This will make more sense if you have read the earlier parts of nOelle’s Story
It is not divine intervention which stops the girls, though, but something at once more ordinary, and— for nOelle at least— deeply shocking, for the door is opened, not by Anne-Marie or Natalie, but by Thierry himself— looking very pleased with life; a long black leather riding crop flexing in his strong hands, he is talking over his shoulder to someone still in the room, saying;
“Indulge me Anne-Marie, just this once…” and smiling widely; nOelle has rarely seen him looked so pleased.
Seeing him thus— at once his familiar self, smartly dressed as usual, cheerful and self-satisfied— but in this dreadful, cruel place; experiencing his eyes passing across her without any special attention before landing on the brunette, at which his grin broadens noticeably … this feels like a fatal stabbing.
Thierry!
Her Thierry!
The man who has callously cozened her, tricked her, led her on, confused and then actively betrayed her into this den of depravity and cruelty.
He whom she should be loudly screaming at, for whom she should have nothing but an enormous anger, even hatred; but whose appearance instead fills her with a paralysing weakness, a crippling shame, a desperate fear of rejection.
After all he had been, for months, something like her boyfriend, her lover, and she— at least— had treated their relationship so, had been faithful, monogamous, had thought of no other man.
Now here she was, naked, shamed; having been stripped in the park, had many strangers’ hands on her body, intimately, in her sex; having given herself over to this place at his request, been shockingly whipped, led naked on a leash, violently raped. Diminished, dirtied.
The nightmare in her mind was that after all that, Thierry would spurn her, reject her.
Surely he must?
What is she now but a whore, proven to be a degenerate slut?
What self-respecting man would want her now?
The idea gripped her, briefly, intense, hopeless; that it had all been some test— a test with many stages; a harsh test, a cruel test, even, but still such a cruelty much to be wished for as an alternative to Thierry having wanted this for her.
It made no difference, a crushing certainty told her— for if indeed it were a test, she had failed each and every stage— from those first, shocking moments in the park to the encounter with Anne-Marie and Natalie, the strip in the mirrored room, the drive, the chauffeur, the whipping, the leash, the rape… She had failed at all these points to resist, to be brave, to refuse, to call out her abusers, to stand up for her own dignity and decency, to say she belonged to Thierry, and to him only…
She it was who had betrayed him, betrayed herself .
He will despise me. He must despise me. I despise myself.
The memory of herself, in the mirror room, feeling pleased with herself, aroused; revolting; she hated herself for her terrible, stupid, dirty weakness.
He will hate me too; it’s obvious. I wish I could die; to not have allowed all this; I would take death.
But death did not come; her body insisted on yet another tortured breath, that she stay aware of everything, that she pay attention, that she continue, even having lost herself, lost everything.
And here she was, naked, wrists locked to the back of her neck, leash still caught between the lips of her sex, puffy and pink in the aftermath of the aggressive hammering her anonymous rapist had given her.
An appalling cloud of despair engulfed her; only he could rescue her, and she could see no reason why he should, so deeply had she failed him, so far had she fallen into sin, and, helpless, she sank to her knees, head down, unable to look as Thierry, her Thierry, stepped toward the lovely brunette, who appeared to be preening for him, and spoke;
“Helène, lovely to see you; tits as gorgeous as ever, though not taken the whip recently it seems? We should rectify that I think; later today perhaps; what do you say?”
As much as the appalling way he was talking to the girl, it was the movement, in nOelle’s peripheral vision; his hand, going directly between the girls legs, she shifting her pose smoothly but equally lewdly to offer him her sex, her soft, throaty sigh, as she answered him, meek, husky;
“If it would please you, Master, I would be grateful to be whipped for your pleasure.”
“We’ll see if you can keep yourself from begging for mercy then, hmm?”
His hand was foraging roughly between her thighs, hurting her it seemed, from her squeaks— clearly carefully controlled and modulated, but speaking of pain and distress.
“Anne-Marie tells me you keep missing your targets, pretty. Would you like me to arrange a gang-bang— get some doses into all your wet little holes, thoroughly mess you up - really brutalise you, hmm? Or do you want to be free— get back to your old life? You were a dancer, weren’t you?”
