The Story of S Pt16.

You will want to have read the earlier parts of this story first.

This story is rated 4-🌶🌶🌶🌶 because of some hard words about possible future suffering, not because of anything which happens.

Bruised in every aspect of her being, reeling from assaults on multiple levels, Essy is utterly depleted by what has been done to her, physically weakened, morally diminished, psychologically stunned at her own abject complicity and submissiveness. At the same time, she is squirmingly aware that there is also pride in her— pride that she had managed herself, that she had been able to stay the course, that she had not let Mark down.

Once left to herself, though, Essy slowly crumples, as if her bones have turned to jello, big tears welling slowly in her eyes, soft shivers rapidly becoming violent shaking as the extremity, the extent of what she has just allowed Francesca to do to her really begins to land— as the implications bite;

It really is not just Mark; he had not exaggerated— there are many of them, and if Francesca is representative, they are all as brutal and greedy and uncompromising as he. Something Francesca had said to her replayed itself in her head; when you’re with us, you’ll have nothing; no ‘phone, no keys, no money, basically no clothes either, often with your wrists bound behind your back ; only a crazy person would allow herself to be put in such a position with such as these!

And yet this is what I am planning to do; asking to be allowed to do.

She is breathing rapidly, somewhere on the verge of hysteria, just about controlling herself, channeling it, channeling the energy, helped but also deeply disturbed by the knowledge that the lovely is in the mix of her feelings, by the insanity of the sensation of joy in her, of relief. The crazy reality that being permitted to submit herself to a well-organised club of cruel sadists feels welcome, as if will make things easier, that she finds it infinitely preferable to being alone in the excruciating limbo which has been her lot for weeks.

She feels weak— physically weak, exhausted by the abuse, by the effort of compliance, the pain— but also, much more poignantly, so very weak mentally, too; jittery and hopeless inside; I’m like a rag doll in their hands. I feel my vulnerability, so sharply, at all times, my helplessness… and yes, it’s exhilarating, there’s something magical about being so powerless, at the mercy of a sophisticated sadist; but it’s dangerous; so terribly dangerous. I should. I should do what Francesca says— walk away; she’s right; I know she’s right; I mustn’t do this. I’ve looked over the precipice; Mark and now Francesca have been very direct in showing me how badly they will treat me; hurt me terribly, rape me violently, humiliate and degrade me and make me ask for more, they’ve told me clearly that they will do worse if I let them— if I ask them to.

I need to step out; everyone who knows me would beg me to step out… it’s so obvious that this is going to be awful for me, that it will ruin me— that they want it to ruin me … and … and I don’t know that I can take much more. What if … what if I let them do more and they … then they tell me they don’t want me?

Why? Why do I so want to let them have me? Because I can’t face the world on my own terms? Well then maybe just step in front of a bus— save everyone the bother, if I’m so doomed…

She stopped, as the other voice in her head spoke; This is all talk. You’re allowed, of course; but talk is cheap. You know you’d chase her down the street, begging if you had to. You’re just frightened. Again, it’s allowed— you’d be mad not to be frightened. If you give yourself to her, then one day, eventually, she’s going to do something like cut your nipples off with kitchen scissors; she basically told you; maybe your clitoris, too. You should be scared. Your life is over— we know it; but we do have choices: long, slow and brightly coloured, with lots of fucking and wild intensity along the way, or drowning in greyness, or, of course, the bus— instant blackout.

Into her misery, out of some recess a new horror bursts onto her then; ridiculous that it should matter, but it hits her terribly hard: Charles. Charles is obviously one of them. Agonies multiply; Charles’ treatment of her was for some reason especially, consistently, horrifyingly repellent to her; every memory she has of his usage of her is without the slightest redemption; utterly soul-crushing.

Charles will have total freedom with me, and I will have to strive to please him; I will smile, and giggle, and shimmy, say ‘please Sir’ and ’thank you Sir’ or suffer even worse. I’ll come for him in awful circumstances if he tells me to, just as I did for Mark; I’ll have no choice. That’s why being beaten will make sense; because I’ll have unbearable shame to exorcise.

Her skin crawled.

