Prilly's Journey Pt 4

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

LeStrade had busied himself with some fruit, then, giving Roddy and Prilly each time alone with their differently unsettled psyches.

LeStrade’s blunt assertions as to Prilly’s nature had rocked her to her core; his assessment of her condition, her character had been brutal, uncompromising; he says I’m a ‘whore in my soul’. Can it be true?

He suggests it’s something less awful than a common prostitute, but I’m not so sure. Prostitutes can get another job. I can’t change my soul!

Since his arrival, her confidence in her knowledge of herself, of who she really was had been so shredded that she was halfway to simply accepting his words at face value, which would mean she had effectively been living a lie, that her self-image was completely off the reality.

Here I am, naked, displaying myself, silent, spreading my legs, my arms behind my back like a naughty schoolgirl, and in front of everyone— this is not something I could ever have imagined myself doing— so I definitely don’t know who I am anymore, and its scary! Is this me? Is this what I want? He didn’t make me come downstairs naked - I chose to, even though it made me feel so fucking frightened and weird.

His confidence— his arrogance, even— was by contrast all too tempting, too attractive to give in to; instead of doubt, she could simply let him be right, trust that he know who she was, what would be good for her. Certainly what his judgement had encouraged him do to her had driven a powerful revelation, unleashed strong hidden forces in her which had immediately changed her, pushing her to do these things; things she would never believed herself capable of.

Surely he must be right about her, or that could never have happened?

On the other hand, allowing a near total stranger to tell her who she was, describe her deepest character, felt terribly risky— insane, even— especially when the direction he was pushing her was so— dirty.

But I don’t feel ‘dirty’! I do feel shame, I feel vulnerable, yes, frightened even, but if anything, showing myself like this feels — what? ‘Honest’? ‘Right’? ‘Exciting’?

She was incapable of deciding; had lost all confidence in her own judgement— even as to her own feelings and motivations. The nakedness became more difficult— how have I allowed a few little incidents, a few words, bring me to this state? This is crazy!

Prilly was losing herself among conflicting urges, demands, desires and terrors, and her mental strains quickly became physical, so that she could not stay still; at the same time, she was committed to her pose at some deep level, so that she found herself helplessly shifting and twisting in place, noises of distress escaping her despite the urgent requirement she felt not to betray LeStrade’s description of her as so perfect, so that she still held her pose— thighs wantonly splayed, her hands clasping wrists behind her, her breasts pushed forward.

She knew that she was making a spectacle of herself, that her distress, her commitment to the whore-ish pose betrayed her utterly, and this only intensified the terrible feeling of being trapped by an insane but inescapable set of restraints, until it seemed to her she must lose control completely, desperate not to do so in such humiliating circumstances, with everyone watching her, for some reason certain that her psyche could not survive such shame.

It seemed as if madness must take her, until a thought came;

All this panic, this distress, is because I’m frightened of it; frightened of the need in me, frightened of being the whore he says I am… I’m trying to fight against the need in me which wants to know how it feels to be that whore; I’m fighting myself. But if the struggle destroys me, won’t that be worse?

I can’t escape this, and resisting is only making things worse. I have to give in! I have to! Even if it’s just now, just this once, I can’t risk any more!

It was terrible, but also certain, even though she knew just what judgements she would make of a young woman doing as she was as she made herself give in, made herself accept, telling herself it was temporary, that she just needed to get through this, that she needed to survive, that there would be a way back, all the time knowing, deep inside her, with a sort of fierce joy, that there would be no way back; that this was changing her, changing her for ever.

I have to let him be right, let it feel like what it feels like— shame and fear and hunger and weakness and need and … yes … wanting to have him fuck me … all of it, I have to let it take me, I have to go with it, or I’ll tear myself apart!

An it worked; she felt herself being changed, almost by the second, as the searing shame became part of her; this is what I am now; a whore in my soul, naked, displaying myself, offering myself for sex, wanting to be fucked. Changed, too, by the acceptance of the hunger in her, of her neediness validated, given free rein.

And she felt herself calming, repeating the words to herself;

This is what I am now; naked, displaying myself, offering myself for sex, a whore in my soul.

I’m offering myself for sex, so that men will fuck me. Whores get fucked.

It wasn’t that saying these things about herself were ’nice’ or ‘good’, or ‘positive’, but they felt powerfully correct, truthful, ‘right’.

And with that came a calming of the conflicts in her mind, and with that came the ability to control herself better, which she used to attend to the detail of her posture, performing a sort of reset, which she knew would again draw unwanted attention to her which she would simply have to bear as she stretched a little, straightened her back, shook out her hair, feeling her breasts move, feeling so vulnerable it was almost a pleasure, so sensitive did her skin become, and again she felt herself unable to keep silent; a long, soft sighing now, as it took the tension from her, though still she trembled and shuddered, in anticipation of being manhandled, shamed, fucked.