“Oh… OH! Master , Master I … I … what … whatever you would wish of me…”
The brunette’s voice was soft, but suppressed pain and fear and shame throbbed in it as he leaned in— and nOelle had to glance up, needing to see if the body language spoke true, and indeed, her Thierry was kissing the girl, one hand behind her head, controlling her forcefully, while she was very obviously doing everything she could to give him what he wanted, softly, almost urgently submissive and responsive, head back, arms dangling loose, leaning gently into him, opening herself to the hand which was now all but rummaging in her sex; it was clear that her whole being was centred on him and nOelle was conscious of violently clashing emotions; a terrible jealousy, heart-stopping empathy for the girl at how it must be to give oneself so completely, so physically, to a man who was treating you so, and yes, a powerful erotic pulse at the scene, knowing how much Thierry liked to dominate, wanting the girl to please him, fiercely happy to see him served so well, and she dropped her head again, overwhelmed, chest heaving, heart thumping, exhilarated in spite of herself.
This place was so … so intense … so utterly uninhibited, so complete in its reduction of these girls— of nOelle too— to their sexual offering … the certainty that this was what Thierry intended for her reinforced, cemented, but still incomprehensible in its madness; the impossibility of it crashing onto the immediate violence of the truth of it, the paradox crushing her …
I must … I must serve him as well as she … more! More! I must become the perfect, eager offer of total dedication to his enjoyment, must offer him what this girl does, do it better, do it for him…
He had straightened;
“Helène, lovely girl, your proper deference is welcome and entertaining, but I want to hear what you really dream of, now, when you’re alone in the small hours, the chains heavy on your neck; where is it you see yourself; is it strapped into a frame in the dungeon, a fat cock raping your ass while the whip kisses your nipples, strangers laughing at your weakness, your helpless, horrified cries?”
“Or is back with your friends in some sunlit dance studio, practicing your art, a handsome dancer boyfriend waiting to take you for a romantic meal, whips and rapes banished— nothing more than cruel memories?”
nOelle looks up again; his hand is no longer between the girl’s legs, but at her cheek, brushing her hair back, caressing her gently. There are tears on her cheeks, her eyes half-closed, as the words came slowly, almost hoarsely from her;
“I … I don’t … Master, I … I … I can’t go back. I … I’m too frightened. It … it wasn’t all like that … it was … I was weak…”
Then, it was as if something took the girl, and, shy but determined, she lifted her head, looked at Thierry; terribly nervous, but intense;
“Please … please, tell … tell Anne-Marie for me that … that I will be grateful if she will do … do whatever is needful to … to have me be allowed to stay. I … I need to be … to be here… please.”
Her head dropped again; she was shaking; Thierry’s hand was back between her legs, and she moaned with it and moved for him; shameless, urgent, making her total lack of defences obvious for everyone to see.
“Here, pretty? Here, with the sadists and the rapists and the chains, to be used up, everything taken from you?”
His voice was soft and cold now; nOelle had never heard him speak thus, and it chilled her to the bone. It was clear that he, her Thierry, counted himself among the sadists and the rapists; that he was personally promising her that he would put this pretty young woman, so helpless and willing, mercilessly put her to pain and rape and abuse.
Her wonderful Thierry was a monster; had always been a monster. Worse, she suddenly saw that she had always, deep inside her, known this; that he was a monster of some kind, and she had let him take her nevertheless, culpably complicit in her own downfall; nOelle’s sob, strangled in fear, went unnoticed as the brunette sobbed herself, then swallowed her misery;
“Yes … Yes Master, that … that is what I want, what I … what I beg of you.”
A silence, then, in a much lower register, a half groan, the girl speaks again;
“I … have been a fool, such … such a silly. Pretending … pretending that … that this is just a … just a thing … not really to do with me; that … that I was trapped, that one day I would be free. Stupid cunt. Stupid dirty cunt.”
Then, once again, she looked up, the intensity back in her voice; “Please, please Master, I beg you; rape me, rape me now; I’ll do everything for you, anything, you … you should hurt me, make me scream and cry out, destroy me … please?…”
She was quivering, shaking, her voice becoming shrill and Thierry slapped her — not the slap a man gives a woman to snap her out of hysteria, but a full-force backhand which knocked her to the floor. His voice was just as cool and calm as before;
“Very good Helène. I’ll see what I can do. Be strong, pretty, for it will be brutal. I will have some little talks with you, as it goes, and you can thank me, if you will.”