Essy is suffocating, her tears dripping, unable to bear her reality, wanting Mark, needing him so badly, knowing he won’t come; that if he did he would be the same— or worse— than Francesca. And that she can’t have him, anyway, never again as it had been those few intense days. He is done with her unless she gives herself to them. If she walks away she’ll never see him again, never have his hand between her legs again, never have him kiss her, or grab her breasts, or fuck her; nothing, if she doesn’t sort herself out, right now.

And even if she does, Mark will be different with her; she won’t ever be special to him again, never be new, she’ll never be exclusively his. Silly bitch, you were never special to him, never ’exclusive’ either— he had you gang-raped right off the bat; you’re just a weak and vulnerable victim he found one day and decided to take down for a bit of entertainment. A stupid girl who got mesmerised by the possibility of intensity with him, and has lost herself forever.

Greyness and despair grind at her, and the prospect of walking out into the path of an oncoming bus begins to seem the only one.

Until something happens; like magic, soft and light, there’s a hand between her shoulder blades; gentle, undemanding, and somehow kind. She knows it is kind, and the voice is kind and soft; light, too, but with a core of seriousness. It’s low pitched, young, not definitively identifiable as either masculine or feminine.

“You’re thinking about the pain, aren’t you? About the torture?”

A pause, during which it sinks in to Essy; that this is the first thing someone she has never seen before says to her, that they should be correct. That they should see her like this, know what it means about her.

I probably should die, rather than have this be true.

But, all unlooked-for, the thought is immediately followed, deep in her chest, by a soft and welcome flood of relief - full of pain and despair, yes, but also like a balm; I am not alone; there are others like me!. It’s so sharply tragic that there is another young woman here, with her, who knows; someone else subject to such rending shame, also susceptible to heartless, brutal cruelty…

… but there is comfort, too; such guilty comfort…

“O is tortured. Whipped, raped, tortured and mutilated, stripped of all self-respect, until she rips herself apart for them, and loses everything. They want us to rip ourselves apart, and then they’ll torture us, mutilate us, too, if we let them; they demand more from us than O, who just accepts without knowing; they’ll have us ask them for exactly what they want to do to us. Torture us: between our legs, at the points of our breasts, our asses; you might not be thinking it, but in our mouths, too; lots of suffering there; repeated shocks in the throat from a cattle prod while being ass-raped looks like a life-changing experience to me; and not for the better.”

The tone is serious, saying such terrible things, but also matter-of-fact. These are realities, likely occurrences in their futures. Essy’s mouth twists; the fear, the awful certainty of such things, the weakness, the appalling weakness in the face of such a future, confirmed now by another, one who knows…

“That’s it, isn’t it? It’s so horribly frightening to think about; to know it’s going to happen to you, that you’ll have walked right into it, asked for it, even though, at the time, you’ll be utterly unprepared for it, because it is impossible to prepare for such things; one can only discover, afterward, that one has survived them. We are utterly unable to properly contemplate torture, let alone control ourselves through it.”

“That’s why they do it, of course; to destroy, inside us, deep inside us, any last flicker of an idea that we might aspire to anything, ever again— not even protection of the most intimate, fragile parts of our own bodies.”

Slowly, Essy turns her head to see who it is who is talking to her, and finds it’s a girl, younger than she— perhaps only 18; it’s hard to tell, she has such a soft and rounded face, such perfect skin (later, Essy will find out that Luly is nearly 20). At the same time, though, her eyes are old, and the set of her brow is serious, calmly intent.

She’s dressed like an innocent, in a pretty short-sleeved summer frock, buttoned to the neck; she wears flat-soled sandals, has loose ringletty hair, softly plaited at the back, and a cute little shoulder bag. There is no discernible make-up. A fresh daisy talking about hellish things as if they are normal.

She stops speaking when Essy’s eyes meet hers, and smiles; a small, sad, careful smile, but singularly sweet and tender, accepting.

There’s a soft and gentle silence; it lasts until something has passed between them; some sympathy, some knowledge, even if Essy could not say what the substance of that knowledge is.

