Delicious Whore Pt.6

You will want to have read the previous parts.

Note: there is no sex in this episode. The harshness rating reflects the subject matter.

If the walk toward him had drowned me in turmoil of the most intense kind, the walk away from him was almost its inverse; crushed desperation rather than overstimulated confusion; then I had been flailing in a heavy sea of crashing emotions; now, I had been gutted by his dismissal, possessed by bleak despair; dry as dust, bitter in the mouth.

Where earlier I had been fighting to manage raging cross-currents of energy that threatened to rip me apart, I now found it hard to summon the strength even to walk, let alone carry myself as I knew I must, in the unlikely case that he would be interested enough to watch me leave; somehow I forced myself to perform; it was imperative that he see that I was maintaining standards for him. It took me all I had, just to walk properly, while inside, I was a lifeless crater; a depleted, airless emptiness.

I had failed. I was not good enough for him; after everything I had submitted to— my insane acceptance of gang-rape, complicity with appalling abuse, acceptance of awful, methodical cruelty and humiliation— after a week of incredible strain, desperate striving for perfection every morning and evening, to be ready, naked, for whoever it was opened my door, I had not made the grade as Delicious. It wasn’t heartbreak I was suffering from; nothing so superficial— it was complete personal destruction which stared me in the face.

One thing to be the pampered sex-toy of a rich and powerful man, wined and dined in fine restaurants, sensuously and thoughtfully dominated and perverted, as I had been with R; quite another to have been violated and dirtied in an alley by crude strangers, then going on to enable them to repeatedly, destructively brutalise me in my own home; denied all contact with the man I had given myself to, only for him to reject me out-of-hand at the first attempt— this was to have cooperated in my utter ruin, and all for nothing.

The ‘Delicious Whore’ was to offer ’the best of both worlds’ to those who used her.

They explained to me that Delicious must to be elegant, calm and submissive, able to engage in social exchange perfectly normally if required; she was required at all times to be maximally seductive, without ever ‘crossing the line’; never to come across as a slut, never be crude or cynical, or obvious. Those who used her must be able to feel that by treating her as a whore, they were defiling a precious flower, even if they knew that she was a degraded sex-slave; a precious flower with an unusual guarantee— full confidence that there would be no consequences; that vile abuses could be forced onto her with no comeback.

Those morning visits were extraordinary; each day at the extreme of possibility, of self-control, of recovery from despair, of horrible suffering and psychological manipulation.

After the jittery, obsessive preparation, in the early hours, often crumpling, in tears, falling to my knees, unable to believe that I was going to offer myself up once again to terrible abuses; after the preparation came the waiting: naked, in position, trembling, so terribly alone, isolated, utterly vulnerable, waiting in awful dread, on the alert for noises in the hallway, their voices brash as they talked and joked among themselves, horribly casual and cheerful as they arrived to do terrible things to me.

They turned up when they felt like it; it was me that had the timetable, the strict instructions— they did what they liked, so that one time I had waited two hours, desperately trying to recall my work schedule that morning, not daring for a second to break position, check my phone, to send an excuse.

When they did arrive it was first a case of wondering who it was— without ever looking at their faces; the three that had raped me that first day were not the only ones, and on the fourth day I recognised neither of the two who arrived; simply had to assume that since these complete strangers knew where I lived, that my door would be open, they were entitled to do whatever they wished to me. It was horrible to know of myself that I had submitted to that; that to them I was nothing; nothing more than an anonymous naked whore, to be humiliated, manhandled, bound and whipped.

The mental distress of those first few minutes was in some ways the worst; no matter that it happened every day— it felt like the first time each morning; impossible that these things were going to be done to me; that I was going to serve them, help them as they hurt me and shamed me and degraded me, impossible that I was naked for strangers, that I had to move for them as they manhandled me, pushed their hands into my most tender, private parts, using me as of right, without the slightest hesitation or consideration.