It was crazy, alright, but there was a certainty in her that this was something she must go through with; whatever it was that had brought her to this, that he saw in her, it could not simply be shut down, suppressed, ignored. The genie was out of the bottle, and would have its way with her; She was no longer fully in control of herself, and she couldn’t hide it;

Being a whore is a public thing, not a private thing.

There was something shockingly fascinating about that idea.

LeStrade interrupted her fascination as his hand— gentle, but entirely firm and confident— landed high on her inner thigh, so close to her sex that she felt a warmth there, without being actually touched; he had put his hand to her, intimately, with everyone watching, and she was electrified, her whole body immediately centred on the sensation, the meaning, the promise of being touched, touched there…

Her mind, too; I am a whore, I want to be touched, he has the right to touch me, others know I’m a whore; this is what it is, and I am not going to fight it… … she was turning herself toward him, just a little, opening herself, just a little, because I’m a whore, and I am grateful to be touched like this.

And she was, she was, and grateful too, for his praise;

“Well done, Prilly, well done.”

Praise for having let herself accept his identification of her as ‘a whore in her soul’. Praise for having controlled herself by accepting it, for having submitted. Praise for displaying herself naked in this degrading pose.

It was almost painful how grateful she was, despite the shamefulness of it, and it came out in a weak and unmistakably conflicted giggle that was also a sob. She couldn’t bear having made such a pathetic noise in front of Roddy, Maria, but it was done, she was exposed, her helplessness made obvious once again.

The release of the giggle calmed her, though; she felt the madness receding, the fear damping down, and sighed, her whole body resetting.

Calmed like a panicky horse, simply by the laying on of a hand and a few gentle words. Like an animal. Naked like an animal, all my emotions readable, like an animal, available, like an animal.

And it’s good. It is. It’s good for me.

And then, just bubbling up in her; and he’s going to fuck me, and they’ll all know he’s fucking me, and it will be good.

Simply, a reassuring certainty in her mind, quickly followed by more urgent thoughts;

I … I want him to touch me so everyone can see— touch me properly, like before, touch my pussy, play with me, right here, in front of everyone… Oh God how can I be like this?

Her heart was hammering again, but it was not like before, she was not going crazy, it was just… intensity.

He didn’t take things further, though; instead, he pulled away, leaving her needy, and stood, his movement immediately changing the room;

It’s all him; everything here is him. And I’m his.

Prilly, hyper-focused on his attention, shifted, presenting herself for his benefit, but he wasn’t looking at her;

“Roderick, I have two options for you. Either I will have my team arrange transportation for you tomorrow first thing; you may leave with hopefully no overly hard feelings in either direction.”

“Or, should you choose to stay in accordance with your original plan— which, Maria tells me, would be another five days— you will spend the mornings working on something for me, and the afternoons out of here with Prilly, doing whatever you two plan for. There will be no more shouting and smoking in the basement. The assigned project is as follows; to come up with at least two reasoned and detailed cases— argued from different sets of first principles— for what you should have paid for the two of you to stay here.”

“You will confirm your decision at dinner this evening.”

“Any questions?”

Roddy shook his head, morosely, then, feeling expectation building, made an effort, looked up, his eye quite badly swollen, and said;

“No Sir.”

“Very good. Now, Prilly, I want to discuss your options; will you come into my office?”

He had moved to the door, and opened it, held out his hand. He clearly expected her to once again precede him, and she remembered the breath-catching feeling of being watched as she climbed the stair, now multiplied by four, with Roddy, Maria, Santi all witness to her parading herself, naked, observing how she walked, how her ass moved, her breasts, judging her now in the knowledge that LeStrade considered her a ‘whore in her soul’.

But there was nothing, nothing at all to be done but obey, and so she stood, immediately up on tiptoe, high— straining herself to make it elegant, then feeling her heart thump as she walked across the room with the small steps which were all she could manage on tiptoes, feeling their eyes in her, herself looking fixedly at LeStrade’s feet.

The feelings were just as intense as walking up the stairs with LeStrade watching her had been, but different. Less confused about why she’s doing it after the emotional rollercoaster of the lunch, at the same time she knew with much more certainty just how serious it was.

Everyone in the room knew that LeStrade was going to fuck her, very soon, that she had met him for the first less than a couple of hours ago, that she had never done anything like this before, that she had been branded a whore, and not said a word in protest; Prilly was quivering with it, no longer gripped by inner conflict, but still filled with powerful, disturbing emotion; her heart, her breathing both disordered, needing conscious control, preternaturally aware of how her walk made her breasts move, her ass move, appalled and excited to be holding her mouth open, lips parted, tongue tip visible. It was this last, self prescribed, which made it most real for her, that LeStrade was right, that she was indeed, a ‘whore in her soul’.

