Prilly's Journey Pt 3

You will want to have read the previous episode of this story.

As well as shock, here was real horror, real anger, real distress in Roddy’s eyes, and Prilly felt it, raw and powerful.

She felt it as fear— fear of Roddy’s anger, fear of what he could do to her; shame, too— he was of her generation, her group, in a way that neither LeStrade, Santi or Maria would ever be; Roddy knew exactly the morality, the norms, the workings of her culture. For him to see her break so many of the unspoken but ironclad rules brought her own deep and guilty feelings into sharp relief. Roddy knew her shame, and it burned. What he said about her could burn her life.

At the same time, though, there was in her another burning; a fierce exhilaration borne of the freedom that breaking all those rules had granted her. She felt bizarrely powerful, in her nakedness, her sluttiness; she had made a choice he could never make. She was free— even if it was a freedom which would have her excommunicated from all her friendship groups, her community— her family, too, if they should hear.

It was all true, and it all hurt, but the liberation was precious.

Yes, I’m a slut; but I get to be wild and free! I get to be naked for LeStrade and he’s going to fuck me any way he likes, and probably Santi is too.

This latter simply popped into her head, unasked, and was instantly seen to be certain— there was no way LeStrade would flaunt a naked woman in front of his staff unless they were going to be allowed to use her too; she was a naked slut, after all.

The exhilaration helped her hold her pose— exaggerate it even, instead of doing what her instincts told her to— to cower and cringe and fold in on herself in a pathetic attempt to pretend she wasn’t naked.

No, that wouldn’t do; if I’m naked, of my own will, I must be naked. The only chance at dignity I have is to be honest about my condition. I can’t be bold, or proud, because I’m not naked like that; I have to accept I’m a slut, that I’m naked for men to look at me, to think about fucking me, but I mustn’t hide or cower.

She was aware that Roddy expected her to speak, but she couldn’t; somehow didn’t feel it was her place, either; this was LeStrade’s house; in some sense she was LeStrade’s girl, now. She was naked at LeStrade’s request, for his benefit; for his use… came the words in her head.

And so she looked at the floor, not challenging Roddy’s anger, but not ignoring it either. She felt rather than saw Roddy transfer his attention to his step-father, and knew that she had become a lesser being.

Despite it being her that was naked, her that was the obvious cause of this tension, it wasn’t her that mattered. It hurt, but it was a hurt that had to be accepted, because it was justified. She was changed, not by her own will, but by her submission to LeStrade’s words, which she had taken as if they were an order. She wanted to change, but needed him to make it possible. Thus she was not important. He was.

As with Roddy’s anger, the hurt came with an accompanying positive, which was that accepting the hurt made her feel safe. Safe, because if she was doing what LeStrade wanted, he might protect her, in her nakedness. It made no sense, but the feeling was real, and she moved a little, shifting herself, leaning a little, toward him, toward the man, feeling pathetic and tremblingly grateful at the same time as he spoke, his voice as calm and relaxed as ever;

“A most interesting way to arrive, Roderick. Indeed, the phrase is apt. What ’the fuck’ you are doing here is very much the question in my mind.”

There was no room whatsoever for doubt; LeStrade wanted an answer. It was equally clear from Roddy’s nervous, blustering tone that there was no proper answer;

" … you . you were away, not … not going to know … this … it’s ridiculous, having these places, empty, not letting me … you were in Vietnam! With Mom! What’s it to do with you?"

“If you ever spoke to your mother, Roderick, you would know that we have separated. I was not anywhere with her. She may well be in Vietnam, although it was China she was heading to when last I heard. You also seem unacquainted with basic laws of property, young man. I do wonder what they are teaching you at that very expensive college.”

Roddy was silenced, making noises, but not apparently able to form words, and LeStrade continued;

“From your non-answer, I take it that there is no reason for you being here beyond your cowardly choice to freeload on me without seeking my permission, and that you thereby exposed Miss Prilly here to an unpleasant experience when I encountered a stranger in my home, and was naturally curious.”

Roddy had a target, now, or thought that he did;

“Unpleasant expe… What have you done to her, you fucking perv?”

“I have done nothing but give aid and pleasure to Miss Prilly, you little fool. Really Roddy, if you do not want to be hustled off to the mainland by the Guardia Civil, arrested for trespass and theft, handcuffed in their launch on the way to the jail in Santa Isabel, you had best try to be civil at the least, even if it seems to be beyond you to be coherent or even speak in complete sentences.”

“You … you wouldn’t!” was the best Roddy could do, but his tone made it clear that he was all too concerned that LeStrade actually could and might subject him to such treatment. It was a surrender, pretending to be defiance, and it got the respect it deserved, in cold, hard tones, brooking nothing but complete acceptance;

“Do you really want to try me, coward?”

And Roddy had no choice. There was a long pause, some noisy breathing, but his capitulation was eventually complete, his tone desolate;

“No … No Sir. S … sorry. Sir.”