Then came the Delicious part; serving them breakfast, answering their questions— which were about all sorts of things— my childhood, my work, what I’d enjoyed in school, my first sexual encounter, what books I was reading, all while one or other of them had his fingers inside me, or was playing with my breasts.

It was, of course, only a matter of time before Delicious failed; either she was insufficiently sexually inviting or not sufficiently entertaining in her responses (You’re to make them go crazy, miss, so they can’t resist you, have to have you, to the point where they will rape you; that’s a hard requirement; if you’re not up to the mark, it’s a thrashing for you, pretty; and we’ll make you scream, too, don’t you worry!), or she somehow crossed the invisible line they had and got called ‘whore’ (Delicious needs to stay ladylike, no matter what; she’s not a slut or a trollop; it’s the gentlemen who make her a whore. If Delicious crosses the line, she’s failed, and she’ll be treated like the dirtiest, lowest street skank, to teach her a lesson. If she fails too often, she’ll be disposed of, handed over to someone who will use her like the dirtied fuck-bucket she will have become).

Either failure would trigger the morning’s beating, the inevitable terror of my life, the centre of my existence, the appalling, relentless imposition which also held the truth of me; that both Delicious and Whore were roles I might be allowed to play, but that my real condition was something else; something that was being both forged and revealed by pitiless cruelty. Pitiless cruelty which I was required, every day, to explain my understanding of; why I deserved it, why I needed it, why it must be part of my life forever.

At first, I had to be shown the lines on a piece of paper, but now I knew them by heart, and could recite them, sometimes trying to smile, as pretty and sexy as Delicious could make it, other times despairingly, as a beaten whore, in whatever state of tear-stained, broken misery she might be;

“I have chosen to cede all rights and privileges regarding my body and its uses to my owner, Sir D. I know that I will constantly be failing to acknowledge this fully in my actions and thoughts. Brutal cruelty on a regular basis will be needed to remind me of my reality, which is that I am no longer a full person. I need to be whipped, hard, without mercy or meaning. Please, Sirs, destroy me.”

And they made good on this with clinical thoroughness.

Along with the wondering who it was who had arrived, the hardest other part of the morning was the time between my failure and the beginning of the whipping (whipping was awful, but so all-consuming that it seemed to exist in some alternate universe).

Between these two low points, I got to play act at being Delicious; and it was increasingly obvious, to me and to them (they commented on it, laughing at me), that I did not hate being Delicious; that, even with the shame and the fear strong and burning inside me, the business of being naked for them, trussed up in garter belt, stockings and heels, serving them, leaning into their crude gropings, of walking seductively for them, of bending at the hip, legs parted, setting my breasts to sway, just so, right there for them at eye level, or reacting suavely but invitingly to even a stinging slap on the behind— that all that was not just something which made me feel better, gave me some small feeling of meaning, of validation; also that it was turning me on, powerfully. I could not hide my arousal either, was not permitted to hide it— only filter it through Delicious; let it be in my eyes, the fluttering of my lips, the lingering, trembling caress from my hands as I handed over a coffee, the appreciative and acknowledging pass of my eyes across their crotch as they sat back, the bulge of their erections, the way I knelt, face-down, ass-up, to wipe up the tiniest of drips or crumbs, knees wide apart, hips softly grinding, advertising the pinkness and hot moistness of my slit.

All that was both humiliation and pleasure and I was leaning into it as hard as I could, wanting to be good, wanting them to see that I was for real, that I did— really did— want them to fuck me, fuck me as brutally as they had on the day of the rape, because underneath the sweet and giggly play acting of Delicious, I really was a needy sex-slave, a vulnerable nymphomaniac; a girl for whom the only true validation was to be fucked, and fucked hard.

All too soon, though, there would be something which had them go quiet and then my heart would race and the shakes would begin as they smiled at me; cold, cruel, smiles, their hands on me as they told me just how I had failed, gave me clear advice on how to do better, which I would be hearing through a roaring in my ears, as my body dealt with the reality that once again the impossible was going to be proven true— that I was going to be savagely thrashed, treated as a creature with neither rights nor privileges.

