You will want to have read the earlier parts of this story first.
This story is rated 4-🌶🌶🌶🌶 because of some harsh words about possible future suffering, not because of anything which happens.
Kneeling on the lush carpet of the limo floor, legs spread painfully wide, her wrists still zip-tied behind her, her hands numb, her head encased in the black silk bag Luly had put onto her as soon as she was settled, the extent of Essy’s vulnerability hit home; all her belongings abandoned at the cafe, tied and hooded, all but naked in a car with two strangers, being driven who knew where.
This brought hypersensitive alertness and arousal, but paradoxically at the same time a feeling of calm stability she had not experienced all day.
I’m powerless; there’s nothing I can do but be; try to get through; display myself and endure, accept it all as beautifully as I can; hope that they don’t hurt me too badly.
So strange, for such a thought to be a calming one.
Her heart still beating rapidly from the burning shame brought on by her trembling walk along a busy street wearing next-to-nothing, she had meekly accepted the hood— moved, indeed, to make Luly’s job easier as she was once more treated like an animal, blindfolded to increase her docility, the effectiveness of which was immediately proven, when her sore and tenderised sex was mashed onto Madam’s pointy, silver-capped boot toe, Luly pushing her knees apart in a crudely practical manner, then pressing down, hard, at the base of Essy’s spine until she wailed with the pain from her poor abused sex; a pathetic little sound with no force in it, much more an apology for weakness than any kind of reproach. It was at once inconceivable that she could bear more treatment like this today, and unimaginable that she could protest— let alone resist; she was barely clinging on— endure and accept, as beautifully as possible.
Still, when Madam speaks, her whole body pays attention; Essy has been ruthlessly reintroduced to that state of totally surrendered dependency she had been possessed by in those days with Mark. These words are her future; attention is an urgent requirement.
“When we arrive, Luly will remove your hood; you will turn sideways, and I will cut the tie at your wrists. We will not take your hands today. There will be terrible pins and needles but you will accept the pain without fuss or untoward movement. It will be hard, but really, nothing compared to what you’ll routinely experience from now on. Mark says you can control yourself, pretty cunt; don’t let him down.”
“You will exit the car as elegantly as possible when Luly tells you to, then follow her into the hotel. Remember your modelling days, and walk with absolute assurance; your attire certainly does not meet the dress code, but of course this is a place which adores celebrity. Act as if you own the place and you will not be bothered.”
“If anyone should have the temerity to speak to you, you will channel the most arrogant of the girls you worked with, and simply say; ‘Excuse me?’, in a blank and deadening tone, without looking at them for more than a long moment. Otherwise, ignore everyone.”
“When Luly tells you to, you will arrange yourself on the corner of the low table, not on a chair, facing the man who is there to induct you.”
“You will adopt a flamboyant, wanton pose, acting out your ‘model’ persona— your thighs widely spread, of course, one leg bent back, flat on the table, the other foot on the floor; you will lean well back, supported by your hands, presenting your breasts. Ensure that your hands take your weight, so that without them, you will fall backwards. I will sit opposite you when I arrive, and I will expect your sex to be on display.”
It goes just like that; although Essy is horribly, skin-crawlingly aware that her near nakedness, the artfully ruined condition of her clothes is attracting a great deal of attention (not to mention the certain visibility of the darkening welts on her thighs and buttocks from Madam’s handbag-strap crop); Madam’s instructions carry her through— Luly and Essy are quickly approached, then silently accompanied by the floor manager, obviously nervous but evidently more interested in getting them to their destination than making any sort of fuss.
