This will make more sense if you have read the earlier parts of nOelle’s Story
“Well, well, little nOelle… Look at you now— so thoroughly, obviously fucked. I have to say, it’s not many innocents arriving here who have quite such an entertainingly destructive first two hours! Quite the opener!”
“Let’s see now; obvious sexual arousal in the mirror room, working your hips rather noticeably there, weren’t you? Then a weak little pretence at resisting the girls, which earned you your first whipping, along with witnessing Kevin’s abuse of Jenny and Helène, then, bizarre chance, caught up in a mass rape in the corridor— quite violently fucked by that drunken young stallion— and still, if I’m not mistaken— the camera picture was a little blurry— but I’m pretty sure you were beginning to respond to him, in spite of yourself! And if that weren’t enough, then you got your pretty tits thrashed by Thierry, and your anal cherry ruthlessly stripped from you too— your screams were really very affecting, I must say— and, to cap it all, you could not resist a rather crashing and troubling climax— again, all in the open corridor.”
“And then, at the last, so debilitated that you arrived on all fours, crawling like a beast.”
And it was true; once Thierry had had Jenny and Helène bring her, despite her deep inner horror and resistance to the idea of being made to come while being so grossly brutalised, when they had, through cleverness and persistence— and through the treacherous susceptibility of her own base instincts— when they had brought her to the terrible tipping point, when her body took over, feeling the immanence of the little death, when it had become possessed by the need for it, when, on feeling and hearing nOelle’s noise, he had grabbed a big handful of her hair and yanked her head back, knowing her weakness to this, when it had brought her to her peak, delivered the singularity to her, so that she had momentarily been outside the world, suspended in time and space; all pain, all shame, all intensity, utterly destroyed, utterly transported, when Thierry too had let himself go, his thrusting intensifying, rapidly, when nOelle had begged and gasped and moaned for him as she never had before, like a wild animal in its death agonies, when, immediately after that, Thierry had pulled out with a shout, leaving her abandoned in abject, defeated ruination, when Jenny had pulled the leash from the wall hoop, de-linked her cuffs, nOelle had collapsed to her knees, in broken sobs; so, so many pains and shames piling in on her, all at once.
When the leash was attached to the back of her collar again, then drawn between her legs from behind, when Jenny had tugged at it, she had known she could not stand— that her legs were too shaky, that her coordination could not meet the challenge of standing, when all she wanted, all she could face was to hide away in a tightly held ball somewhere until the hurt, the pain and the shame were less overwhelming, when Thierry had told the girl to yank on the leash, to pull harder, all she could manage was a shameful, whimpering crawl, the leash sawing into both her violated holes, both horribly tender.
Jenny and Helène had both been needed to help her stand.
“Quite the dirtied whore— and we’ve not even begun with the initiation! Helène, I hope you are paying attention— this new piece is averaging a dose an hour already! You’re going to need to beg hard for something extreme if you want to earn an extension to your contract— or, of course, if you can’t make your targets, you could always give in— just let us have you; give up on yourself and take the brand? I think I could get the Great Table to accept you— as a shave-head of course; nothing less would work. Think hard, pretty, think hard— and offer yourself to the gentlemen harder, too, if you know what’s good for you.”
Since Helène was now on her knees between Thierry’s thighs, her mouth full of his softening sex, having been gruffly commanded to Clean me, her response to this remained unknown, her only sounds being desperate gulpings as he forced her head into his groin, Thierry wondering idly if he might have another go in him— he’d been waiting to violate nOelle’s rear for some while, now, and it had been all he had hoped for and more— the experience still had him worked up.
“And you, Jenny; you were in charge of this detail, and you’re almost an hour late delivering this little piece. Do you have an excuse for me?”
Beside her, nOelle (staring at Anne-Marie’s feet, cringing in shame and despair) felt the lovely blonde girl tense, than quiver, but her voice was low and soft and accepting when she spoke;
“No Mistress, no … no excuse.”