The cruel lines of the little mantra were true; every day, the reality of being whipped, whipped until I became desperate, hysterical, could not bear it, but forced to bear it; every day, every time, it reset me.

Ridiculously, but repeatedly, I would attempt to be stoical— to accept the whip with only the minimum necessary fuss. Each day I had vowed that I would be stronger, not so pathetic, but in truth I could not bear it; not any of it; not the wait between blows, not the sound of the thing hissing toward me, not the horrible, burning, impossible shock of the slash across my soft skin, not my own pathetic thrashing and screaming, not their crude and casual jokes, not the desperate attempt to quiet myself; all of it was beyond appalling, beyond reality; a terrible place outside the world that they could take me to, a place where I was helpless; immobilised and destroyed, no matter what I said or did or needed.

I could not control myself for more than a few strokes; it horrified me; I would never, ever become accustomed to the unreality that I, a high-status woman in a civilised country, a well-brought up, highly paid lawyer, was being put to this terror.

Even when I did manage to hold on longer, this simply meant that the whipping became more damaging— since they never stopped until they had reduced me to animal thrashing, hysterical despair, babbling, moaning, pleading for mercy, offering to fuck them, begging to suck their cocks, anything; anything, for even one less stroke of the terrible whip.

They didn’t seem to care about the noise. And in truth, none of my neighbours ever came to see if there was anything wrong. I had hardly spoken to any of them for months. Since things had gotten serious with R, I had become intensely shy of people who knew me— who could not help but notice the profound change in me, the scandalous clothes I wore, ask questions… questions to which I doubted my ability to give convincing answers.

It seemed that my neighbours had figured out enough, though, to no longer want to know me, either.

And of course I was shyer than ever, even less wanting to face any questions; scurrying in and out, down the back stairs, to avoid facing anyone.

I was alone, and, in my shame, was isolating myself even more; increasingly lonely, abandoned, a victim, estranged from the herd by my victimhood, with no possible way back.

Afterwards, my vistors would watch me, in my bonds, as I calmed myself, working desperately, hopelessly at it, with whatever meagre resource I had left— for two reasons. First, the shame of being so utterly broken, naked, in front of grinning strangers, knowing that I deserved what they had just done to me, was impossible to live with; self control was at least something to scrape from the rubble of my self-respect. Secondly, if I failed to control myself quickly enough, they would conclude that I needed to be beaten more, to be more fully broken.

When I had finally shown them that I was fit to be freed, then they would prove to me how different I was, now, to how I had been before, as they had me become Delicious again; serve them more coffee, encourage them to touch me, would push me around, not violently, but insultingly, to see how soft and vulnerable my response was.

And it was true, I was changed; no matter how much I could argue to myself that I should hate them for what they had just done to me, how they had shamed and terrorised me— in reality, each and every time, I was ‘better’ (better for them, better for Sir D.— and so, with a sick sensation, I had to accept, better for me, too); softer, sweeter, focused more completely on them, pathetically devoted to their pleasure, sensitive to their slightest hints, eager to be entertaining (as a sex-toy), wanting to make it obvious to them just how much I wanted them to fuck me, no matter that they had just beaten me cruelly. And it was real; I felt it, deeply, breathlessly needy for the sexual usage which was the only thing which could make sense of me.

They would have me thank them, then, very clearly, on my knees; my voice would be rough, hoarse, throaty after all the screaming, but also very sincere, very heartfelt.

And then they would laugh at me, say something patronising and belittling and walk out, leaving me in the softest, weakest despair— a deep sadness which— in my perversity— I was learning to treasure, to feel grateful for; the sensation of having been utterly defeated, my reality laid bare, my acceptance of the horrors of it at a maximim; the condition of a fully accepting slave.

The feeling which made sense of the mantra. It took being whipped so cruelly to get me to this state, where my ignominy, my destruction, could feel sweet and lovely.

True madness, but my truth.

And then the real world would impinge, the feeling would dissolve, and, in a gray fog, I had to begin my day again, get myself ready to go and be a lawyer at work, before coming home to obsessively prepare myself, to work on myself, to be better the next morning.

