This episode still has no sex in it, though things definitely heat up. It will make more sense if you have read the previous parts.
I don’t know how long I have been kneeling on the floor in the hallway, in some sort of daze; quite a while though, judging by how sore my knees are when I finally came out of my funk. My fearful first thought is; has anyone seen me like this? , but the place is so quiet— I have been lucky, I guess; too early for people to be coming back from work, too late for going out for the day.
I have never spent time in the hallway— you pass through on the way in or out; it is plain, unremarkable— beige, only just adequately maintained, unloved.
Strangely, though, it is OK to be there; not just OK, but good, even. To be on my knees there, with nothing, nothing but things ordained by Karsh, with all the tumult of a crazy day still powerfully present in me— but no longer urgent or shocking; the fit, whatever it was, had taken me past that. The hurt between my legs, the shame of it, the memory of Ms Stratten’s manipulation of my naked body, my meek acceptance of too many things— all these and more are still raw and harsh, but they are part of me, now. This is me— naked under a skimpy dress, my appearance altered according to his instructions, on my knees, my poor pussy hurting, with some new challenge from him in the box, and nothing else.
Picture: Chloe in the corridor Click here to reveal.
I’m in limbo, not my own space, just as it had been with that first encounter in the park; controlled in no-man’s-land, taken out of my comfort zone, past my limits even; exposed, vulnerable.
My heart thumps, but the unbearable tension has gone from me.
This is it, again. This is what it is like to be a possession, to be possessed by Karsh; raw sensation, without a plan, without initiative, just waiting. This is my life now. I am his. Ringed like an animal, passive, domesticated. It isn’t that this is ‘good’. There is in me, in a part of me, an enormous, soft sadness; a deep sense of loss, of defeat, of shame at my weak surrender; so many things I will never be or do, can never be or experience, now, because I am his, because I succumbed. But there is also a beautiful (yes, beautiful) sense of a promise of peace, of absolution.
I feel myself yearning for it; a deep, needy hunger. Yearning to be released. Released from all responsibility, forever. It had been remarkable, all day, how easy, how pleasant, how attractive, how calming it had been to be controlled, to be under gentle but absolute orders; to have no choices; for everything to have been ordained. And not just ordained, but personally ordained by my mysterious owner— the man I had spent only a couple of hours with, who was far away— but whose control seemed able to reach me everywhere. Taking care of me. Or at least taking control of me.
I shouldn’t like it, I know, but there is no point pretending that I don’t; that I don’t want more of it.
It isn’t ‘good’; in many obvious ways it is ‘bad’, very bad even. Pain, shame, disempowerment, to be controlled, sexually manipulated— these are not things a normal girl, a healthy girl, a sane girl should allow— let alone welcome, let alone want more of.
And yet they are somehow welcome to me, as the price of absolution. Today has been proof that it’s real— the strange dream of my first few days; Karsh is a force in the world, not just a force in my mind. And his force, his power, his word has operated on me, transformed me. This should mean I am closer to what he wants me for, more likely to be of interest to him, of value to him. I am still striving to pass tests for him, just as I had been that first day.
As I these thoughts flow through me, I see that this is why the tension has melted away. Those ‘bad’ things— the pain, shame, disempowerment, manipulation— they are now ‘good’ things for me, since all of them are imposed on me by Karsh; wanting to be acceptable to him, I have accepted them without demur, willingly complied, and they have changed me. I am obeying; he is moulding me to better fit his desires. Truthfully, he is investing in me— in remaking me; the changes he has will render me more attractive, more interesting to him.
The feeling of the ring at my sex is changed, now; the pain almost pleasurable. Why ring me if he does not want to identify me as his possession, if he does not want me?
Yes, I’ve been diminished today, and then further diminished, and then diminished again. Yes, I have had to accept that I will be seen by others beyond Karsh as a weak and easily manipulated sex object, and yes, too, I have been mutilated and shamed.
It is a hard bargain and a difficult bargain; I am not ‘happy’ as I rise to my feet (feeling the same requirement to strive for elegant, sexy, desirable as I had when walking from the taxi), but I am certain, however foolishly; certain that this loss, this diminishment is fitting, correct, deserved; welcome, indeed, in return for the release of being owned. I am filled, suddenly filled with gratitude, even as I tremble at the enormity of this change, the certainty in me that there is so much more which will be taken from me, from which I have yet to be released; the trembling itself beautiful, as I mentally reconfirm my acceptance of it all; of whatever he wants from me. Of my submission.
The dreamtime of the previous few days has been shattered. This is harsh, physical reality, this business of being destroyed, remade, owned. And somehow, I am committed to it, hungry for it, even with the the certainty that cruelty, humiliation such as I have been subjected to this day is just a beginning.