“Of course not; very good, make sure to tell Ms. Noakes that will be ten black marks for you. Your doses are adequate this week, but you’re perilously close to an example punishment with these constant little failures. Do you know what? Rather than have you on tenterhooks, irritating everyone by trying to win favour, let’s make it a round twenty black marks, so that everyone knows for certain it will be you in the yard on Sunday taking the bullwhip.”
A terrible silence then, before Jenny manages the conventional response— a certain requirement, if the punishment were not to be intensified;
“Thank you … Thank you Mistress.”
Something rose up in nOelle, than, at the injustice of it, the knowing cruelty in Anne-Marie’s voice, at Thierry’s appreciative chuckle from behind her, at the intensification of Jenny’s quivering, and she heard her own voice, hoarse and sticky, tremulous— full of fear, but speaking nonetheless;
“Please … Please M … Mistress, it … it wasn’t her fault … if … if it hadn’t been for me … and … and then Th … Thierry … … …”
She trailed off then, for Anne-Marie had stood up from her high-back wooden chair— heavily carved and richly upholstered— and, now facing nOelle directly, had taken her tenderised, semi-stiff nipples between lacquered fingernails and was beginning to exert serious pressure.
The silence extended for some time, until it was broken by a soft but intense moan of pain fron nOelle, whose whole energy was all going into standing still to allow this cruelty to be done to her, to keep her unrestrained wrists as Jenny had placed them, crossed at the small of her back, to prevent herself from doing the right and proper thing, which would be to fight the woman off, to defend herself against unacceptable abuse.
Anne-Marie’s voice was gentle, caressing almost, but with an unmistakeable core of stone; she was smiling gently too, almost conspiratorial— a very personal smile, for nOelle alone, the intimacy dangerously welcome, so that nOelle felt a surge of ridiculous gratitude and pleasure; she is paying attention to me, she is touching me, and I like it, I want it; how can this be so affecting, so powerful?
“You must learn, and learn quickly, pretty nOelle, that creatures like yourself do not speak unless spoken to by a Mistress or a Master in such a way that a spoken response is required of you. Second, you need to learn that your opinions here count for less than nothing, and— for your own immediate wellbeing— should be ruthlessly suppressed by you, locked away inside— in particular, should that opinion run counter to the expressed opinion of a Master or Mistress, you will want to bury it completely, so that it does not even have a chance to show in your eyes, or the slightest curl of your lip.”
“I say ‘immediate wellbeing’, because of course, such suppression will be very detrimental to your wellbeing in the long-term; indeed will fatally undermine your trust in yourself, so that you lose all confidence, so that you become helplessly needy and dependent. Jenny and Helène are ahead of you on this path. Since you are already weak and needy, your defeat seems inevitable; embrace it.”
“Now then, since you have transgressed with all three of these requirements, since you had already earned some black marks for your behaviour in the park, and since Thierry has asked us to be merciless with you— emphasising in particular that you should experience brutalising violence at a higher level of intensity than is usually meted out to new initiates, you may join Jenny at the whipping post on Sunday, to return to her the dubious favour of an orgasm under duress by licking her pussy while you are both being whipped.”
“Since you are so concerned for her welfare, her punishment will stop as soon as you get her to come. You, on the other hand will take her unused blows when she orgasms, unless of course you fail in your task, when you will receive her full count on top of your own.”
“What do you say to that, little nOelle?”
And there was only one thing which could be said, though it cost nOelle dear to make herself say it, and say it with some semblance of calm, of respect;
“Thank you … th … thank you, Mistress.”
Anne-Marie’s fingernails tighten on nOelle’s nipples, bring a desperate gasp, before suddenly being flicked away, with a sharp, burning flash of pain which elicits a horrified wail Later, nOelle will be astonished to see that, swollen and terribly tender as her nipples most certainly are, there are no marks from Anne-Marie’s cruelty— only the faint lines left by Thierry’s belt. nOelle will learn that the soft parts of a girl’s body— the sex parts— can provide almost unbearable suffering without serious physical damage.