“It’s impossible, isn’t it? To know that they’ll have the power of life and death over us; pain and joy, terror and peace, and that they will use that power to destroy us, in service of their horrid sadistic perversions. To know that we’re going to ask them to be merciless as we surrender to them.”

After another silence, horror growing in Essy’s chest, a question forces itself from her;

“You … you’re …” she can’t form the words, but the girl understands at once, and softly expostulates, smiling just a little, blushing suddenly— '

“Oh, no, not … not yet, not me. I … I’ve begged, but … but they say I’m too young. I … I can only watch, sometimes. And … and I get spanked, sometimes, in … in all my clothes. Everyone watches. I … I feel it, very strongly, even … even though it’s nothing to … to what you …”

“That … that’s my torture, now; jealousy.”

“You … you want it?”

“Oh yes. They … they already have me, I’ve told them, so it’s just a matter of time until I’m screaming and crying and begging and thrashing around in terror, being violently gang-raped until I’m ruined, too. I’ll beg them to brand both my breasts, and … and my sex, too.”

The girls stops, her breathing confused for a second, before she composes herself to continue;

“My … my sister’s best friend gave … gave herself to them last year and … well, I found out, and made a fuss, and I got in a lot of trouble, but I don’t care and I went to see Francesca— Madam— and took my clothes off and asked her to whip me, and … well, when she sent me away I went to the Mechanic and he … well, he raped me, very … very hard and … damaged me and … that was … well, that was … awful and … and … perfect. And now I’m like a vestal virgin— except I’m not a virgin since … since the Mechanic, but I help … everyone, until … until it’s my turn.”

“You … you’re jealous of … of me?”

The girl’s face is very intense, then; “You’ll never know; what she did to you just now— something … something … hard, I know, and … and what she’s done to your clothes… Your … your pretty cunt is all swollen and red and I’m sooo jealous, yes. You … you’ll never feel it like I do, because you don’t have to wait; wait while knowing just … just how hard it will be; It’s … it’s very … It … eats at me. I … I’m not allowed to … to touch myself. Not even a little bit.”

Another long silence, then, as Essy’s mind goes wild, uncountable paradoxes, unacceptables, awfulnesses rushing through her head, all impossible, no time to pay attention to any of them; a couple of times, she tries to speak, but nothing comes out; her mouth can’t seem to form words.

The girl speaks again, filling the void, soft and gentle again, but just as serious;

“I’m Luly, by the way. And … well, I’m supposed to make it very clear to you that you should look after yourself, and go home now. You might think you want this, but, honestly, you probably don’t really need it. You … you can have a wonderful life.”

“If … if nothing else, imagine having to watch them destroy me, in a year or so; I … I really am sweet and innocent; no-one I’m at uni with would think I’m anything else but a nerdy swot. I’m boring and normal and shy except … except for this … this urge in me, and … and the disgusting things the Mechanic did to me, and … and they’ll use my innocence to … to make it really fun for them, and … and really very hard for me… It will probably be very bad to watch. They make us watch, you see; to frighten us more, make us suffer mental torture before it’s our turn.”

“You … you really think I should go? Walk … walk away?”

This time it is Luly’s turn to be silenced. She holds Essy’s eyes with hers, but her own come in and out of focus, and tears shine for a few moments before she blinks them away, and her voice is breathy and raw and very soft as she says;

“Honestly?”

Essy breathes, hard;

“Yes, honestly. Please.”

“I think … for … you, yes, you should go. Yes. Right away, and don’t look back. Of course you should. No-one, no-one ever should be destroyed this way. They … they are very twisted people, and they have done too much to other girls to ever turn back. You … you are very close to the point of no return, after which … well, it’s all over bar the screaming, as they say.”

The girl’s chest heaves, her eyes shine with unshed tears; her attempt at a jokey phrase has backfired on her, it is obvious; she is having a hard time, and so too is Essy, looking anywhere, now, but at the fresh and innocent girl acknowledging that she is doomed to a life of cruel sexual degradation, since she, Essy, cannot offer any help, as she does not know how to free herself, either.

They both know what is coming; the inevitable, the truth of the trap they are both subject to, and, even together, they are, truthfully, fully alone with their fearful presentiments of ruin.