The prospect transfixes me; at once terrible and glorious, I’m breathless, suddenly; I can feel it between my legs, in my groin, the need to experience it; to have it forced onto me, almost yearning for the violence of it, since I am too weak and ridiculous ever to attain it by myself.
The box is unexpectedly light as I carry it into the apartment, which seems terribly cluttered after the peace and simplicity of the hallway, the cool, clinical minimalism of the therapy rooms.
All these knick-knacks, cushions, plants, pictures— things that have meant something to me are all now rendered strange, incongruous, after a single day of being Karsh’ creature; what value have they for Karsh? Do they not in fact detract from his possession of me— strong ties as they are to the old me, the me that had not yet given myself to a stranger, just because he asked me to? For them to have been made meaningless to me in such a short time delivers an obvious conclusion; that what had passed for meaning in my life is not worthy of the name. It is all just trash, my investment in these things just feeble make-believe.
The ring piercing my sex lips, that hurts with each step, that draws my attention every second or two to the fact that it is my cunt that is interesting to Karsh; his control over my cunt, over the usage of my cunt. That is real, in a way that these possessions never will be.
Without thinking, really, I go to the kitchen and collect a roll of rubbish bags, begin to clear. In half an hour I fill five sacks, mildly bemused— why do I have all this stuff?
I take them down to the street and leave them under the half roof, where people put good things out which they hope a neighbour might have a use for.
The sadness in me rises up again with a surge as I notice a photo in the last bag— me with my poor mother; one of the last we had taken together that was happy. I look at it for a few moments, letting it be, remembering the day, letting the sadness have me.
Then I turn and go back upstairs, leaving it behind, gone to me, feeling the ache, letting it hurt me that I have given my mother away, knowing it is right.
It would not have made her happy, knowing that I have given myself away to a stranger, to be made into his sex-toy. That I am wanting him to succeed in destroying me, deleting me. Best part ways now.
The sadness does not abate, but it feels necessary— useful even: I am burning myself with it. I need to burn myself clean, because myself is what is going to get in the way of Karsh’s possession of me. ‘Myself’ needs to become smaller, so that Karsh can have me more fully, so that I can lose myself to him.
So that he can destroy me.
I feel quite strange, letting those words sound in my mind. Feeling them as a blessing. How can it be so?
It’s the same thing I had just done, throwing out the last picture of my mother. I am destroying myself. So that he can have me, without myself getting in the way.
Back in the apartment, I see that there is more— much more— to be done in simplifying things, but that they will have to wait. He has sent the box; he must want me to open it; that comes next.
It is very plain, except that one inner face has a thick, matte black lining; inside is another box— smaller, sturdier, with foam blocks spacing it from the outer box. A printed note is taped to the top.
Some requests of you:
1. Please, be naked in your apartment, always. Wear only high heels and stockings, with a garter belt or waist corset. Dress and undress by the door.
2. Study yourself in the mirror. Practice walking, moving, bending, squatting. Seek elegance. Do not fear; you are already elegant; but you can improve yourself.
3. Masturbate as often as you can, but do not permit yourself to orgasm. Masturbate yourself facing the mirror, with your thighs spread wide apart. Watch your sex. Try hurting yourself as you masturbate.
Next, open the other box.
But that’s wrong, I thought; I must first strip myself naked and put on my stockings. Why had it not occurred to me already that I should be naked for him? It made perfect sense.
The thought, the reasoning, comes easily enough.
The reality is harder.
Even though I am alone, even though I’m often naked in the apartment, dressing and showering, the idea of always being naked, of this not being up to me, controlled from afar, changes everything.
I am to be his, without him knowing if I am his, by my own efforts. I will be permanently on display, even if he can’t see me. Heels and stockings will remove any pretense of my nakedness being ’natural’. A whore, naked by command, presented, always, for sex.
It is so simple, but as soon as I stand in front of the long mirror, I know that I will never feel ’natural’ again. The body I see is no longer mine, but his, and I will always be failing to present it as well as I must, for him, for his pleasure. Clothes hide so much. Being sexy, desirable when clothed is an entirely different game than being so when naked. There is nothing to work with but the body. I am used, as all woman have to come to be, used to being judged for my appearance when clothed. To be judged in this way when naked will be so much harder.
The second instruction is logical, then; I will need to train myself, practice. By watching myself in the mirror, judging myself that way.
The ring between my thighs, too; it is so big in the mirror; unmissable. My heart stops, looking at it. It is really me, ringed like that. And it really does look like a ring used on an animal— a bull or a pig; so simple and brutally functional. The sadness rises up in me again, and I have to take some very deep breaths. But I never take my eyes off the ring. He is right, of course; looking at myself— my naked body, not my face— looking at my body in the mirror like this is going to reset my self image powerfully.