And Anne-Marie’s smile changes, subtly, to indicate amused approval, and, though she feels just how pathetic it is, how dangerous it is to accept, given that the woman has just cruelly inflicted savage pain on her, nOelle lets herself savour the little surge of pleasure, of relief, of gratitude this brings.
If I am to become like Natalie, I must learn to worship this terrible, wonderful woman, knowing that she is savage and cruel, that she will not care for me; will rather work to ruin me, as she is with Helène and Jenny and Natalie and others, too, no doubt. I will be nothing in her eyes, while she will come to be everything to me.
The prospect was devastating, but, in her trauma, her despair, her fear, it offered something desperately sought for— certainty. This place might be crazy, but Anne-Marie would always be the same, always the sharp edge of my ruination; always the naked truth of it, the cruel cut of it.
And, just like that nOelle knew that there would be no escape for her, that this place, this woman, would have her.
None of which meant that she had arrived anywhere; the business of learning to give herself could not be so simple.
No, all it was was an acceptance of inevitable defeat; heartbreaking, but what she had wished for earlier; the excuse not to have to fight. Not to struggle for decency, demand respect, fight for justice, seek to escape.
It would be hard enough to survive this place without being destroyed by it; resistance could only make it harder.
Looking into nOelle’s eyes, then, Anne-Marie saw the shift, and her smile changed again, and nOelle almost swooned with the knowledge that Anne-Marie had seen into her, that the woman knew something at least, of nOelle’s recognition of defeat.
It brought tears to her eyes, but nOelle was overwhelmed by an even more intense gratitude, then; everything was going to be alright, because Anne-Marie was going to control her, absolutely.
Freedom achieved only through total, absolute capitulation to cruel depravity.
“Just so, pretty, just so. We will enjoy you, I think.”
Again, the calm, quiet intimacy was immensely affecting, and when Anne-Marie’s fingers breached the slippy entrance to her sex, nOelle, in full and deep awareness of Thierry’s eyes on her, of the other two girls in the room, refused to let this filter her response, made herself convey, in the softest, the humblest possible way, her desire to become what Anne-Marie wished of her, by opening herself; her body, her lips, softened herself, let the tenderness between her legs connect to her sexual response, let herself sigh her offer, her openness, her weakness, her awful fears.
“That’s it, girl; give yourself; always. Particularly, give the parts of you which are most precious, most vulnerable, give those without reserve; for those are the parts of you which are least yours, now, but rather our playground, our possession; the focal points for our explorations of pleasure, shame and pain.”
Her voice changed, became harder, a little louder, the caressing tone vanished as if it had never been;
“Jenny, be her lockstand; make it tight, now, extreme; you should both hurt.”
It was the same hold Thierry had commanded in the corridor, for his whipping of her breasts, but this time it was pleasure which was demanded of her, nOelle learned, as Anne-Marie formed her hand into a bony fist, all knuckles and sinew and sharp lacquered nails, pushed it, tight, hard up against nOelle’s puffy sex, the sensation raw and frightening, and said;
“Come for us all, now, pretty nOelle; show us how lost you can get.”
It took so long, was so hard for nOelle— both emotionally and physically— to even start, but Anne-Marie was patient, and Jenny’s grip was vice-like; nevertheless, for nOelle, the need to try, to find a way, was powerful, urgent; there was no other future but this. For the longest age, all the effort was mental, until at last there arose in her, in her belly, a simple need; it had been there all along, she saw, but ignored; too simple to be part of her internal struggle with this cruel command from Anne-Marie.