After a minute, Luly pulls herself together— the effort, what it costs her very visible— and her voice is almost back to normal as she says;

“But … also … Also, I think I know that you won’t. Won’t go. I think you want to know. Feel the need to know. That you can’t bear to live without knowing.”

“And … and you … I have to tell you, that that makes me … happy. Happy in the worst kind of way. I … I find it just as exciting as I do frightening, watching other girls get hurt; watching them raped and tortured. I … I think you’re beautiful, and … and you don’t deserve any of of this, but I do, I do want to see you that way; naked, tied, suffering, hatefully raped but giving yourself sweetly, hatefully raped and unable to give yourself, being brutally forced anyway; I want to see you in agony, in despair, ruined, lost, broken.”

Another long silence as both girls sit with this, not looking at each other; ashamed, both, of their complicity in each other’s degradation, of their shared, sick fascination at the thought of the other’s suffering.

“They … they like to have us girls be cruel to each other, sometimes— as well as have sex together, to entertain them and their nasty friends. I … I would like to see the pain in your eyes as I do something awful to you, because I have been told to.”

Essy is momentarily overwhelmed, yet again, by this picture of herself abused for an audience who will be savouring her degradation, who will enjoy seeing terrible things done to her; an audience including other girls. It’s like a sharp, slick knife, softly but relentlessly driving into her, this slow relentless drip of realisations, revelations, promises about the clever, intricate brutality of what she is giving herself into, each new push of the knife a new stab of pain, the smooth intimacy of it seeming almost loving, making the hurt so terribly complex, carrying with it the dark undertow of certainty that the damage it does is permanent, cumulative, irreversible.

Luly reaches out and strokes Essy’s hair, gentle and kind, until Essy can focus her eyes again, then brings more;

“Since you’re not running away, then, sweetie, I am to ask you, will you let me give you an orgasm now— stream it live from my ‘phone— so they can see how sexy you are, how willing?”

The knife has immediately been pushed a little further in. It will never stop, and she knows it, until, one day, it will reach the heart of her, the damage will be too much, and she will be ended by it; ended by this cruelty. The thing is, the realisation crystallises in her mind, given that I am not going to ‘run away’, there is no other way to live with this than to seek that end; to welcome the knife, to ask it in, to offer myself to each step it takes toward impaling me; the only relief is yet more intensity.

And so, with wonder in her voice, Essy asks for something she does not want; asks in a voice both weak and strong. Weak, as it lacks all emphasis, is spoken in a wondering tone, full of apprehension, strong, because it throbs with sincerity;

“Yes. Yes, please … please let me show that I am willing— very willing.”

“The thing is, that you have five minutes. Five minutes to come, and no faking. If you aren’t there by then, I have to ruin it for you— hurt your clitoris, just as Madam Francesca did before; it will be very bad to suffer that again.”

Another little stab, perfectly timed, cruelly irresistible, immaculately degrading; Essys’ eyes grow wide— Luly is already holding up her ‘phone, capturing the moment;

“You need to say ‘yes’; ‘yes, please’, in fact.”

By this point there is nothing else which Essy’s battered psyche can imagine but compliance, and the video shows her pathetic, putting together a shaky, transitory sketch of a willing smile, records her hoarse, smokey voice (her throat will not fully recover from the damage done by the metal handrail for weeks) saying;

“Yes, please, do … do it to me.”

“Oh! I don’t think I got that perfectly! Can you say it again, in one… two… three …”

Essy can’t help herself from making an extra effort this time, her smile a little stronger, her voice a little sweeter.

“Very good, now, I’m just going to zip-tie your wrists, so face down, please, arms crossed behind you, sweetie; I have one already looped here, so I can do it one-handed while I film, but it may take a minute. You should spread your knees wider, though— real wide; no excuses for forgetting that; when at rest, knees a little further apart than is comfortable— always be pushing yourself to open your pretty cunt, offer it; make it clear what you are, that you’re available for raping, that you want people, strangers, everyone, to think about raping you.”