“Better. Now, go and wash your hands, then come and eat. Maria’s efforts are not to be disrespected either.”

Roddy had been given nothing, his initial shock ignored; he had to leave the room without the slightest idea how it was possible for his rather straight and prim girlfriend to be displaying herself naked for his stepfather, in front of Santi and Maria, too.

Prilly too had expected to be the subject matter of the exchange, and less painfully than Roddy, had been diminished to discover that she was nothing more than a side issue, her nakedness not apparently worth LeStrade’s time.

The next exchange did nothing to reassure her, for all it left her pink with pleasure at his compliments;

“Pretty girl, I am impressed; you held yourself beautifully through that. Hard for a girl like you not to close her legs in such circumstances. You interest me, Miss Prilly, you do. No— don’t unclasp your arms; your tits are lovely pushed forward like that. Since you could stand to have them grow a little, it is good that you make efforts to present them well. If you are hungry, girl, tell me, and I will feed you.”

At which Prilly’s appetite, such as it had been, evaporated, and she shook her head, weak but certain.

When Roddy returned, cowed and sheepish, red in the face with unresolved anger, the meal was deeply odd, LeStrade eating with gusto, praising the food, Maria and Santi standing against the wall, on duty, Maria occasionally helping LeStrade to something new from the really remarkable spread— much more elaborate than anything she had provided for her and Roddy. Her boyfriend (ex boyfriend was the immediate inner response) was obviously hungry, and at war with himself, not wishing to respond to LeStrade’s generous suggestions that he help himself to as many tacos as he wanted, but unable to control himself.

And Prilly sat naked on a stool (not a chair for the slut), her thighs spread shamefully wide (she would never dare close them again in LeStrade’s presence, she realised, the thought going off in her like a soft but powerful bomb. How could such astonishing things now be so simply and obviously true, unchallengeable?).

Roddy kept side-eying her, obviously desperate to know, to understand what was going on, not daring to speak, hoping to learn something from her, but she refused to meet his eye (not that she could face him in any case; no matter how defeated he had been, he was still a man, while she— she was voluntarily displaying herself naked. Whatever that made her, it was lower than even a humiliated man).

In the end, of course, it was LeStrade who moved the world forward;

“Your curiosity about Miss Prilly’s presentation is noted, Roderick, and, whether you deserve it or not, it seems likely to eat you up if not satisfied. Let’s ask her.”

“Miss Prilly, would you tell Roderick here how it comes that you are so thoughtfully displaying your lovely self, completely naked?”

Panic. Terror. Somehow it was the last thing she had expected. Her mouth seemed frozen, her tongue thick and heavy, her throat constricted; she had to fight, gasp to get air, her heart thumping. She darted a desperate, pleading gaze at LeStrade, but he was no longer looking at her, but away, fetching a plate of salsa.

In the end, she could think of nothing to say but the truth;

“You … you said you would prefer me n…naked, and … and I … and I decided that … that I very much want to … to please you … Sir. To … to be naked for you, all … all the time.”

She was blushing and stammering so hard that she felt she must start crying, but— as seemed almost normal now— alongside the awfulness of having said this out loud, there was an accompanying deep flush of humble gratitude at being given the chance to say it to him.

For that was another unchallengeable realisation which had made itself clear in her mind in those minutes; she was never going to initiate a conversation with LeStrade again. He was simply too frightening to speak to unless it was a requirement— so precise and superior in his use of language, his kindness also cruel, his cruelty in his words with Roddy so totally uncompromising and destructive.

LeStrade was somehow both further and further from her, as she found herself more and more intimately reliant upon him. This being naked made such things possible, somehow; inevitable. Everything was high stakes; everything, and it was just how she had imagined it, only worse— far harder— and much better— far more transformative. In less than two hours, she had been changed so much that she could almost not imagine the Prilly she had been yesterday; the girl seemed so far away, so small, so ignorant, so foolish.

“Whore” Roddy almost spat the word out.

It hit her then, hard— very hard indeed; Prilly fought to hold back sobs, but felt the hot trace of tears on her cheek, the tang of salt; staring sightlessly at her knees, bleakness overtook her, desperation, the taste of ashes in the back of her throat, and yet she found herself still somehow determined to keep her legs spread, her back arched, though her head was bowed down and she felt she must die with the shame of it all.

This was real, this was disaster! What had she been thinking? There was that deep hunger within her, yes, but here was the end of life as she could imagine it! If Roddy told anyone at all in college about this, even a tiny part of it, her whole life would come crashing around her ears; the horror of it growing in her mind. This island was’t reality— college was reality, her family was reality, her meagre savings.

For a 20 year-old college girl from a middle-class but by no means rich family, to lose the connections she had made with Roddy and his circle (not so much lose, as set fire to) would be an utter disaster, both socially— much lesser scandals had caused girls to withdraw, even commit suicide— and career-wise— no invitations to internships with ‘daddy/mummy’s firm’ would be granted to a known slut.

