Slave by Degrees, Chapter 1, Ep.4

Read the previous episodes of “Slave by Degrees”.

This time there was no delay, no trembling waiting while he looked her over; instead he moved directly along, his voice steady and cool, though what he said, no matter that it had been prefigured, that it should have been expected, hit her like an express train;

“Your body— and your handling of it, both pass the test, so now its time to make you cry, pretty; time to really test you. Come here, now, stand on my right, and we’ll get you positioned for your beating.”

She knew it was her foolishness, that this surprised her so deeply, but she had not, she discovered too late, actually processed his plan to spank her.

She had heard and understood the words, registered that they were shocking, outrageous, but had not really made herself consider that this meant that she was to be treated like a girl in some old dirty photograph; laid, bare-bottomed, over his knee, face down, to be spanked, humiliated, belittled.

It seemed ridiculous, as if he had proposed they act out some ancient vaudeville routine, some pantomime act; at the same time, she knew that he was deadly serious; that he was going to require her to actually submit to this shameful indignity, that he would go through with it with full-on intensity, as he had everything else during this unreal, impossibly transgressive afternoon, that he might even, as he had promised, spank her hard enough to make her cry.

All of a sudden, despite all she had accepted, all she had been through— It’s probably only been ten minutes, maybe even less, since he came through the door! Ten minutes, and everything has changed; my life has been changed forever; I’ve been undone, exposed, everything I thought I knew about myself overturned — despite all this, she found she could not simply let this happen.

It wasn’t that she wanted to resist, that she had changed her mind about him; rather, the opposite; she was certain in new and different ways now that it was important, necessary that she find a way to have him want her, that in some important way, now, her life depended upon him. It wasn’t about refusing him, or even refusing to let him spank her— somehow she knew that it must happen; everything he had said had come true, and so this would, too.

It was that she felt certain she would fail him; fail this test; that she was not strong enough to take it, to go through with it without doing something pathetic, giving him a disgust of her, unbearable, and, without planning to, she found herself sinking to her knees, her arms folding across her ribcage— not covering her breasts (somehow not daring to), but protective nevertheless, murmuring;

“I … I don’t … I don’t think I can … Something … I … I’ll let you down, do … do something s…stupid.”

Then:

“I … I want to; I … I will, some other time, I … I promise. But today, I …”

He gave her a moment, then; he was listening to her; wanting her also to think about what she had just said, which she did, agonised, but found nothing else in her, nothing at all. She must wait for him. It was he, after all, who was in charge of the situation, was in charge of her, really.

Those words in her mind, this casual acceptance suddenly came back to her, as if carved into the floor in front of her in letters of fire;

He’s in charge of me.

And she knew that it was true; that it was a done deal, somehow. He was in charge of her now. She felt it, most strongly, between her legs.

He’s in control of me there; right at the centre of me. In control of my sex.

Like the old-fashioned marriage vow; not the halfway-house of “love, honour and obey”, which modern girls objected to, but the original, even more definite; "… submit to him …"

It was shockingly wonderful; the feeling of release, the exoneration, the relief; she felt tension drain from her whole body at the simplicity of it. it was pathetic, she knew, but it was real, and it undid her, all over again.

I’ve just given myself, in my head, submitted myself to this man who is degrading me, and I can’t stop feeling good about it.

But he was speaking, this man whom she had decided ruled her.

“I understand, pretty; you may find it hard to believe, but I do understand what you are going through; how hard this is for you. The thing is, though, that this is a test; right here, right now.”

“However, it’s not a test which you pass or fail— there is no failure here; it’s a test as to what kind of a person you are. You cannot fail this test— anymore than you can be someone you are not; the test simply aims to discover who you are, in the specific matters that I am interested in.”

“So, pretty, you cannot fail me, cannot let me down, cannot let yourself down, even. I just want to know who you are, inside, and so I have to break you down, a little.”

“If you cannot bear to be broken down, then of course you are free to leave. Or, if it is easier for you, I will leave you alone. I will, though, be available to you for any assistance I can offer; your blouse was ripped— I could see if the staff here could effect a repair, perhaps.”

Far from reassuring her, this tolerant and practical little speech horrified her. He could not have more surely forced her to reconsider, to demand of herself that she perform for him, if he had been looking for a way to trick her. But this was no trick; she felt it, felt his sincerity— like a knife in the belly, and was, once again, overtaken by forces inside her which she was not in control of;

“No! No … no, please, I … "

She broke off, appalled by the need in her, the thought which had come into her head, which could not be uttered out loud— except that, immediately, it was;

“You … you should force me; tie … tie me up … something. I … I want to be what … what you are looking for; I am … I can be, at least, I think I can, I want … oh, oh oH!”

