heavily implicated in feminist discourse as the mirror of patriarchal impositions— the cruelly installed requirement in womens’ minds, in their culture, that they must keep their own sexual urges under control, to police their own desires, to judge themselves harshly for …)

She could not think any more, for confusion, for shame, but mostly, mostly because she just wanted— needed— his hand to move again, to manipulate her sex again, as casually, as greedily, as much a means of demonstrating his control over her as he liked, while she herself no longer could; frozen, lost in inner turmoil.

“Very good.”

He had sat back, wiping his hand on his pocket square, thoughtful, his eyes on her body; she felt them, but not lascivious; rather, she felt assessed, judged, considered thoughtfully, as if she were a potential purchase, and he kept her there, displaying herself, trembling with need, filled with fear, for an impossible time; so that a million times, it seemed, she decided, in her head, that she could not put up with this deliberate disrespect, shaming, demonstration of power, and each time did nothing; nothing, except bring her own attention to how carefully she was maintaining her pose, and find some small adjustment to improve it.

When he stood, she flinched, gasped in fear, hating how easy she was making it for him to see every little affect he had on her.

“It will be like this,” he said, “you’ll always be at least just a little on tenterhooks; just a little on display; just a little needy for my attention, for my touch, just a little uncertain where I might take things. You’ll always be wondering where my fickle mood might go next. And, dressed or not, in the midst of work or not, you’ll always be conscious that you are on show to me; that I judge on appearances. Judge your tits, your ass, the way your thighs are held, the position of your feet, your hands, how your mouth is, how you hold your shoulders, how your eyelids flutter; everything; I am appreciative, but I am also a cold and self-serving critic.”

He walked around her, and then the touches began; soft, varied, testing, assessing; a few fingers sliding up her iner thigh, a hand cupping her breast from behind, bouncing it softly, back of a hand whispering across her lower belly, sudden warm wetness of his mouth over a nipple, gentle at first, then a bite (not hard, not painful, but a real bite; a threat of pain), firm but gentle massage of her upper ribcage from behind, both hands; each touch brought a reaction from her; she could not be cool; everything was electric, everything delightful, everything frightening. And, just as he had said, everything was about him. She, so passive, accepting, to be toyed with, the object of his pleasure; he the sovereign, impermeable subject of his own life.

And it was wonderful.

It will be worth it for this.

To be at once passive, very precisely and shamingly controlled, and yet so enthralled at the use he put his control to; the cleverness, the confidence, the arrogant certainty of his impositions, the liberties he took; his freedom, her confinement…

My freedom, his attention. It was also true; she had nothing, nothing at all to choose; her position was his choice, not hers. It was all on him; everything. His trap freed her, his constant attention, decision, communication to her as to how he wanted her to be; she could simply relinquish herself, submit, go with him; it was not her responsibility. Nothing to do with her, even what happened to her mouth, her breasts, her sex.

The contract between these two opposites flooded her with a trembling yearning; for all of life to be like this; to spend her life in wonder (for that promise of being on tenterhooks he had made was equally a promise of wonder as to what might come next— pleasure, pain, shame; they were all simple, direct and physical experiences, powerful, impossible to ignore; nothing cerebral about them), to be so free, so lost in her senses, so innocent of concerns, so managed …

Into this reverie came his fingers; three, bunched, bluntly addressing her sex, pushing, testing, relentless, determined, until they found the right angle, whereupon he had simply shoved, shoved inward, upward, hard; not fast but with obdurate force, so that she shrieked, instantly suppressed it, gasped and squeaked as he pushed, went up on tiptoes to avoid the …

This, then, was what came next.

… it wasn’t pain; she was shocked at how wet she was, how easy her body made it for him …

… no, it was just … just … that was her most intimate, personal right; how she would be penetrated there; when, by whom, and yet here he was, without warning, jabbing long, large-knuckled fingers into her, stretching her, exerting force, being deliberately crude, testing her, she knew, and she … ? …

She didn’t know; once again, mind shut down, body became everything. She was right up on tip-toes now, as high as she could go, and still he pushed (He never ’exercised’, she would discover; but worked an hour or more, early most mornings in the small woodland behind his house, hauling and cutting logs, managing fences and paths and tools; wielding the big axe, sledgehammer, a bowsaw, digging bar, chain hooks; he didn’t look muscular at all, but his wiry frame could exert real force, even the grip of his fingers).

Hu pushed up again, and lifted her from the floor for a second, all her weight on his penetration of her and she wailed her helplessness (her hands were desperate to be released from their unnatural position, but some part of her was adamant that the urge be refused, that she must hold her pose for him), until, all at once, the tension went from her, and as soon he let her down, she was moving for him, fully with him again, opening herself helplessly to the rude intrusion, offering herself to it, inviting it, panting and gasping, feeling her breasts move wildly, looking for, working for …

… and then he was gone from her; sitting back into the big armchair, wiping his hands again. He was as stiffly well-dressed, as self-possessed and calm as he had been when he had shook her hand on greeting her, not a hair out of place, while she— she was beyond naked, beyond worked up, mentally and physically dishevelled, not at all in control of her body or her mind, as her hips still worked, wanting, seeking the penetration which had been so astonishingly effective, so unlike anything ever before, shocking, brutish, liberating, ruthless, incredible. And he could see all this, she knew; she could hide nothing from him, no matter how terribly, terribly shy she was, feeling the blushing heat again in her cheeks.

Oh fuck ohfuck ohfuckfuck fu-u-uck …

Again no other words would do to express the range, the depth, the confusion of her feelings, her mind, the certainty that her life was being changed for her, rapidly, irretrievably, powerfully, and that she was incapable of marshalling herself to even slow it down, let alone reconsider, renegotiate, recover any self-control.

He’s got me, and I can’t see how I’m not just going to give myself to him, even though I know it’s going to be bad for me.

Read the next part of Slave by Degrees.