Prilly's Journey Pt 5

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

“I want to stay, please. Sir.”

He watched her as she realised what she had just said, as her blushes flowered, as her chest rose and fell, deeply, a couple of times, as she dealt with the turmoil which burst inside her, as she made herself display for him, keep her pose.

Again, and again, he casually dropped in new demands, taking her acceptance for granted. Had she really now said Yes to being ‘used … without permission’! She had, she had, and she did not regret it, though used felt so much cruder than fucked, and without permission sounded a lot like rape!

This ramping up of his control, the utilitarian language, brought on another wave of intense self-doubt like that which she had survived only a quarter of an hour ago, only this time around it did not overwhelm her— more a short burst of fear than a full-on panic attack, as if she had been desensitised to the business of having her self-image degraded by him.

The part of her which was desperately concerned at being permanently depraved, twisted by his drip-drip of what felt increasingly like abuse was in fire-alarm mode, but her body was unwilling, it seemed, to allow an extreme reaction.

And so, I take another step down. He gains confidence that I am too weak to resist; not even a little bit of push-back!

The fascination was there again, feeding off the panicky surge, almost wanting more, crazily eager for him to be more demanding still…

And it came immediately.

“Very well. This evening, I will ask you that question again, because I want you to answer on a deeper understanding of what you are really asking for.”

He takes each ‘Yes’ as an invitation to step forward! There’s a new push before I’ve had any time to process the last surrender!

“You see, I came here to do deep work in peace, not to have fun with a sexually vulnerable young woman, however enticing. And I certainly have no need of another pretty in my harem right now. But you do interest me, Prilly, you really do, so that I propose that we play a little game, you and I.”

“It goes like this:”

“We will play a new round each day. Your objective will be to win the chance to stay for another day— to be asked again each day, if you wish to stay longer, knowing that I will take this as giving me rights over you— over your sexual usage, not to be coy about it. Giving you the chance not to be packed off back to chilly Dartmouth.”

“You will achieve such a win by giving me more pleasure than I had expected, so that I find the prospect of another day with you available to use and abuse sufficiently compelling to grant you the choice to stay.”

“What makes it interesting, though, is that I’m easily bored by innocence; my sexual tastes are— frankly— rather jaded; I like to push, and push hard, at a pretty girl’s limits— the right kind of pretty girl— girls like you, Prilly; force them to accept their inner natures. Every day I will ask more of you, push you harder, further, deeper, until eventually we arrive at your limit, and you fail me, so that I can regain my freedom, and get back to work, without the undoubted distraction you will be.”

“Of course, the more you please me, the less inclined I will be to demand something of you which will horrify you so much that you fail me, and are sent home.”

“You have already won the first round— what Roddy might call a training round— with your answer just now, your prize being the rules of the game, and the chance to ask, ask again, to stay another day, knowing what you do.”

“Remember, no matter what answer you give, you will be looked after, Prilly. Roddy will be made to understand, in no uncertain terms, the consequences of any damage to your reputation at his hands. You are free to choose, lovely girl. Take your time; I am enjoying the view.”

Prilly needed time; she had expected him to be all over her, to be overtaken by him and ruthlessly fucked; she had been so sure that his cool was a mask for vigorous lust, that once they were alone, he would want to take his prize. She had been more than ready— eager, indeed— to be that prize. But the laying out of this hard little game, one where she would be continually under pressure, continually uncertain, continually offering herself into more intense sexual demands (‘abuse!’ He actually told me he will abuse me), it felt …

What did it feel like? She was shocked to realise that it felt hot. Hot between her legs, tight in her belly— a hard knot of fear-tinged excitement; tight in her chest, too; she had forgotten how to breathe, it seemed; fizzy in her brain— it was hard to think clearly; a stinging in her eyes— part of her wanted to cry, very badly.

It was fear— real, sharp fear— which occasioned the tears; she had discovered that he was cruel; unapologetically cruel. She had known he was hard, that he teased, that he pushed, manipulated; and yes, all of those were not far off cruelty; but this, this careful, deliberate skewering of her on her own neediness, her vulnerabilities, was cruelty— sadism, even, and there was real fear in her, now. Fear of actual harm, physical pain; a certainty of it.

For if he was cruel with her now, he would surely become increasingly cruel later— that was explicit in the way his game had been laid out.

It was so strange, to be naked in front of him, hands behind her, encouraging — wanting— him to watch her (her lips were still parted, she had occasionally to wet them with her tongue, knowing just what messages the action sent); it was almost impossibly strange, to be so exposed; she felt suddenly more intensely shy than she could remember feeling since before puberty— an almost physical pain, a terrible weakness, a lancing vulnerability, through which she had to struggle to maintain her position, all the sexual heat of a minute earlier now overridden by the certainty that she could not face what was coming.

Why does it have to hurt?

And then, in a second, everything had changed again, as he smiled at her, his lopsided smile from the morning; he was enjoying her, and— pathetic, she knew it— that small generosity from him was all it took to have her pulse thumping again and the warmth returning to her groin, and she was smiling back at him, foolishly weak, hopelessly grateful; still shy as she could be, feeling ridiculous, small, silly, but happy, too. Very happy, in a way which felt new, unusual; but it was true; he had smiled at her, and she was happy.

It was too much! Everything, all at once; that was it— he made her feel every emotion, either at the same time, or in such rapid succession so that it felt that way. It was no wonder she was so confused; even her body could not decide what it was feeling, what it wanted.

Actually, she did know, suddenly; she wanted water; breathing through her open mouth had given her a powerful thirst, and, surprisingly directly, normality was reinstated, as she heard herself ask him;

“Could … Could I have a glass of water, please?”