… for he had reached out a hand and taken a big handful of her hair; pulled her head forward, not violently, but irresistibly; pulled her head forward and down, until her forehead was on the floor; it didn’t so much hurt as horrify and shame her— to be manhandled so! — but she did not resist; her hands trembled weakly in mid air, useless, advertising her submission, her acceptance, her weakness; all of which she found herself deliriously letting herself experience, wonderingly finding the feeling of helplessness, weakness and diminishment not unpleasant;

He’s stronger than me, more powerful, and his will is unwavering and direct; what he wants, he takes; he is taking me, and I want him to. I do, I do, I like this, like him doing this to me— even as it disturbs me terribly to know this about myself, I cannot help but submit to it, this strange attraction.

She felt this, all of it, felt it deeply, and let him hold her there, unresisting, uncomplaining as he spoke, his voice shocking her all over again, so kind was his tone, so calm and certain; reassuring.

“That’s right, pretty girl, give yourself to me; let me control you; I will manage you, you’ll see, so that it is impossible for you to do anything wrong. With me, you will learn there is no need to worry about that, since I am in charge. If you let me take charge of you, you will always be right; always, as long as you are true to your feelings. Forget your thoughts; they will lead you astray; trust to your feelings.”

How can it be that I am thinking exactly what he wants me to? That he is in charge? Why does this crazy, unacceptable idea make me feel safe? Safe, when he is about to hurt me? When he has raped me and shamed me and proposes that as a continuing basis for me working with him?

Her thoughts notwithstanding, he felt her body go soft; her hands went to the floor, limp, out wide; she was submitting; right there, he felt it. Submitting to him; not just in her mind, but with her body.

He wondered that it had been so easy; he was rusty; had done nothing like this in years— never in such a high-stakes, all-or-nothing style, and never with such a young woman. What was she, 23 (why did no-one put their age on CVs anymore)? Her breasts had made him want to sigh out loud when she had stripped; now they were his.

Time to take control, follow-through.

He tightened his grip in her hair a little, pulled her head up, and twisted it sharply so that she had to look at him; it would have hurt her neck, and he exaggerated the twist a little, just to emphasise his control, his lack of care for her comfort.

It wasn’t so much the imposition of physical pain which he enjoyed, but the confirmation of his control; more precisely, of her submission, of the emotional effort inside her that accepting abuse would require; it was always so hard to believe, that a young and beautiful woman would let him do such things to her— the need to test was often strong in him. And he had been truthful when he had said she could never fail him, for every disobedience, every reluctance, every attempted denial was experienced by him, very directly, as a failure on his own part.

For the art was to push boundaries always, manipulate her mind, expand the limits to her acceptance, but not fail by pushing too far beyond her capacity to accept. At the same time, the presentation of calm, certainty and confidence was required.

To go too far, to have to retreat from an imposition, was a failure to be avoided at all costs.

Inwardly, he debated this again; was the giving up of his freedom worth it, to have control over this body, this malleable, intelligent young woman?

To control such a girl was to be on duty at all times he was with her; to be aware, to be paying attention, to manage his own emotional state, so as to be the man to whom she could submit; to be on test himself, even if he were the only judge. A kind of straitjacket, made of his own desire.

He was a harsh critic of himself; it was what had forced him to do the work he had done; the work which had propelled him into his isolated but proud position; famous/notorious in a niche way, but outside the mainstream academic discourse, shunned by all the ‘woke’ conferences and journals, reduced to appearing on right-wing talk shows— something he had vowed never to do again; those morons did not understand a word he said; whatever his agent wanted, even if they did boost book sales, it was at the cost of being misquoted and atrociously misrepresented.

She was hardly able to meet his eyes, for all he was twisting her neck, for all she was still soft, for all her hands were limp; her chest was heaving, her delightful breasts swinging softly; her cheeks had a hot, bright glow; she was experiencing a heavy emotional load, and he grinned at her suddenly, an almost savage surge running through him;

“Just so, pretty; just so. I see you. Now, let us see if you can let yourself be what I think you are.”

Leesha on the floor

That grin both frightened and galvanised her; a part of him breaking through the calm, controlled manner made it all real, human; he wanted her, he was excited by her, he was intensely engaged with her, in this weirdness; there was a burning desire inside him that she was answering, and it was what she needed to get her out of her stuck condition.

She knew, with a fierce certainty, that she didn’t want him to leave— and the idea of this spanking as a test of personality, rather than a pass/fail drew her on. Not that he had convinced her; if she did fall apart during the spanking, she would feel it as a terrible failure, she knew she would.

But he wouldn’t test me this way if he wasn’t sure that I am the type of girl he thinks I am; the type who— for some crazy reason— will find it possible to be abused like that.