Thus far all had been violation, force, cruelties imposed upon her— since the strip in the mirror room at least, and the park before that— almost prehistory now, so far away was that innocent, bewildered nOelle from who she was now. Now, she was being asked to work herself, work to make clear, to expose her own sexual nature, reveal her weakness; the violence now was to be mental, emotional, self-imposed, and this produced great emotional turmoil inside her, which had drowned out the simpleness of the need.
It was there, though; strong and simple and immediate; the need to move, just a little, to increase a pressure … just … exactly … there …
Just there … and next, a little harder, there … and … and then …
And all the thinking and the emotion were still there, more intense, even, but off to the side, somehow, as the need in her groin, in her clitoris, in her belly took her and moved her and opened her and she made herself let it happen, give in to it and she heard her own breathing, louder, rasping, hoarse, until it was a gasp, and then a plaintive wail as she knew that she was going to shame herself, expose herself, reveal herself as the worst kind of depraved slut, so sunk in neediness, so weak of character that she was going to do this thing for Anne-Marie, was going to lose all self-respect, all pretensions to decency, to moral character, to being a person even, as she ground herself, ever more urgently, ever more sensuously, ever more completely against the hard fist which was now half inside her, jammed into her soft sex; her whole body engaged in delivering on a single, shameful requirement - that she achieve a degrading, lowering, diminishing orgasm.
When she finally realises it is going to happen, that it is unstoppable, that her body now urgently, forcefully wants it, even though it will be in front of all these others, who will judge her, know something terrible about her; even though she knows she will judge herself, hate herself for her weak capitulation; when it takes her, she feels herself let it take her, feels herself give in to ignominy, degradation, abuse, endless humiliation; she feels herself fill up with despair and defeat and helplessness and loss, even as she jerks and twists and urgently thrusts herself into the fist which is destroying her, conquering her, drowning her in sensation; her legs quiver mightily, her belly spasms, her voice cries out in some perverted, destructive flavour of ecstacy, so that she hardly registers Thierry’s harsher, almost angry grunts from behind her as he too comes off, deep in Helène’s throat (he too in pain, his cock raw from the violence of his rape of nOelle’s tight asshole).
Anne-Marie left a long silence as the intensity faded, as nOelle slowly— fearfully— returned to the sordid reality of her position, her shame; to the knowledge she had given to her abusers about herself, her weakness, her need, her character, as she all but drowned in despair and self disgust and embarrassment.
The Mistress of The Castle waited until she judged that these destructive feelings had reached an intensity in the girl which might overpower her before moving things along, selecting the moment carefully to achieve maximum impact, just this side of collapse.
“Very well, little nOelle, now we all understand you; we will degrade you very aggressively now, and it will be very hard for you; relentless and cruel; though you will shine, perhaps, quite brightly; at least for some little time.”
The effect was like a punch in the gut for nOelle; a new insult, so immediate and violent in its impact that all thought ceased, and she was fully occupied with the short term business of breathing, standing, keeping control of herself; tending to those things which were needful for her ‘immediate wellbeing’— at the certain cost, she was ever more deeply understanding, of her long-term destruction.
Anne-Marie was calmly satisfied; it was no better than she had been confident about, but nevertheless, there was always risk in these things. It was clear; the girl needed, repeatedly, to experience this, if Thierry’s desire for a rapid and complete destruction was to be achieved. Terrible emotional and moral damage must be imposed, allowed time to do its work, but the girl must learn that it is not permitted that the enormous emotional labour of surviving these, incorporating them into her self-image, should interfere with her utility as a plaything. It had to be ingrained into her core consciousness that she must lock away the majority of her pain and shame and terror and self-hatred for her free time; for the cold hours in the dead of night, when the strong girls— those with an inner core of some kind— would work on themselves, strive to find a way to live with their new and appalling reality, to accept, to explain to themsleves in whatever twisted way that this was where they belonged, that such treatment was what they needed— depended upon, even.
Those girls who could and would work on themselves in this way were those for whom Anne-Marie would expend patient, careful effort and attention; the cruelly intimate attention to which nOelle, like Natalie and many others before her, had seen that she would become addicted.