Essy is powerfully affected by the realisation that this is the same room which Mark had brought her to, where he had introduced her to Charles and David, where she had— through some wordless black magic of Mark’s, been induced into accepting that he was going to whore her to them. If I had known that they were going to be so vicious with me, would I have gone? Probably not. He handled me so well, so perfectly. I would have missed all this; and he did it without ever even speaking to me. The lovely comes across Essy, then, so poignantly that she feels tears gather; has to blink them away. It’s so hard to accept that the old Essy is lost, gone forever, evaporated, in favour of this sex-toy she is allowing herself to be made into, but it is, it is lovely to be accepting this defeat, to be walking, as sexily as she can, towards yet another ordeal, yet another step into being deprived of all control;
I feel privileged; it’s mad, but I feel it, so strongly! Mark chose me! Spent all that time with me, testing me, setting me up so that I can be this special person, be the new girl they are looking for; I get taken beyond my limits so astonishingly, time and again, get to feel this alive. I came for them all just now— so perverted, so degraded, so completely overtaken by it— I let Luly film her doing it to me, looked into the camera, let them see into my soul; they all saw just how I took it, how I did it for them, just how far I’ve come, and I think they want me, I really do! I think they’ll take me!
Yes, yes, it will be hard— just as hard as Luly says, harder, for sure, than I can imagine, but like she said, I’ll know. I’ll know what it’s like, to be taken too far, to be ruined, to be this girl that everyone here who is not dead from the neck down is watching, because I am a rape toy, and they can see that I am, that I have been used, that I have been beaten, that I have been shamed, that I am here to be raped, and still, still, here I am, asking for more, knowing that I will get it; that I will get more than I ask for, that I will be overwhelmed and … and that is what I need; to be overwhelmed, to be defeated, overcome, destroyed. Oh God Oh God they are going to hurt me so badly … I hope … I hope I last … last long enough to … I don’t know. It’s not up to me, in any case; not now. If they end me today I will have lived like this.
That’s it. That’s it. It’s not what I thought before— that the old Essy is dead, and this is a new life— rather, this is a long-drawn out death; one which I get to live through; the chance to die as beautifully as possible, giving and experiencing it to the full. I’m going to be killed. These people are going to kill me. Whether my mind or my body, I don’t know; it doesn’t matter. Oh God oh God they’re going to kill me and I’m going to help them do it so they enjoy me to the max.
How can I let those words be in my mind and not start screaming? How is it that they are lovely to me? That I am going to be freed, freed from everything. How can that not be lovely, to be selected for such special treatment, such careful, meticulous, destruction? To have so much effort and care expended on me; as long as I can be what they require me to be— a willing, complicit, desirous victim?
Such are the endlessly looping thoughts, dark and sweet by turn, both helpless and swooningly intense, which are all Essy has to sustain herself with as she follows Luly across the large room, her new high-heeled wedges, strapped to her legs, heavy and hard to walk in, requiring short, rapid steps if she is to keep up; clacking loudly on the mahogany floorboards, the attendant rapid switching of her hips, the exaggerated sway of her unfettered breasts attracting more attention. It is stupid, but Essy is still entranced by the amount of the money Madam had spent on her in the intimidating boutique, on a single pair of shoes. She had felt her disreputable near-nakedness very strongly there, too, while they had talked about her as if she were not present — I guess, to all intents and purposes, she had thought, I’m not; not really. Since there’s nothing I have to say to anything, nothing I will do that I’m not ordered to do, I’m of no account at all; just an emptiness waiting to be fucked or hurt. Wanting to be fucked.
This last had been brought home to her quite powerfully, as Essy felt the way the proprietress of the shop was looking at her while Essy was preoccupied with the business of having the shoes fitted, with the discomfiting certainty that the young girl who was doing the fitting could not but be seeing her naked sex, how puffy and raw it was, the lurid crimson stripes from Madam’s crop across her buttocks and thighs, nothing to be done about any of it but to endure the shame.
The older woman, though, was not looking up Essy’s skirt, but at her face, at her all but naked breasts; staring, gimlet hard. Essy was of course not looking back, but the sexual intent of the woman’s interest was unmissable, and Essy discovered that she was changed. Just this morning she would have said that she had no sexual feelings for women, but Madam and Luly had swept that away through two short and violent intensities; Essy was now very much aware of a hot physical response in her to the idea that this woman was thinking about sex with her.
