The Story of nOelle Pt.8

This will make more sense if you have read the earlier parts of nOelle’s Story

He was at her immediately, right in close to her— she could feel the cloth of his elegant suit brushing against her naked thighs— and even in her devastation, she felt the energy in him which, much later that day, she would bring to mind, in her sleepless, keening bleakness— cold, chained, ravaged— because it was something, something real to weigh in the scales against the appalling harms which had been imposed on her that day; the terrible future that stretched in front of her.

Thierry got something real from me. Something he can’t get everywhere. something which matters to him.

It was pathetic, but she clung to it, and a few other moments; Natalie’s kindness, the footman’s boorish compliment about her breasts— such small, small positives— each in themselves tarnished by the fact that they only made sense in the context of those same harms.

But they were what she had, apart from her naked, trembling body, so beset with pains and shame (for the appalling knowledge of her own helpless responses, even in the depths of obscene abuse, had somehow gone deeper than her mind and settled in her body; every part of her was shrinking away from the awful truth she was beginning to believe, that she was going to be, just as Thierry and Anne-Marie had suggested, ’easy’. Easy for them to turn, to suborn, to subjugate; that not only was she weak and needy and frightened of disapproval— let alone the whip— she was also, as Anne-Marie had told her, in her imposing, austere office; “a born wanton, ripe for conquer”).

Her body. Her poor body.

It came to her then; hard and ugly and inescapable.

Since I have nothing other than my body; since I am so utterly consumed by fear of being rejected, even from this lowly status, by this cruel regime, I am going to find myself using my body.

Not through wanton desire— for it is not when they are looking at me, touching me, hurting me that lust rises in me, but only in the midst of violation. No, it will be fear which drives me to use my body to advertise my vulnerability, to invite usage, in the obviously stupid hope— nevertheless impossible not to strive for — the foolish hope that being fucked will save me from the whip, from scorn, from humiliation.

And then … then, if I am successful in attracting sexual usage, then— shame upon shame— lust will take me, inevitably bringing more shame.

She flung herself about in her chains then, weak as a kitten though she was, enervated by despair, in a futile gesture of rejection; rejecting the vision which had presented itself to her, of herself as an eager, desperate, trembling offerer of herself to brute strangers, working, always, to attract their sexual aggression, to invite rape, even though she was filled with fear rather than desire for sex, then to be transformed by sexual abuse into a needy, eager, trembling slut, not shameless, but still unable to resist advertising her need for intensity, her ache, her urgent striving for the catharsis of an orgasm which will prove impossible to conceal or suppress.

For he had shown her, Thierry, in the aftermath of her first experience of having her breasts subjected to the whip, he had shown her, soon enough, that even such a devastating experience was not enough to quash her sexuality.

He had taken her chin in his hand, a hard unchallengeable grip, forced her head up— his own breathing not quite steady, as she quivered and whimpered, her face wet with tears, drool and snot, jaw trembling, chest heaving, snivelling, wretched, pathetic, almost completely shut down, possessed by despair.

His demand was palpable; she could not resist him, and, appalled at how diminished she felt, knew herself to be, so rapidly crushed by an infamy unimagined by her only a day earlier; she felt herself compelled to look up at him.

And he? He was still Thierry— the Thierry she knew and had thought she loved like no man ever before— but he was no longer her Thierry— never had been, of course, but that was how she had named him in her mind.

No longer.

He was not hers in any sense at all; it was he who possessed her; and not in any loving way, but rather as he might a creature; a dog perhaps— but no, not even that— for Thierry would not treat a dog as he had just treated her, as he proposed to encourage others to treat her. Lower than a dog, then— not even a creature, but merely a toy, to be played with and manipulated for his passing pleasure, then passed around for others to amuse themselves with.

It was astounding how painful it was— and at the same time how welcome, for him to be close to her, to be looking at him, seeing him looking at her. The pain at the depth of his abuse of her so deep and so raw, how easy she had made it for him, how much anguish there was in her at her loss, her downfall; and, at the very same time, the welcome; the welcome so desperate, because in this madhouse, this cruel trap, it was he alone who knew who she was; that she had a life, had a past, had once had something worth defending, some illusion, at least of choice; because he, at least, had, once, chosen her, been kind to her, expended effort on her, made an effort— even if it had been in service of him getting her to this terrible place.

The contradictions tore at her, rendered her incapable of judgement, incapable of anything but feeling, needing, suffering.

His face was both familiar and new, then; instantly recognised, with even a flash of pleasure, of relief— but equally to be relearned; all his expressions, his mannerisms needing new interpretation in light of revealed truth about his intentions as he had snared her, opened her up, conditioned her (trained me) how he had occupied her world, become her world, so that she had lost sight of anything else, as he prepared her, softened her up— for this.

This: naked, collared, cuffed, leashed, held in a humiliating position by another abused and entrapped slave, so that he could thrash her poor breasts with a cruel whip, just because he felt like it.

Why can’t I hate him?

How can it be that there is no doubt in me that he can do this to me? That I have no defences against him? That there is even a logic to it— a justification? How is it that I am so concerned, right at this moment, immediately after he has traumatised me, so grievously disrespected and hurt me; that, even now, I am mortified that my face must be so ugly, all sticky and scrunched up and red from crying, appalled that my nose has run, slime on my chin, dripping onto my poor breasts. Why does it fill me with misery that I am not beautiful for him, not smiling, not pleasing him, not offering him myself?

And indeed, no sooner had she had this thought, than she was doing what poor best she could to present herself to him— but in fear, shame and supplication now, where before it had been a joy.

“Just so, my pretty, just so; always concern for how you present yourself. Jenny, you may let her go; look at this pretty slut, instinctively knowing what is required of her!”