“When I let go and sit back, you will either stand, resume the display position, hold it, hold it carefully, for a little while and then obey my further instruction, or you will ask me to leave, get dressed and leave yourself, or simply grovel like this on the floor. Either way, I will leave myself in a minute or so.”

“You are choosing here, choosing for yourself. Choosing to take the test or not. Choosing to let a part of yourself be expressed, let it experience what it yearns for, or not.”

“Remember, any outcome here is a good one, as long as you are true to yourself.”

He was in his chair, composed, all his body language relaxed, no tension at all, for some time before she discovered that she did, really, want to stand, display herself again. It was huge, a huge thing, and it cost her; this means he is going to wreck me. There is no doubt about it— he will continue until I am unable to control myself, until I am in despair; and I will have made it clear that I accept his right to do it to me.

Still, she found herself standing, taking herself back to her previous position, exposing herself, displaying herself for him. Only this time it was ten times more intense, for the simple reason that she knew what was coming next; she was submitting to it; to being hurt, subjected to violence from a man. Everything she knew she must never do.

Everything she was now certain she had to offer herself up for, now matter how frightened it made her.

After a little while, standing there, she experienced a powerful need to see how he was looking at her, so powerful that it overcame her shyness, her humiliation; a need for human contact even though she was being degraded by him, and she looked up, hesitating, but driven.

It was terrible, looking into his eyes, naked, presenting herself as a sex object; it felt as if she was burning with shame, to see his complacent expression, to see in his eyes that he knew her, knew how it was with her, that he was enjoying this, that she wanted him to enjoy this, that he knew …

And she knew, somehow, that she had to let it burn her, that she had to learn this lesson; that she would always be the naked one, the exposed one, that he would always know how it was with her, while she would only rarely— as with that grin— have any idea how it was for him; that she could only know him by his physical treatment of her— that he looked at her, touched her, hurt her, fucked her.

I will need him to want to abuse me to feel sure that he wants me. And if he wants to abuse me I’ll have to let him.

Which means I’ll have to learn to want him to abuse me.

The sadness these thoughts brought on, the weak and sighing acceptance of outrage, the knowledge that she would always be close to despair with him, always needy, that her need would be met with exploitation, not comfort— all of this was in her face, and she knew it, knew that he could see it, and yet could not tear her sad eyes away.

“That’s it; feel me looking at you; let your hips move a little, show me how your tits move.”

And she did it for him; soft, hesitant, but then feeling it, catching her breath, and closing her eyes, letting the feelings take her, not knowing if she loved them or hated them, but letting them have her, just the same.

“Very good, pretty girl; when you’re ready then, over to the bathroom door, please, fetch one of those fluffy robes. Small steps, now, walking along a narrow line, one foot only just in front of the other; not fast, not slow. How you’ll walk when you’re with me.”

“Now, over to me, just to my right; give me the robe.”

He took it, separated the white rope tie, then laid the robe across his lap;

“Legs slightly parted; let me see that you are offering me your pussy; After all you liked my fingers digging into you there, didn’t you? I’m guessing preferable to a spanking, hm, however shaming?”

“But spanking is coming, however pretty your pussy is. Lay yourself down now, diagonal, across me, your ribcage on the far arm, your hands and breasts dangling down.”

He laid his left hand onto his lap as he spoke; she was to lie across him so that her pussy was on his hand, his right hand free to spank her or reach across her to fondle her swaying breasts; she could hardly breathe, was overcome with the jitters, felt her knees nearly give way as, awkwardly, clumsy with fear, she laid herself down, unable to restrain a ridiculous, childish jerk of reaction as her sex came into contact with his hand under her, hating herself for being so obviously frightened, ungainly, unable to believe she was putting herself into such a weak position, about to be spanked by a man she had first met less than two hours ago, feeling his left hand as her weight came down on him, firmly matching itself to the curve of her sex mound, gasping at the unexpected sexual surge this contact brought, suddenly quivering with arousal, shocked by it, noisy with it, shamed by her noisiness as she chuckled at her, softly, amused, but not cruelly so;

“As I said, we’ll find out who you really are now, pretty. It seems the threat of shameful pain has not killed your libido, hm?”

And his hand moved under her; skilful, knowing, confident, and she could not contain her moan, or the shameful surge of her hips, until all was cut short by the first slap; hard, dry, powerful, shocking her to the core so that she cried out— more from surprise than pain.

That changed rapidly though, as his right hand came down again, and again, and again; the pace not rapid, but fast enough so that she had not gotten used to the shock of the previous blow before another landed and, rather quickly, she found herself horrified, distressed beyond belief, unable to keep herself still, wriggling and jiggling in a vain, pathetic performance of avoidance— when they both knew that it was entirely possible for her to simply leap up if she had genuinely wanted to escape. Both of them knowing that her movements forced her sex into ever more intimate rubbing against the hand which held her sex.