The girl had scrambled to kneel in a careful position, thighs spread wide, buttocks above her heels, arms crossed behind her, head forward and down, shoulders back; her breathing was noisy, but you could hear her forcibly calming herself, desperate to regain control as Thierry stepped in toward her, his hand at the back of her head, his crotch crushing her face. He held her there for a long minute, until she had calmed.
“That’s it Helene, it’s all over for now; good girl, good little cunt.”
He turned then, turned toward nOelle, and in a light, cheerful tone, said;
“Well I know who I want to hear scream now, before I put this stiffness in her ass. Jenny, pretty, come here and help nOelle stand; I want you behind her, locking her arms; lean backward a little so her pretty breasts are presented; I’ve waited far too long to put the crop to them, see them distorted, see how they look with the marks of pain.”
He was looking at nOelle, she knew it, but she could not face him.
Wondering at her own stupidity, her dreadful weak compliance, nOelle felt herself cooperating with the blonde girl as her hands were freed— momentary glorious release from pain, immediately overwhelmed by a surge of new and different agonies which had her crying out in pitiful distress— which gained her no respite at all as her arms were pulled behind her and bent upward, her wrists crossed. The other girl then laced her own arms back through nOelles’ crooked elbows and linked her hands firmly before leaning her whole body backward, thus lifting nOelle and forcing her too backwards, so that she had to scramble and lift herself up on tiptoes to avoid horrible new pains, aware of a wave of shame at being so crudely manhandled, at being so pathetically helpful, even though everyone there knew that she was being prepared so that Thierry could hurt her breasts (my breasts! — she simply could not comprehend the possibility of being beaten there— it was too far beyond anything).
Comprehend she might not, but feel— suffer— she most certainly could, as with no ceremony at all, and no restraint either, Thierry cuts the terrible crop into the softly resilient flesh of her pretty, upthrust breasts, her desperate attempts to evade easily thwarted by the strength and experience of the girl behind her, her horrified squeals and shouts ignored— or more likely enjoyed, as Thierry, otherwise terribly silent and concentrated, makes huffs of satisfaction in his throat at her most anguished wails.
Soon, she finds herself pleading, desperate, willing to do anything— anything at all, to be reprieved from even one blow of the cruel rod, which she is certain must actually be cutting her flesh, so sharp, so hot, so intense is the pain;
“Please, please Thierry, no! Stop! St … AAAAieee!”
nOelle, breasts whipped Click here to reveal.
There is no respite, no response, just blow after blow until;
“Four more, my nOelle, four more. Will you hold yourself still for them— for me? Will you count them off?”
He had stepped in, captured her chin, raised her face to his, so that she had to look (did not wish to, and at the same time urgently needed to see what was in his eyes), her breathing loud, ragged; her utter desperation painfully clear in the stony silence of the place as he smiled softly at her; the exact smile he always had, breaking her heart, breaking her mind; this was some sort of normal for him, this obscenity, this heartless destruction of her, this assault that was as much mental as physical…
And now he wanted her to cooperate with him as he hurt her some more.
It was a long, grinding moment, as she looked at him, desperate, needing so desperately hard to find anything, any shred of self doubt, of compassion, of empathy, of kindness in him (so desperately hard; so unimaginably awful to have to accept that there was nothing there for her, nothing at all but harshness); as her heart broke, as she realised that she would always be vulnerable to him, that he had always treated her this way, except that the cruelty had been cleverer, more psychological, more veiled in suavity; that he had played her all along, that she was a stupid, weak fool; that she would never, never, though, be able to forget what such looks, such moments with him had been like for her, in the before; that he would always be able to sear her like this, as she heard her cracked thick throat utter the words;
“Yes … yes of course, I … Please … Yes.”
And then after a whisper in her ear from the blonde, wonderingly, questioningly, almost reverently;
“Yes, Master.”
He stepped back immediately, then, the crop already in flight, the whistle audible until the crack, immediately followed by her scream, her sobs, her agonised wails as he waits for her, until, at last, painfully, she hears herself strive to be clear with her count;
“One.”
And it goes like that— each blow unique, each horror entire unto itself, each second an eternity of shame and despair and fear and pain and tragedy, until she hears her own shattered, broken whisper, as if spoken by another girl;
“Four.”