More, too, there was this new reality, that her own interest was irrelevant; that should Madam offer her to the woman, Essy would do her best to comply, to satisfy any demand, however perverse, without question. The immediate possibility that she could be given, as simply as that, to a random person, with the promise of unrestricted sexual service was transfixing— both stomach-churningly disturbing and intensely energising; she could feel her pulse accelerating, knew that the woman watching her must see the blush rising to her cheeks, colouring the upper slopes of her breasts, the throb at the base of her neck, and know; know that her predatory gaze had met with weakness, with possibility, with open-ness. She felt, rather than saw the woman’s mouth twist into a smug, tight sneer, felt the burn of it, and made herself welcome it, made herself shift on the couch, open her legs wider— no matter the nearness of the girl kneeling at her feet, lacing the ribbon-ties around Essy’s calf; Luly had instructed her— 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, and Essy felt herself required to at least try and give satisfaction. Madam was somewhere, she knew not where, but she could be looking, watching.
As they near the far corner of the room, Luly, too, seems to suffer some short of shock, although Essy cannot at first understand the reason, but as they arrive, it occurs to her that it has to do with the person already seated there.
Even seated, he’s a large man, but apart from that unremarkable, except for the distinct sense that he is uncomfortable, out-of-place, not wanting to be where he is. His dress is unfashionable, boring, stiff; not at all stylish, and, as far as she can tell— for he wears tinted spectacles— he is staring directly at Essy’s thighs, her crotch. He looks like a clichĂ© rapist-murderer, Essy thinks— terribly repressed, horrible hang-ups, can only fuck girls who he’s totally in control of. She has to violently suppress her jangling nerves in order to sit at all as Madam had instructed her, aware also of Luly’s stiff awkwardness, and then she has a realisation; this must be ’the Mechanic’. The man who raped Luly, and ‘damaged’ her, too, she’d said. He’d taken a weak and vulnerable young woman, in an emotional state, little more than a girl with an unhealthy obsession, and done something so brutal to her that he had made sure that she would never recover from it. Doomed her.
Essy’s belly is turning over itself with fear as she arranges herself for him, in a pose deliberately set by Madam to make her own weakness and vulnerability unmissable, striving to maximise her signal that she too is a girl who can be damaged, brutalised, doomed; possessed by the horrible thought that she must try to inflame him so that he will do something terrible to her, too.
Picture: Essy displays herself for Paul Click here to reveal.
His impassivity, his awkwardness, the way he shifts in his chair give her the creeps, but somehow that just adds to her need. She is on her way down into some dangerous spiral when Madam arrives, and the mood shifts;
“Hello, Paul; thank you for coming here today. I know it’s not your preference, but Mark is very sure that you are the perfect one to instruct this stupidly weak and eager little cunt. Says he just noticed her one day, on the Tube, asking for it— obviously needy— and decided on the spur of the moment to take her down. He has always been a chancer, Mark, a risk-taker; but I must say, his instinct seems to have steered him well with this one, since he’s been able to bring her on this far in only about five days of actual engagement. He’s been really quite excitingly brutal with her, and she’s taken it all, then opened herself for more.”
To be sitting there, in public, to be so shamefully and uncomfortably displaying herself to strangers who are pleased to call her a stupidly weak and eager little cunt, to hear Francesca all but celebrate Mark’s appalling treatment of her, knowing that she must hear, that Luly too is a witness, is suddenly heartbreaking for Essy.
It makes perfect sense, of course; it’s yet more proof of her stupidity that she feels shocked— she would describe a girl who had more or less put herself into this position, knowing fairly well what she was letting herself in for, in similar terms.