She walked past LeStrade holding the door, naked, so close to him, fully dressed, the energy of his nearness powerful for her, while he was unmoved, and there was nothing to done but continue toward his office door.

The silence was marked, hushed, and this was yet another experience Prilly knew would be life-changing.

No matter what, she would never not be a girl who had been brought to this, almost without effort, by a stranger. A girl whose pussy was getting hotter, wetter, needier by the second. A girl whose blushes made it clear she knew that she was doing something shameful. A girl who went naked when everyone else was fully dressed.

The feeling of specialness that came over her was clearly foolish beyond all sense, but it was real, nevertheless. She, and no-one else, was the object of LeStrade’s interest, his approval, was going to spend time with him alone. It was she he wanted to touch, to be intimate with, not them.

At the office door, she stopped, uncertain. Was she to wait for him, keep her arms locked behind her? Or should she open the door for him?

In the end, passivity won out, and she waited for him, which seemed to be the right decision, as once again he held the door for her. A double door, each leaf was quite narrow, so that she was forced to get very close to him to pass through, and it all but overwhelmed her, feeling her nipples graze the fabric of his jacket, going into his room, to be alone with him, in such circumstances.

Looking back, there were so many moments like that— charged moments, vulnerable moments, points when she could have so easily stepped back, pulled away, broken the spell, and perhaps saved herself (or perhaps lost her chance— they were the same thing)— that each time, it had been as simple, that in the end it was simple momentum— taking the next step because it was the obvious, simplest thing to do, rather than a conscious, reasoned decision— which carried her on, which made her decision for her.

Had she just been sleepwalking? Or had she not wanted to reason, so that her deepest drives could propel her into something she could not rationally have chosen?

He closed the door behind him while Prilly stood in the middle of the room, at a loss, waiting.

Waiting for him.

Waiting for he who would would ordain her future. He who would decide what would happen to her, what would be done with her, what would become of her. It was almost lovely to be so pathetic, so weak, so passive; up on tip-toes, hands tightly clasped behind her back (they felt almsot welded there, as if it would take force to free herself).

And she waited, while he fixed himself a drink, came to his desk, leaned against it, facing her, looking at her, his drink in his hand, looking at her offered nakedness.

As it had been outside, earlier, he was all calmness and patience, while Prilly was jittery with cross-cutting emotions, thoughts, fears, on edge, twitchy, trapped by his calm, feeling her vulnerability, feeling her neediness, feeling her fears, feeling her shame; pinned like a moth by his gaze; his eyes resting on her breasts, her sex, her belly, her thighs as much as on her face.

It went on for some time, Prilly becoming more and more jumpy, but at the same time feeling that he was doing something to her, and stupidly, feebly grateful to have been chosen by him for such treatment, making herself accept it, accept that time was his, await his pleasure, let him rule her, let him change her.

It seemed as if it lasted forever; she had to defeat various inner nannies, cry-babies, brats during that time— aspects of her which wanted to assert some demands on him, some recognition from him that she, too, was a person.

But I’m not a full person, am I? Not next to him. Because I’m a whore. A needy whore, weak and stupid with it.

It was becoming more terrible and more wondrous, this repetition of the mantra that she was a whore. For him, at least; his whore.

This is what I am now; a whore in my soul, naked, displaying myself, offering myself for sex, wanting to be fucked.

She was lost in these difficult and dangerous thoughts when he finally spoke, jolting her back to reality;

“You too Prilly have the option to leave tomorrow. I will look after you; arrange your transit, your flights. I understand that you currently have no apartment to go to. That will not be a problem— arrangements will be made by my staff. Prilly, I need you to know that for the next few years, money will not be a worry for you. I have made enquiries and understand your circumstances. Everything will be taken care of. You will not be spoiled, but you will be taken care of. This is not contingent upon your choices. You will be looked after.”

“If you choose to slap me in the face, now, and make accusations about me to a journalist, you will still be looked after. I need you to understand this, before we consider the question of whether you will allow me to treat you as you need to be treated, if you are ever to reach your potential.”

She wants to cry, but will not let herself. His smile shows her that he understands.

While she trusts him that he is being honest, he has also just made it certain that she will give herself to him, and he knows it.

“What do you choose, pretty girl? Will you do the sensible thing and leave, having had an exciting little adventure which you can always remember as your flirtation with the wild side? Or will you stay— in which case I will do what I will do to you, please myself with you, without asking your permission?”

It took forever, and no time at all, to make up her mind. In the end, there was no choice. No choice at all. She could not bear to lose these feelings, these experiences, this aliveness, whatever it cost her.

“I want to stay, please. Sir.”

Read the next episode of Prilly’s Journey.