He stopped for a while then, waiting for her to calm a little, waiting until she could not help but respond to the working of his left hand. All arousal had been violently banished by that first smack and the subsequent ones had buried it for good, she had assumed, but was horrified by how quickly he was able to have her moaning again from his ministrations at her clitoris, the shallow but vigorous foraging between her sex lips, until once again he had shocked her with a new onslaught, harder this time, she was sure, and faster too, so that she was almost immediately squealing then, and— unstoppable— felt tears, real tears in her eyes, heard herself beg him;

“Please! Please, stop! It’s … ahhee! It’s too hard, please?”

But he did not stop, and suddenly she did begin to struggle in earnest, attempting to roll herself backward, off his lap and onto the floor.

He put an instant stop to that by grabbing her right forearm with his spanking hand, and twisting it so that she jerked herself back onto his lap to avoid what felt like an imminent dislocation of her shoulder.

“Not to worry, pretty; There’s plenty more to go. I have prepared for your lack of self control; you will learn, in time, but for now let’s tie you up, as you suggested, shall we?”

His left arm came out from under her, and for a minute he was busy with her; she defeated, limp, panting and trying not to sob, feeling the tears drip, dying of shame more than of pain, although the sting in her ass cheeks was not going away, softly horrified that she could not make herself angry. He was spanking her, exactly as he had told her he would, which she had lain down for, refused to escape from, despite his encouragement. It was herself she was appalled by, not him; and at least as much shame was at her own weakness in the face of pain. He had told her he would make her cry; she had told herself she would not give him the pleasure, that she was strong, and here she was, unable to stob the occasional sob, complete with stupid weak throaty noises, so that he must know he had already smashed her resolve.

What was he doing with her arms?

Using the fluffy rope he had tied her wrists together behind her back, then bent her arms up at the elbow, until it began to hurt. Then he passed the free end of the rope under her neck from the left and pulled it through from the right, back down to her waist. He reached over and hooked a hand under her right thigh, lifted and pulled it, right up alongside her torso, before deftly wrapping the free end of the cord around her knee and tying if off.

Now, her right leg was bent double, the rope under her neck tied to her wrists behind her; if she relaxed her leg, tried to straighten it, her shoulders screamed; if she wriggled again, it would hurt like crazy. Now his left hand snaked back under her belly, had free rein with her sex, split open as it was by her raised thigh, and his right hand straightway began hitting her again; harder than before, faster too, and then, immobilised, his left hand fingers deep in her sex, her cheeks burning with both pain and shame, she found herself crying like a baby, all control gone, lost in abject misery, sobbing desperately, pleading, weak, begging incoherently, urgently for mercy.

“We’ll count twelve more, then you can rest. But if you lose count, we start again, do you see?”

Counting made her sick, appalled, disgusted, drowned in shame, but she forced herself to do it, and somehow survived to twelve, racked by bitter, helpless sobs, weak beyond understanding, as if all her muscles were nothing but overcooked spaghetti.

He held her on his lap then, quite gentle, though his left hand never quite stopped working in her pussy, his right hand stroking her flanks, soft and slow, almost ruminative.

His erection was an intrusive bulge under her and her belly kept convulsing as the sobs gradually petered out, mucous streaming from her nose, her tied hands making it impossible to manage even this tiny shaming detail; she was broken, and she knew it, and knew that he knew it too. More, she could not stop her hips from moving, until something occurred in her mind; a fully formed need, urgent, demanding, and her head lifted, turned toward him as best it could and her voice— hardly recognisable, so husky and throaty it was, said;

“Fuck me, please. Fuck me now. Fuck me hard, please. Very hard.”

Her tone was very flat, her voice very small, but raw with need, and he laughed at her then and stood, taking her weight easily, before depositing her face-down over the arm of the chair, stood behind her, her legs and arms still cruelly connected by the rope, and fucked her, his hand buried in her hair, pulling her sharply head up and back, levering his cock into her, driving her clitoris down onto the bunched fabric of the robe until she screamed, unsure if it was an orgasm or simply pain which ripped through her, uncaring as he too jerked violently, grunting his own orgasm, somehow an achievement for her in her defeat.

Lying there, she realised that she had been right, and that he had been proved right again, also.

I did. I did do something pathetic, something ridiculous, because I couldn’t cope with what the spanking did to me. And he was right, too; I showed him who I really am, didn’t I? A girl who, after being beaten so hard she’s lost all control, begged the man who did that to fuck her, to fuck her hard, and meant it.

And he’s going to do it again and again, and I’m not going to be strong enough to say no to it.