But to be sitting there, and allow it to be said of her, and for it to make no difference to how much effort she is putting into presenting herself as available for raping hits her terribly hard; her neck twists, her jaw goes slack with it, as if her heart has been squeezed by sharp claws, a cold black stone of misery in her belly threatens to crush her from the inside, and it is an extraordinary effort to hold back the weak and pathetic tears which press at her eyelids, to quell the quivering of her lips.
No other response is possible, though, but to welcome the defeat, however much it costs her, to make an extra effort, reset herself, make her lips form at least the shape of a foolishly grateful little smile— as if those awful words are a compliment — to try harder to be the only thing which can make sense of this experience; try to be, fully and entirely— all else excised, repressed, deleted— try to actually become the girl who constantly, carefully and submissively works to inspire thoughts of rape in the minds of cruel masters. A girl who stupidly and eagerly wants to be raped, wants to be violently fucked without the slightest consideration for her consent or suffering. However hard that is to accept.
Her eyes close with the pain of it, the shame of it, but she makes her hips slowly rotate forward and upward, offering her sex— offering my cunt, the words form in her head, both bitter and reassuring. This is what you do, now, this is what you are, this is what you must strive to become; stupidly weak and eager little cunt; all else is lost to you now. Is he looking? God I need him to want me; even if it is to hurt me that he wants me; he must! I must show him how stupidly weak and eager I am to be a hot little cunt for him, even if Francesca sneers at me. I must earn her sneers too, her cruel smile…
Oh God my heart is beating so fast why don’t they just take me out of here and rape me? That’s what I’m for now, isn’t it? All I’m good for?
It occurs to her then, as it will over and again in such circumstances, that this is deliberate emotional torture; they enjoy this too, as well as physical torture; public shaming and humiliation, to which I can only respond with further abjection of myself; this, too, I must learn to accept, to suffer beautifully through, to be as inviting as I can manage to be as I am utterly ruined for nothing more than entertainment value.
And as she forces herself to accept, accept these terrible truths, she is rewarded with the faintest shimmer of the lovely, as she lets the pain sear her, as she submits to it, as she repeats the description of herself, over and again, inside her head;
stupidly weak and eager little cunt,
stupidly weak and eager little cunt,
stupidly weak and eager little cunt…
… until she discovers, wonderingly, that her smile has become real; real and stupidly weak and eager, too; until her eyes open again, until, at least for this moment, she can be that little cunt in the world, acknowledge it of herself;
A stupidly weak and eager little cunt; no matter that she is burnt with despair inside.
Essy has traversed a whole small world of emotional devastation, of shame and despair, but Francesca has continued talking, as if nothing has happened.
Because nothing that matters has happened. The stupid little cunt has been cruelly damaged. So what?
“You’ve seen the video Luly streamed, heard my comments? I think she’s primed, so she’s all yours, if you’re in agreement.”
Madam’s voice is very different with this man that it had been with Essy, earlier; she is carefully calm and neutral, even sounding a little nervous; certainly, she is concerned not to say anything which might not please him.
For Essy, that Madam is nervous multiplies the impact on her of the statement that she can be described as ‘all yours’ to this strange, unnerving man, and it hits her hard; fear overtaking shame, a new assault, so soon on the heels of the other.
It’s really true, this man who has done awful things to sweet, innocent Luly, damaged her, is going to be free to abuse her. Her smile falters, ruined; she cannot breathe, for the longest time; her whole neck clenches tight, her body electrified, hyper-alert, trembling, the effort of maintaining her poise, her pose, of holding herself open monumental, taking all she has for the longest moments, as she feels his eyes on her, knowing that he is assessing her, seeing everything that is going on with her, that she could not hide it if she wanted to.
This is just what you wished for, a few seconds ago, stupid little cunt.
Picture: Paul, aka 'The Mechanic' Click here to reveal.