Something comes to me. In my bedroom, in my pathetically small box of jewellery, there is a bracelet made of the letters G O O D L U C K. I search it out, untangle it from a thin silver chain and some overcomplicated earrings I never wear (more trash), then scrabble under the sink for the even smaller box of Ikea ‘basic tools’, most of which have long gone missing. The pliers are still there, although rusted shut until I get the bright idea of pouring olive oil on them, and eventually I work them loose. Ten minutes later, the letter ‘K’ hangs from the ring between my legs, and the rest of the bracelet is in the trash. I feel stupid and ridiculously pleased with myself at the same time.
The disturbing idea of masturbating in the mirror I will worry about later. The other box is calling.
Inside the other box are two boxes, one large, one small. The larger box is labelled '1', the other '2', so I open the larger one. Carefully trapped in a foam clamshell is one of those drone things, sitting on some sort of base station. A label says;
Plug the base in somewhere not covered over, then press the power button. Then open box 2.
The base station shows a green light when I turn it on; there is a little sequence of muted mechanical noises from inside, then silence. Fifteen seconds later, a green light on the drone comes on, and its blades start whirring— softly, but still, a high pitched buzzy sound. It takes off, vertically upwards, quite fast, and I jump in shock; it hovers, spins slowly, somehow threatening ly, on its axis, then abruptly begins to dart around the apartment, as if it is investigating— eerily methodical, though very unlike the way a cat or dog would explore. It is deeply unnerving and upsetting. I can see at least one big camera lens on it. I’m frightened, transfixed; I can hear myself whimpering. I don’t like technology.
The weirdness of everything is over-the-top again, suddenly, and hysteria grows in me, fast, as it darts and hovers; I feel myself building up to scream, my skin crawling; squeaking helplessly and jerking whenever it makes a sudden move, fixated on it, full of fear, feeling unbearably vulnerable, helpless; it’s pathetic, I know it— but I have no reserves after that day; no right to reserves, anyway, comes a voice in my head— I am his toy, just as this drone is, and if he chooses to play with me like this, then is my life, however distressing.
I can’t figure out if it is filming me or not— the camera is mostly pointing at me, but it keeps turning, and darting past me; surely it must see me? I am fighting myself the whole time not to cover my breasts, my groin, with hands or arms. I know he will not want me to, Ms Stratten does not want me to; all day, whenever I have instinctively made to cover myself, Anya has immediately— gently but very certainly— taken my hands away, holding my wrists, tucking them behind my back. I do it now, make myself take hold of my wrists, as insurance against an automatic response.
I want to be perfect; I feel it; I am failing; I feel it. It is deeply disturbing; I will never be at peace until I am completely controlled. The words come into my head like a biblical prophecy.
Tears rise, and have to be blinked away, but no matter how I try, rather quickly, I cannot stand on my shaking legs, cannot not trust them, and I sink to the ground.
As in the hallway, I shut down— on my knees, forehead to the floor, and just wait; waiting, heart pounding as if I have run the hundred metres, while the terrible machine finishes its exploration of my space. Naked, kneeling, while the instrument of his surveillance flies around me, until, at last, it returns to its base.
It all makes sense in a very crude and obvious way, but it that doesn’t make it easy to accept. There is bitter despair in me at the reality of my loss, the utter loss of privacy this imposes. Naked, but sexualised by lingerie and heels, mechanically surveilled, constantly, recordings made— presumably of anything I say as well as do. The camera view always following me. It will not just be me, judging my nakedness, my every move, but unknown strangers, Karsh himself. What was mentally challenging and deeply strange, only minutes before, is now a hundred times more intense.
I have a deep urge to protest this; it is too much, too invasive, too distressing. At the same time, I know that I will not protest; that I have no right to protest is already understood, obvious, one of the things about my situation which has simply become true, during those days lying there, not thinking— the notion never explicitly thought about, but now embedded in me.
So I have no right at all to protest— but still, must I not try? It is too awful to think about never, never ever being private, always naked for him, who knows how many others having access to whatever is being recorded. I am trembling with the prospect, sick heaves in my belly have to be suppressed.
But, no. No, I will not protest; it is a choice; a hard one. If I do not protest this, did not earlier protest the use of that crude punching tool on my tender sex lips, had just let them do it to me, what can I ever protest?
But I know, heavy like lead in my chest, that I will not protest. It can do no good to me in furthering my usefulness or desirability to Karsh. I am to become ‘very compliant, very prettily eager to please, well trained and very skilful’ there is nothing else, now.