She had thrown it away, to become some rich man’s whore. A man she hardly knew, who frightened her and was only kind in the most disturbing of ways. She fought not to collapse, but was losing, losing badly, until LeStrade once again changed things. Standing up, he walked around the table, grasping Roddy hard by the shoulder;

“Stand up young man, I am going to hurt you now, and then you are going to apologise.”

Prilly had to see, lifted her head, blinked tears away;

“Come on, boy. Up!”

LeStrade did not sound angry, but there was certainty in his voice, and Roddy stood. As he stood, though, he began to change, when he realised that LeStrade did not intend to beat him like a child, but instead stood back, offering to fight.

It was surreal, but Roddy clearly thought this was a chance for him. LeStrade was taller, but definitely thirty pounds lighter, and twenty or more years older. His stance, his hands spoke of confidence, but not aggression or power.

Roddy, by contrast, made an obvious flex, bringing the biceps, pecs, abs which he was so proud of into play, a tight, nervy grin beginning to show on his lips; he spent a fair amount of time at the gym and playing jock sports, and obviously thought he had a good chance against LeStrade; relished the thought of hurting him, getting his revenge.

Prilly could not really believe what was happening, could not keep her eyes off the two of them, momentarily forgot her nakedness as the two men squared up to each other.

Two minutes later, on the floor for the third time, blood on his face, Roddy had been thoroughly disabused of any notion of revenge. He had landed one glancing blow on LeStrade’s shoulder, and been hit four times, hard, in the belly and the face.

LeStrade was breathing a little heavily it was true, but was otherwise unruffled;

“Apologise, to her, boy, and stay down while you do it.”

Sniffling now, utterly abject, tears on his face, one eye already swelling up, Roddy’s voice was grinding;

“I’m sorry, Prilly.”

Later, much later, Prilly would revisit this moment, the one where she, having taken the first, momentous step along the road to becoming a creature; no longer a full person— a creature defined by its sexual utility; willingly, necessarily, urgently so— where she, having taken that first step (with no idea, of course what she was doing, where it could lead), felt worthless, fearful, lost in the face of the unknowable future she had opened herself up to, where she had received this apology, in such raw, emotional circumstances, from a weak bully who’d just been bullied by a stronger one.

She didn’t quite understand how, but she came to see this small event as key— a violent, shocking unmooring for her from the conventions of the world; a resetting onto the much deeper reality of feeling. A creature was less than a person because it was mostly feeling; because it used thinking, knowledge only as means to an end— to get more feeling. To access feelings which convention suppressed and denied.

“I hope you will grow up one day, Roddy; perhaps today may mark the start of it. You have the makings of a man about you, perhaps, but you will attain nothing without demanding more of yourself. Perhaps, now, you might be able to see that Prilly is demanding much of herself? Can you imagine what it is taking for her to be so perfect, to hold herself so for us?”

“Sit. Sit and listen a minute, and you may learn something.”

The effect on Prilly of all this was tumultuous, but unknowable— she felt great tidal forces moving within her, but knew nothing of their effect, for she could not do more than hold her pose, survive, not fail. The tears still fell, but she had not let her face crumple, no matter how violently, how visibly her body trembled.

She held on.

“What you can learn, Roddy, is this; that although Miss Prilly is definitely not the kind of whore you so crudely labelled her as— not a girl who sells her body for use as a sex object in return for money or power— that the reason she is here like this is that she is another kind of whore— the deeper, more fundamental kind.”

“She does not fully know it yet, and until perhaps a day or two ago had never even had a flash of it; she may never fully know it, but Miss Prilly is a whore in her soul.”

“By which I mean that she is the kind of girl who can, who might, choose to give in, fully give in to a part of her which is content to be— desires to become— valuable only in respect of the sexual freedoms she grants to others. To become a girl whose self-worth is entirely dependent upon being useful to others in gratifying their sexual urges. A girl whose assessment of every interaction with another person is grounded in an assessment of whether they would like to fuck her.”

“To label a person who carries such a possibility in their soul a whore of the venal, grubby kind is not just a conventional insult, but an attack on that soul. That is why I hurt you.”

“Miss Prilly is a rare and precious flower. You will probably never see it, not unless you make some effort, but it could be that you will see her bloom.”

“Of course, it is up to her. I see it in her, I took a chance, a small one, to let her see it— just a hint of it, and here she is, having taken one small step towards that flowering.”

“Rather than vent your disgust, Roderick— which you will see, if you can think at all, is only more evidence of your own fearful nature, your cowardice— you would do better to nurture her, for she is terribly, terribly fragile at this point; like a new-born, what and how she experiences as responses to her unfolding are likely to shape the course of it.”

“I will not tolerate anything from you that harms her.”

Read the next episode of Prilly’s Journey.