In the whole week, I had only the hours of night when I was not busy, when there was time for feeling; I would lie there, desperate for sleep, but unable to close down, as vivid, astonishing scenes from the day replayed themselves in my mind, experiences which had lasted only a few seconds obsessing me for long, traumatic periods, reliving just how I had been diminished, my self-image further degraded, my trust in myself eroded (why trust this mind which had willingly offered up its body to such awfulness? Why trust this body which responded so urgently, so wantonly, to brutally intimate caresses from strangers?).

At last, sleep would take me, but my dreams were always troubling; dark and disturbing, and then the alarm would ring at 5 for it all to start again.

Sleep deprivation is used by cults, to mentally destabilise new converts; I was being brainwashed, and, even though I knew it, knew how it was being done, I was helping them do it to me, wanting to become what they wanted of me, in the hope of becoming what Sir D wanted of me.

When they had told me about the rendezvous with Sir D, I had been both stupidly grateful, and filled with a new fear; fear of failure; each day it had been shown to me that I was inadequate, that my ability to play the role of Delicious was weak, fragile. This chance gave me both hope and terror.

I did a hundred things, little and small, many of them over and over, re-doing what was already the best I could manage, in the hope of improvement, everything to prepare myself, to give him, as best I could, what I hoped he wanted; to show him that I did not need to be whipped anymore, that I could be the Delicious he wanted; that I could the slave I had offered myself as, open to him without reserve.

I had suffered all that, made all the efforts I could, but he had not been satisfied; had hardly looked at me, even.

All my hopes— even my shameful, fearful hopes; that he might choose to rape me, for instance, that I might be allowed to kneel and take his cock into my mouth, that he might beat me even— none of these had stood even a remote chance; he had not even touched me. He had basically never touched me, apart from a few almost contacts of the meaninglessly polite and constrained kind, as he dismissed me at the Hotel. How could I be his sex slave if he didn’t even want to touch me?

Walking, I despised myself for my failure; a black abyss opening up in my mind. What might become of a girl who had let such a crew of degenerates rape her, then daily enter her home, tie her up, naked, and whip her until she could not contain her despair, a girl who, despite all that, was still not deemed worthy of her owner’s slightest attention, let alone his touch; a million miles from being used for sex, for what I needed, which was for him to fuck me.

It wasn’t that I didn’t understand what he was doing to me; I was still a lawyer. I understood the tactic all too well; had used it myself on difficult customers; frighten them, demand enormous efforts from them, then, once that had been accomplished, when they were cowed, when they had slaved to deliver what I had demanded and realised how incompetent they were, how little they understood, it was to be spurned— casually dismissed as insufficient, insignificant, not good enough. Then, the real demands could be made, advantage taken.

He had done exactly this to me; he wanted more from me. I understood it. But knowing the game he was playing made no difference at all to how it felt; how my mouth tasted of bile, how hard I found it, standing on the street corner, waiting for men to approach me as instructed— found it incredibly hard not to step out in front of the large truck that was sweeping past, not to take the coward’s way out, not to simply give up.

For I had given myself over to him; it was his right to play games with me, no matter how much it might hurt me. I had already accepted that my whole relationship with him would be that of a toy to its owner— everything would be a game to him, while to me he was my whole existence; his idle fun was to be my life or death. It was that simple.

For this was not some business or legal arrangement; this was my meaning, if I was to have any; that I was his.

Everything else had been purged from me by R, and when he had lost interest in me, my meaning had, in the course of an hour, over a single lunch, been transferred, lock, stock and barrel; transferred and cruelly simplified, across to Sir D, with my pathetic and deeply felt consent— consent which, over the course of the following week of destruction, been translated into urgent, existential need.

And it was not him who had done this to me; not at the bottom of it all— everything he had done to me was on the basis of that willing, specific, detailed consent.