“nOelle, it is lovely to see the new fear in your eyes. I have been waiting for this moment, and you do not disappoint.”

“You had nothing but shy vulnerability when I met you, and I had to give you confidence to awaken your sensuality, for you were scared of it, scared of your own body. When it was confirmed that underneath that shy girl there was a hunger for usage, I knew that my first assessment of you had been correct, that I would bring you here. Now that I have shown you what I really am, it is not just your lovely vulnerability, your sexual neediness that is revealed, but your weakness, your fear, your knowledge of your own fatal vulnerability. The confidence you felt, you must now see, pretty girl, was not your own, but lent to you by me; and now you will find that it has become confidence in your weakness, an unshakeable certainty of your vulnerability, knowledge of your helplessness in the face of the cruel appetites of those with the strength and the will to control you.”

“You will be eaten up by this place; you have not what it would take to resist it; you have not the resources. You must let go of all hope; give yourself over to fear and disrespect— you may as well, since both will be heartlessly imposed upon you in any case. Open yourself to it, let it take you. You are weak, I and the Castle are strong in every way which you are not, and merciless with it. This place has eaten countless girls like you, used them as helpless toys until they lose their shine. You will not avoid this fate, and I can see in your eyes that you know it.”

“Your one freedom lies in how fully you can open yourself to sexual usage; how fully you can allow your weak and needy body to welcome the physical intensities which will be imposed upon you; how much you let yourself be consumed by them, set on fire by them, opened by them. Since nothing else will be permitted you here, you may as well let yourself be ruled, possessed by raw carnality, let your basest hungers take full control of you; offer yourself up to excess, to depravity, to the lusts of those who now have absolute power over you, and let them rule you.”

“I will give you one thing, nOelle, even as I take everything else from you; the knowledge, in your eyes, of your your vulnerability— of the reality and depth of your justified fear— makes you very desirable indeed; I predict you will be vigorously used, here, that you will get little rest, that you will drown in the intensity of this place; that you will never surface.”

He stroked her cheek then, tender, lover-like, and it undid her, so that fresh tears came, and she recoiled inside from this prediction which felt inevitable to the extent that it was even comforting.

For if defeat— total, apocalyptic defeat, was inevitable, then surely she had no need, no reason, no duty to struggle against it? She could be absolved of that, at least?

“Helène, on your knees, now; give me your throat, but don’t try too hard, it’s just for a minute while Jenny strings her up.”

“Put her face to the wall, Jenny; get her hands cuffed behind her again, then put the leash through that top ring and pull, hard; I’ll tell you when to tie her off.”

“Ah, yes, girl, that’s good; all the way now, cunt, no pretty coyness; I want to feel your throat grip, your shoulders jerk, feel your surrender.”

“Now Jenny, pull! Pull hard, you know how it must be.”

It appalled nOelle, what happened then; how simple, how cruel, how much hurt, how heartless and mechanical it was; as blonde Jenny pulled on the leash, her wrists were pulled up behind her, and as that almost immediately put horrid strain on her shoulders, she was forced to lean forward, and since her face was already hard against the wall that in turn required her to shuffle desperately backwards, slide her head down the wall, to do all she could to angle her back downward, to push her buttocks up as high as they could be made to go, while crushing her cheek against the wall; anything to lessen the tearing pressure on her shoulders, crying out and wailing at each pull on the leash, gasping her pain in between those pulls, her chest distorted, breathing hard; her first experience of the simple, but terrible Strappado.

And all the time, her Thierry watching, and, too, glimpsed in the midst of nOelle’s agony, her desperation, between her own spread legs, the brunette, Helène, on her knees between his legs, pushing herself into his groin, taking that cock which nOelle had loved so well, had learned to give herself to, learned to understand, to serve, that cock inside another girl’s throat; interchangeable.

Ashes; the bitterest taste, in her mouth as she holds herself, in desperation, holds on, just, to sanity, to self-control, not daring to give in to the terror, the heartbreak, the misery of it all, holding herself…

For what?

Really, for what?

Why should she not give way, abandon all pretence at control, all efforts at sanity?

These people were crazy— all of them— these other girls, Anne-Marie, the servants, the posh couple from the corridor, those abhorrent young loudmouths, her Thierry, all mad, lost to decency, lost to morality …

What did she owe any of them, that she should make it easy for them to degrade and ruin her?

Why was she not kicking out, letting the hysterics take her, letting go of her bladder as she had several times felt herself near to doing?

Why not?

She did not know, then, save that she could not let go, could not give up on what little remained to hr of self control, self respect, self image.

It came to her, though, much later, in the night;

Natalie. If there was hope, here; if there was beauty, here; if there was a way to remain pure, here, Natalie was the example. And Natalie had said almost exactly what Thierry had just told her: “It will be hard for you, but you must learn to let them take you, let them have you; it’s the only way.”

But then— in the moment— she knew not why she did not let hysteria take her, when Thierry said;

“Kick her ankles apart, now— spread her wide and get that slime from her face, wipe it on her asshole, get your tongue in there, loosen her up if you can— though she’ll be tight; I’m going to make her scream a different way.”

— except that that she didn’t, that instead she controlled herself, desperately, clinging to her sanity as the pointed toes of Jenny’s heavy high-heeled shoes hurt her ankles, as splitting her legs put extra pressure on her screaming shoulders, as Thierry’s cock, feeling huge, drove itself into her virgin anus, as she screamed, unable to control herself, as Jenny, in response to Thierry’s grunted order, knelt beneath her and began to lick at her sex, her clitoris, clever fingers insinuating themselves into her pussy, while Helène knelt to kiss and nibble at her sore and puffy nipples, and she began to drown in the totality of it, all thought, all reason, all words, everything but the immediate sensation driven from her mind.

Read the next part of The Story of nOelle.