Compliant girls do not protest, no matter what. Compliant girls make no trouble; they swallow their fear, their pain, their shame, letting it burn them inside but not showing it, swallow it all and then smile, signalling their acceptance, even if it costs them dear.
It is hard, then, for quite some time, on the floor, biting my lip, refusing to give in to tears, not letting myself off from this requirement.
I will be compliant. Always. As much for my own reasons, as for Karsh.
My heart continues to pound, but I know I have to move on to the second box. I cannot have the luxury of taking my time; I have no time; it is all his time; I have to move on, even with the distress still raw in me, still urgent.
It’s going to be like this. It has to be. I can’t be destroyed gently. It’s violent; it will hurt. I will be hurt. He wants to hurt me. Wants to enjoy hurting me. I’m going to have to let him hurt me and still serve him. I have no choice, unless I choose to stop, and that will be a complete stop. Nothing; nothing from him or with him, ever again.
The sadness almost engulfs me, and I don’t fight it; won’t fight it, can’t fight it. If I can’t be what he wants— commit as fully as he requires, knowing that it will not ever be enough, that he will see where I am failing, and work to destroy me so that I can commit more fully; those parts of me which are not fully conquered, or desirable to him are to be eliminated.
If I can’t accept this, he will discard me; it is as simple as that. I will be lost. I have not been in charge of myself, not really; not any more, not since I got into his limousine, not as long as I want anything from him. But neither have I been fully controlled, as he wishes me to be.
And what do I want from him? Truthfully, the same thing as he, I had learned in the hallway just now: I don’t want to be in charge of me anymore. I need those parts of myself which still resist to be diminished, weakened, deleted, destroyed. The peace of the hallway is what I want; defeated, empty, waiting; but this will require constant work from me, in presenting myself acceptably, to impossibly high standards.
So this awful drone thing, the nakedness, the lingerie— yes, even the masturbation in the mirror; all these and of course, more and more in the future— all these must be welcomed, accepted; more, I must learn to love them if I can, and when I can’t, at least to behave perfectly around my pain and shame and fear— be at all times prettily eager to please — no matter what. Nothing less will be acceptable.
I make myself face it, think about what I want from him, the cost to me of not having it— already the thought of going back to work seems the purest insanity; a sentence of living death. What weak remains of my family, those who pass for my friends— have any of them made any serious attempt to contact me during my absence from everything these past few days? Only half-heartedly; already they seem insubstantial to me, beside the concrete, brutal, all-encompassing realities of Karsh, the promise of being fully defeated, absolved. Ms Stratten; even Anya are more real to me now than anyone else apart from him— the memory of their touches on my skin, in my soft places immediately coming to mind in vivid hallucinatory form, making me quiver— each so different in their character, but so similar in their casual certainty; their absolute right to manipulate me.
If I want the calm of absolute defeat, and only Karsh can provide it, then the cost is not worth counting, surely?
These thoughts do not cause the sadness to abate, though; rather, that part of me which brings the sadness, holds it, demands that attention be paid— that part is to be made to realise that it will not be respected, will not be responded to.
The sadness has never gone away— my reality is that it has intensified and deepened every day; I can access it any time I wish, let it drown me in shame and regret and tears. But it cannot change anything serious, anything real. Being Karsh’ sex-toy is a reality. Sadness is just a feeling, now. Sadness is kept in a deep and tragic box, heavily reinforced and padlocked, with a one way door— I can put new sadnesses in, but they cannot get out. I can visit the box at will, suffer deeply, but will also abandon it at will. The sadnesses are trapped.
Living with it all, with hurt and shame and fear and despair, without those feelings interfering with my presentation of my body, so that I can be absolved of those feelings by sexual usage (preferably) or cruelty (all too often). That’s it, now. That’s it. Striving to be beautiful— fuckable— through it all. It’s my life’s work. I was just at the very beginning of learning, then.
I smile and wiggle and say “Yes please”, to the most terrible things, now, things I know will utterly devastate me, but my “Yes please” is soft and serious and sincere; I feel the sadness build, then simply lock it away.
I walk over to the box, as beautifully as I can. I assume the drone is watching me. I worry about my ass being tight enough. I feel the ring hurting me with each movement. I am trembling. I am Karsh’, as much as I can make myself be, knowing that it is not good enough, yearning for more.
Inside box number 2 is a neat presentation tray, which holds a matte-black object— about 4 inches long, tapered, from about one inch in diameter to about half. Like an elegant, minimalist remote control, I think, then, uncomfortably, like a dildo.
And indeed the little note says:
Put it inside you, fat end first.