It was on me; I had done it to myself … and that was the source of the bitterness. No-one had forced me, not without my implicit permission at least (be honest, ‘implicit desire’). I had not been forced into the alleyway, not been forced to follow them to that yard, after they had raped me, so that they could degrade me again. I could have had the locks changed on my flat; gone to stay in an hotel; any number of things that any normal woman, any sane person would have chosen, rather than submit to even a fraction of what I had experienced.

Somehow, I had wanted it, right from the start (the question of whether I still wanted it was not worth asking: I had been changed, destroyed, made incapable of knowing, anymore, what I wanted; reduced to survival mode.) And when R had become bored of me— found me too easy, probably— also too needy— he had handed me over to D, without asking my opinion. And I? I had made it easy for him; my desire to be overpowered, to be controlled, to be sexually objectified responding to Sir D like a moth to a candle flame.

There was no point hiding it. It needed to be obvious that I was a whore, if I was to be fucked in the way I needed to be fucked. And that was my whole story, now. That I needed to be fucked. As they had done everything to me but fuck me that week, I had increasingly become an embodiment of that need.

I had worked with them as they imposed his will upon me, hoping that I could thus become something he would want, something he might fuck, and I had failed him; failed myself.

My despair was self-hatred. I had thought myself capable of becoming remarkable, through him, through Sir D, since he was clearly remarkable— like no-one I had ever met; like a granite cliff face; frightening, both sharp and rough, but also immensely and self-evidently reliable. If I were to be a whore (and I am a whore, a slut, a wanton, a willing, eager whore. R proved it to me, showed me that I want to be a whore, want at least some men to know that I am a total whore and treat me thus, without the slightest consideration for me as a woman, still less a person. He showed me, and I embraced it, and encouraged him to take me further, to disregard everything about me except for my sexual availability, willingness, my helpless responsiveness to disrespect, to abuse, to humiliation, to violent usage, to getting fucked).

In the moment, I experience the atrocities enacted on me as unbearable; but the stark reality is that I asked for this, asked for it all.

Never, not once since the rape (and I had voluntarily entered the alley, having been told that I would be raped), not once had I seriously struggled, defended myself, or really doubted the right of any of them to defile and abuse me at will.

So this is my failure; I want to be Delicious — will grovel and beg to be allowed to be Delicious, knowing that he will put Delicious in places where my whore-self will be treated as it deserves to be, as it needs to be; I want to be his Delicious Whore because he can deliver that life to me— and … and I want it so much; to make it bearable to know myself as a whore, to know that I need to be treated like a whore… to keep myself from simply going to the street and selling myself, I need D.

But I had failed to meet his standards.

Things were brutally simple now: without his attention, without him using me; fucking me, raping me, whipping me— anything at all from him; without that, nothing about me made any sense any more. I should need to end myself.

I would have begged, at that moment, begged on my knees to experience the awfulness of that first gang rape all over again, rather than suffer the crushing despair of having given my life away for nothing.

The truck had passed: I was too weak to end myself, even; too lacking in resolution; after all, I had given away my right to self-determination; how should I choose to give myself the freedom of death? It was no longer my right.

I lifted my head, desperate, looking for a man, any man, and saw only a street sweeper, an ugly, blank-faced hulk of a man. But a man. And I found myself moving for him. Moving as I had never done before I had met R, moving as I had never done except in private, for R; blatant, but subtle, too, I moved so that (I hoped) the street sweeper could not help but look at me.

I dared not look at his face, but stared obviously at his groin, as I had been told, and I parted my lips— just enough to be obvious, unnatural enough to attract attention, but delicate; I extended my tongue; slowly, keeping it soft, laying it on my lower lip, curling the tip up, letting it move, just lightly, and when my breath caught at the obvious, shameful way I was behaving, I let that take me too, so that my chest rose and fell, my breasts moved in the thin cotton of my dress, so that he must see that I wore no bra.

But I did nothing else; I was not a street whore, brazen, tough; I was a sex slave, helplessly needy and weak.

He looked up, his eyes dull, uninterested, then went back to his work, passed me by.

I am worthless, even as a whore.