It is deeply disturbing to Essy how good it feels to be ordered, and then to comply with her orders, to be given the chance to sweetly demonstrate her willingness to please, to advertise her shame; but it’s inescapable; she feels better, face down in the dirt, exaggerating the spread of her thighs as Luly films her for god knows what purpose, how many watchers.

It’s good to be controlled. It feels safe.

Matter of fact, then, casual, as if it were perfectly normal, Luly drops into a kneeling position on Essy’s back, landing between her shoulders, her whole weight coming down hard, grinding Essy’s soft breasts into the broken pavement, so that she grunts in pain. Luly holds Essy flat this way until she is tied; one would be shocked to see a dog treated so— more like a farm animal, Essy finds herself thinking, tasting dirt on her lips, tasting desolation, finding no strength in her to imagine it is not deserved.

“Woohoo! got it first time. Yes, I understand you squeaking; it’s the thinnest kind, and see-through, perfect for walking in the street— no-one would know unless they looked carefully— but because it’s so thin, it really cuts in when it’s pulled tight— and Madam F asked to make it horrid for you, very tight, so I’m sure it hurts. You’ve got about half an hour, I’d guess, before your hands start turning blue, so let’s not mess about; Madam has a little knife to cut you free if she wants to, but we need to be with her to give her the choice, and we want her feeling charitable towards you, don’t we?”

“So up with you, now! I know its hard to stand with tied hands, but do try and look elegant and fuckable for everyone! Remember you’re still on test, here. I hope you’ve been working on yourself to get a head start on the five minutes.”

Essy’s heart is trip-hammering; there is no end to these impositions; after weeks of quiet, to be plunged again into relentless, atrocious demands; she has had no attention to spare to ‘work on herself’, and is filled with fear— five minutes to achieve an orgasm, in such degrading and unsexy circumstances, all while absorbing the shock of having her wrists bound so painfully behind her; she’s unbelievably jittery as Madam’s handmaiden positions her at the bottom of the concrete steps, then lifts her right leg from behind the knee, and hooks it over the handrail, so that Essy is trapped, her groin painfully split, forcing a sob of distress and shame and pain from her as Luly moves to stand behind her, the phone in her left hand, on a selfie stick, her right hand snaking round to open the zip of what remains of Essy’s jeans; the tiny excuse for a skirt falls open at the groin, and Luly’s small, cool fingers are unhesitatingly direct and efficient at Essy’s sex; gentle and clever and busy, plunging immediately between her inner lips to discover the warmth and moisture remaining there from Madam Francesca’s earlier invasion, making Essy gasp and wail in shame.

Luly’s voice is in her ear;

“Look at the camera, pretty, open your lips just like I’m pulling your cunt open; show them your tongue tip, let them see what you’re feeling; your feelings are not private, either, you know; not now, not ever again!”

“Get yourself into the right place, sweetie; think about Mark’s hands on you, in you; you liked that, didn’t you? I’ve seen it; so sexy— so brutally demanding with you! Take yourself there, forget everything but the feeling, the reality that I am pleasuring you, that you asked for it, that this is what you get for asking, this is where you are, this is what you are now, all that you are now; just cunt; give yourself to it.”

“I like your clit, darling; so big and puffy! Oooh, it’s sensitive, isn’t it— I’m not surprised after what she did to you there; still sore I bet. Well, lean into it, pretty, look for the pleasure, give yourself to it now, let go, let go, you’re just a cunt, just a sex toy, you have no modesty— not that makes any sense, at least; you want to give yourself, you need to give yourself, because otherwise you are worse than worthless, just … ooooohh! Thaaat’s it, isn’t it?”

For Essy’s hips had softly, powerfully surged, a raw sigh had escaped her, immediately followed by soft sad noises of shame and distress.

“Ohh you fucking little bitch; you dirty slut, you’re liking this, aren’t you, flashing your pussy for all the world to see, letting Luly wank you, stick her fingers right into you, so fucking easy, tease your tenderised little nubbin … Oh, a little pain works, does it, just a little? Oh yes it does, you can’t pretend to me … Move, now— move your hips, let them see how needy you are, how eager, how open, work for it, deserve it. Just a minute to go now, sweetie, so let it all go, look at the camera, don’t forget, show them what’s in your eyes as you realise you’ve lost, that you’re helpless, that you’re mine now, all mine, to use as I please, mine to push over the edge if I want…”

“Yes, I know what you want, sweetie, I can tell; ask me to hurt you, now, beg for it!”