Paul has done this before, too; he has access to other submissive girls, the group has other slaves, according to Mark. He does not have to want her, or choose to use her; the prospect of not being chosen for his cruel attentions is somehow managing to be worse than the prospect of being chosen, and, without planning to, she spreads her knees a little wider, pushes her hips forward, her shoulders back, lets her tongue tip graze her lower lip, knowing she is behaving like the most abject whore, offering herself her in this public place in the most blatantly sexual manner, having to drown herself in the emotionality of it, because allowing herself to think about what she is doing will lead to a screaming fit or worse.
Picture: Essy flexes her body for Paul Click here to reveal.
He shifts again in his chair, twitchy, not making eye contact with Madam at all. Essy can glean no assessment of his reaction to her offering of her vulnerability, and the cruelly slick knife slips another jot deeper.
A sexual display for a lover deserves— requires— a response, but a sex-toy’s offer is entirely her own business. I’m just begging to be used, because that’s what a sex-toy does. I’m not a person, not here, not anymore; just a thing which hopes, desperately hopes to be fucked. I don’t deserve a response.
Essy makes herself say these things out loud in her head; she doesn’t— can’t— quite believe them of herself, not yet. But she is making herself experience the words, the thoughts, to take herself towards the blunt, grim reality of it.
My new truth.
Paul seems to be having trouble getting ready to speak, but eventually it comes out. His voice is a colourless monotone, with an undertone tinged with resentment at having to speak at all; it’s pitched low, and very quiet, so that it takes concentration to hear him. The words he says, and the way he says them are deeply disturbing. Essy gets a strong sense that there is a seething anger being carefully controlled, by a personality which is only partially mature, which manages itself rigidly through insistence on the order of things being stable, predictable.
“You are correct. I don’t wish to be here. Mark is … is irritating. But I am here now, and the … the whore seems worth raping. I like the way its voice comes out when it’s being used. It had better hope it’s as tough as it is vulnerable, or it won’t last long, presenting itself like that.”
“So I will do the induction. But we must have the tea and cakes first. I ordered them before, so they will arrive soon.”
By the end of this, Essy is trembling inside, working hard on herself to maintain her posture. She feel Luly’s stress, too, even though the girl is sitting to one side, out of sight. Paul is a very strange person indeed, and ever more frightening because of this.
Nothing gets any better over the next ten minutes, during which they wait in silence until tea and a little stacked plate of fancy miniature cakes are delivered, then as Paul pours for Madam, for Luly and himself, and instructs on the sharing of the cakes— he is very clear about who will have what, and neither Madam nor Luly say a word.
“I’m going to feed the whore; it will open its mouth, wide.”
Fearful, but more fearful of not complying satisfactorily, Essy obeys, and he simply pushes a whole cake into her mouth, clumsily but effectively making sure none of it escapes.
“Keep its mouth open. Be still. Wait; show us.”
“Close its mouth now. It will not chew. Work at the cake with with its tongue and palate, use saliva; dissolve it and swallow it slowly. Whore’s face will remain smooth— as if it is not doing anything. If it chokes, it will suppress it. It will not fail.”
Being observed as she tries to live up to this command is psychologically devastating; the silence, amid the background of conversations from other tables, nothing but the occasional clink of china in their corner; all eyes on Essy as she tries to look as if nothing is happening while doing something she has never done before (because it’s insane), working as minimally as she can to use her mouth to turn the crumbly cake into something she can swallow without choking, knowing she is failing, that she keeps betraying her efforts visibly, that her throat convulses as a reflex action all too often— the cost to her in suppression enormous, feeling the shame building, intensifying.
To be crudely shamed by sexual abuse is entirely different than this slow, detailed humiliation, which demands of her enormous effort in service of something meaningless and stupid; for her to be trying as hard as she is, for this to be what he chooses to take from her when she had flexed her body so obviously for him, for Luly and Madam to be watching, to have his cold, emotionless gaze on her so steadily, as he drinks his tea like a seven year old boy schooled in old-fashioned manners, like a robot, it’s over-the-top intense, and there are tear tracks on Essy’s cheeks before she is able, finally, to swallow the last sweet slime from the back of her tongue, desperately thirsty, not daring to ask for water, not daring anything but to breathe, conquered, emptied, tremblingly empty.