And indeed, she is again pathetically responsive to Anne-Marie’s approving, tight little smile, to her insultingly patronising little caress of nOelle’s cheek; knowing she is being played, manipulated, but unable to resist; finding herself wanting to play Anne-Marie’s game, play it well, so that the woman would smile at her, even as the game trapped her, an innocent girl who had a life, hopes, dreams, a job, maybe even a career, had friends and family— all of which, it was plain to see, would be taken from her by this place.
By my weakness; by my pathetic neediness for attention from the powerful.
Seeing the weakness, the defeated acceptance of a future of shame in nOelle’s eyes, Anne-Marie gives the trembling naked girl one final cruel smile before moving everything on again. The girls must continually be disrupted, made aware of their meaninglessness, the supremacy of random demands of the place over their personhood, in particular their need to process the endless infamies and humiliations which were the whole of their new existence.
“Jenny, since the Master seems to have use for Helène, I will ask Ms Noakes to send you another girl to assist you, but take nOelle, now, and prepare her, would you dear? And try to be brave about the whipping. I have wanted to see you there again for a while now; I will enjoy your suffering a great deal, I think, and it will move you along. You will find it a different experience than last time— so much having changed with you since you embraced your weakness, your helpless eager excitement at being gang-raped. Not that the whip will be any less terrible than it was before; just … different. Try to experience it, let it change you more, accept that it suits you, to be treated so. Georges wants you to take the brand, too, so think about that as you suffer, about ceasing to be a person, about losing everything, will you dear!”
A long pause, entertaining for Anne-Marie and Thierry, numbing for Helène and nOelle, appalling for Jenny— who had known in her heart that her Georges, the sweet lover of her college days, has been pushing her in this direction but had refused to acknowledge it— as she realises that a new abyss awaits her; one which she can already feel herself succumbing to the gravitational pull of, the terror and the horror of a branding, of what it says about a girl, of the end of any hope.
Then, irresistible, necessary, inevitable;
“Yes, Yes, mistress, thank you Mistress.”
Jenny knowing, deep inside, that that was a yes to it all; that everything now will be a cruel, formal passage towards that destruction— taken at the exact pace which suits Georges, suits Anne-Marie, suits the cruel and greedy members of this terrible place to which, only eighteen months ago, she had so sweetly, so laughingly consented to submit— Just for a week, Jenny darling, just a week, so that I can know what it is like to have a girl that way. Will you do it for me? The place to which, a month afterward, she had consented to give her summer holiday, not laughing this time but serious, trembling; looking at her Georges with shame in her eyes in that pretty little cafe in the park, so sunny and bright and innocent; her consent infinitely slower, more sweet, more tender, sadder than the first, darkly touched by her intuition that something terrible was going to happen to her, something part of which, having willingly consented, she must at some level have wanted. Her Georges, whose principal interaction with her, these days, was as a witness to the increasingly ferocious gang-bangs he arranged for her - in the dungeon, now, since they were too frenzied for the clubroom, since they had begun to torture her as she was fucked, as she gave herself, as she endlessly said yes and yes please and more, harder, don’t stop, make me scream; Georges who watched all this, fully dressed, another girl’s head between his legs. Georges who, when he took her himself— rarely these days—, was still the generous collaborative lover he had always been, careful, sensitive, measured; the contrast between this and what he had offered her up for, what he wanted for her, what she was condemned to by his will (by her own weakness) a continuous source of tearing confusion to the lovely blonde.
And again Anne-Marie judged the moment to move things along;
“Very well, then Jenny, that’s decided; off you go!”
Then to Thierry, in a calm but self-satisfied tone as Jenny led nOelle, both trembling, both filled with dread, but walking as prettily as they know how in their tall heels;
“Some entertaining possibilities in prospect, Thierry, I think. We shall see.”