From somewhere, Essy hears a pathetic, desperate slut begging to be hurt, begging to have her clitoris hurt, her voice soft and needy and weak, and then the pain comes and then she is over the edge, carried away with it, gone …

“There it is now, pretty, give yourself, lose yourself; it’s all over, you’ve lost, pretty, you’ve ….”

Luly’s soft voice is drowned out by Essy’s urgent, helpless cries as her orgasm overtakes her, as she jerks and quivers and moans in the intensity of it, half insensible with the release, all her pain and shame pushing their way through, needing to be exorcised, hurting and cringing and opening herself all at the same time, her cries filled with as much distress as pleasure, her arms futilely pulling at the tie which binds her wrists, hating the restraint, the helplessness, destroyed by it, heart full of blackness, tears in her eyes, knowing she has been manipulated into this shaming display, full of gratitude to Luly for giving her the pleasure, knowing she is lost, lost all over again as she shakes with the power of it, the loss of herself, her moaning and wailing cut short by the entrance of Luly’s fingers into her mouth, pushing deep, making her gag, throat convulsed, chest heaving desperately, demanding of herself that she try, at least, to show that she knows what is expected of her, tonguing weakly, tasting her own sex on Luly’s fingers.

And then, quite quickly, Luly decides it’s over, dries her fingers pragmatically on what tatters remain of Essy’s blouse, lifts the raised leg back over the railing, pulls the skirt back into position and tugs the zip up, when all Essy wants is to be allowed to sink to her knees again, to be given time; time to assimilate this new low, this new lesson; time, too, to savour the aftermath of an orgasm. But time is no longer hers to take; she doesn’t belong to herself any more.

“Come on now sweetie; no rest for the wicked! You’ve got ten seconds to get ready to walk, now, or I’ll report that you disobeyed me and you’ll be punished.”

It is said with an impish smile, but Essy knows that she is serious; knows too, that she will want to have her revenge on Luly, in time; kiss the girl and hurt her and kiss her and hurt her again.

Essy lets Luly dab at her face, tear-stained and dirty from the pavement, with a perfumed wet wipe, and, blushing deeply to be so exposed in front of another girl, unable to manage the reality that Luly knows just how easily Essy was taken from fear and despair to a powerful orgasm in degrading circumstances, obeys her instructions, and walks on tiptoe to the mouth of the grimy little alley, her tied wrists requiring her to work extra hard to achieve the balanced poise she requires of herself, her thighs still quivery, her sex trembling with mixed sensations, the aftermath of both intense pleasure and intense pain, then, whether she likes it or not, she is out into the main street, all but naked, Luly following behind.

It is hard, terribly hard, but Essy is aware at the same time that she is exhilarated, energised, and she begins to really put herself into the walking, concentrate on doing it well, telling herself;

“I’m submitting, being defeated, being shamed”, trying .. actively trying now, to access the lovely, that fragile sweetness that only comes to her when things are at some particularly intense blend of cruelty, shame and defeat.

It won’t come, not quite, but it is there.

Francesca can do it to me too, even when she is not here..

The others as well, probably. Jesus I’m such easy meat for them.

She is breathless with it, half lost in a world of her own - although the knowledge that she is (un)dressed and acting like the most obvious kind of slut on a busy street is ever-present.

“It was nice to meet you, Essy.” the girl’s voice comes from behind her; “This is probably the only real conversation we will ever have. Cunt is violently discouraged from talking to other cunt. Turn left now. You walk beautifully; your tits sway so perfectly, you know. You’ll get whipped there a lot, I bet. It will be awful for you. I hope I get to see you hurt that way, hear you scream and beg, hysterical with fear. I … I hope you are there when I get branded, to see me, too, ruined beyond repair. Maybe we can bear witness to the quality of each other’s submission.”