She knows that Paul has her now. Will always have her. Not as Mark does, not as Madam will do, but in his own way. There is nothing in her which is not fearful of him, which will not faithfully seek to obey his every requirement, for at any moment, in even the most public of places, he could do this to her again, and she knows it, and the reality of it, the speed with which it seems to be possible to have her accept such things is overwhelming; it’s terrifying to be so weak and she is suddenly on the verge of a panic attack, which she struggles mightily to control, feeling it slip away from her, the fear of a public meltdown in such a place, dressed as she is, only adding to the panic, and …
… and Paul does something surprising, which jolts her back into the world, into safety, into control; not her control, but his; he reaches out and, very firmly, grasps her nose with finger and thumb, tight, but not painful; stilling her, stopping her breath, controlling her, helping her. He isn’t hurting her, just holding her, his quiet, flat voice too, emphatic, certain, but not aggressive;
“The whore will calm itself, now.”
He holds her for a second or two only, then sits back; the effect isn’t instant, or complete, but Essy knows he has saved her, and she works then, works for him, knowing that whatever control she predicted him having over her has been entrenched, confirmed. And now, now, as well as frightening, it is a source of strength; he has strength she does not; he knows how to handle her when she does not, he will control her when she cannot control herself I am safe with him, whatever he does to me. I am his whore.
It takes a minute or so, but now she calms herself, feeling infinitely small and weak, knowing that all three of them have seen how easy it is to control her, how submissive she is, liking it and hating it, that they know that about her, feeling soft and humiliated and defeated— feeling the lovely, just a little;
Picture: Essy tries to calm herself Click here to reveal.
He’s the one; he’s the one I want to kill me. He will do it right; unemotional, mechanical. Now I see it; why he’s called that. He’s cold, and that’s honestly terrifying— he could do anything— how he ‘damaged’ Luly. But it’s the sort of cold that makes me feel safe. Because I know I’m not a person to him, so he’s not being cruel to me, to Essy, not personally— he’s just using a toy, breaking a toy, to get what he needs. I … I hope he chooses me, uses me, to … to get what he needs.
There is no evidence whatsoever from Paul as to his judgement of her efforts. He has finished his tea, and the last crumb of his flapjack has been removed from his plate; he looks to Madam, who nods; she has had enough.
“We are ready. Is the whore ready to give itself? It needs to affirm.”
Everything flips again; the bubble of lovely pops, and now everything is desperate, and grim, and terribly, plangently sad; she’s been building a little picture in her mind about how she will be with Paul, but of course that is nothing but rank stupidity; she’s nothing to him but a body, a nameless whore, a thing not a person; she’s going to be destroyed by these people and it’s going to be heartless, and she is going to say ‘yes please’, again, knowing that it means nothing but degradation.
Nothing makes any sense; horror mounts on shame mounts on depravity, mounts on weakness, mounts on rape, mounts on cruelty mounts on humiliation, guilt mounts on helpless unconcealed sexual response, and that’s where she is going, grasping at the moments of intensity as she can, her heart full of yearning, her future one of hopeless, helpless striving to please, to be permitted moments— just a few rare moments of the lovely, everything else just surviving, enduring, offering herself with increasing desperation, always needy, always being exploited— shamed and degraded, always being taken lower … there is a bitter taste of bile in Essy’s throat, of anguished desolation in her heart, but there is nothing else, she has accepted it now, and so she answers, in the same voice which had volunteered her for the filmed orgasm, weak, wondering, lost, but unmissably sincere;
“Yes. Yes … please. S … Sir.”
There is simply nothing else to be said. Essy is a void, begging to be filled, and this is what there is, whatever the cost.
“We will begin with the Voluntary Commitments.”