Somehow, such an ordinary, everyday request was outside her self-imposed silence rule, and she looked at him, expectant, to be confused again, for he did not react; Oh, he had heard her, she could see that, but he made no move, not to speak or act, and she was about to ask again when he said;

“No.”

Just No. Very normal, very straightforward, just as she had been. But a very definite No.

She was bewildered— who said No to a request for a glass of water? It was almost impossible to refuse such a request, unless there was real animosity or impracticality; but there was the water jug on the desk, and he had said No so normally; there was no confusion.

“I’m only interested in you as a sexual plaything, Prilly; sex and a bit of emotional vampirism, too, you might say. Your bodily and other needs are of no interest to me; they will have to be taken care of at other times, as best you can; Maria will help you. But when you’re with me, you’re a creature to be fucked, or offering itself for fucking, or you’re emoting in response to my pushing your buttons; hurting you or shaming you. There’s nothing else.”

And the cruelty hit her hard, then— right in her face; the shaming, the hurt, the crudity of it— and she was brought up sharp against what she had intuited earlier; that she had become a lesser being; a creature which could be played cruel games with without guilt, because she was simply of no importance; just a toy, really, to be played with at will.

Her jaw tightened and set with the humiliation of it, and her nakedness burned her again, and she suffered, knowing he was watching her suffering, knowing that he was enjoying her suffering, that she should not be letting him watch, but lost, no idea how to change anything about her situation, and it burned, and burned, as she fought against tears, the little child inside her scared by the reality that the big man would not even grant her water, that she was powerless, that she was too scared to assert such a simple right, what that meant for her future, and she was making noises again; breathy little high-pitched moans— weak, pathetic, hopeless, the sort of weakness that invites, incites— downright provokes cruelty— she could hear it in her voice, but she could not stop herself, feeling herself reduced, diminished, a bitter taste in her throat…

And then he was at her, suddenly; his right hand between her thighs— not to caress or invade, not at all, but simply pushed right between them, he bending slightly, his left arm snaking round behind her ass, and then, shockingly, she was lifted, lifted bodily up into the air, feet uselessly stretching to find the floor, all her weight on his arm, all of it on her pussy, grinding her softest parts onto the hard bones of his sinewy wrist, his strong hands firmly linked under her ass cheeks, holding her up in the air, her own arms still somehow welded together at the small of her back, her body helplessly toppling forward until her face was in his shoulder and his voice, quiet but as hard as stone in her ear, said:

“Move now, pretty; move your soft little pussy, grind yourself, let me see how fast you get hot, hear what noises you make then.”

And, appeal as she might, inside herself, there was nothing else to do but comply; she was lost; he was strong; he had her, vulnerable, compromised on so many counts, naked, shamed in front of the others, shamed in front of him, her pussy already quivering with anticipation and desire, and so …

… and so she moved for him.

It took a while, while she figured out what had been done to her (no name for being held like this, no decency about being held like this, no dignity at all, no … No chance— No dignity, ever again, for me.), but it was always coming, she knew it, until …

… Jesu! — for he had angled his wrist downward, just a little, and suddenly the hard bone at the edge of his wrist was crushing her clitoris, with the weight of her body behind it, and she jerked; impossible to hide, though she would have sold her whore soul to hide it from him, except that her own hips were moving then; slowly, very slowly, tentative, hesitant …

And there, again, and again…

And again, and then she was moving for him without restraint, her arousal rekindled, all still there, urgent, her sex on fire again, all the build-ups and let-downs of the day all in there somewhere, in the hunger and the neediness and the soft, warm eagerness of her then, as she simply let go, let herself just feel, no matter what, her face hiding in his shoulder, the shame overwhelming but not to be allowed to stop her. Feel, yes, and sound too, hearing her own urgent, sighing cries then as if from another girl, a desperate, needy slut; it was astonishing, too, to be up in the air, everything focussed on the intense force at her poor sex, not being held by him otherwise; aware that she might easily topple sideways and crash to the tiled floor, as she learned how to move on his wrist, and he moved with her, too, not letting her take it easy, but pressing, grinding, pressuring, driving her, until she ceased to care if it hurt and was moving hard for him, for her, no matter the knowledge in her of the damage it would do to her to come like this, in such circumstances, for this cruel, manipulative stranger, this LeStrade, this …

Oho-o-o-oooaahhAHEEyAHhowwwhh Uuurhh, UUuhuuurhh heurgh. hha. Hha. Hhhaa, haaaaggh

She had never made noises like those; bizarre, animalistic, full of intensity and wordless meaning, as she worked herself, and worked herself, until at last she came, tears bursting from her eyes just before her climax; her awful, overwhelming, shameful climax, her legs spasming, even stranger noises from deep in her throat as she wriggled and jerked, her face buried in his shoulder, her feet suddenly up at her ass, her knees bent double, thighs forced as wide apart she could make them, seeking maximum intensity on the bone of his wrist, panting and crying out as it finally crested in her, jerking and crying and rubbing her nipples against his jacket and writhing and spasming and … until it left her, her spent, all muscles suddenly slack as he deposited her, all of a heap, onto a low , upholstered chaise, shivering and twitching with it, an orgasm like no other in her short life; devastated by it all; full of wonder and glory that was also a heart-stopping apprehension, a seductive but terrifying vertigo, wordless, intense, destructive.

It was some while later, she supposed, not really knowing, when he took her ass. It was all quite smooth, the way he caught her, held her, shifted her subtly, set her up, but at the same time totally controlling, so that she was already breathing in short, shallow, desperate sips when the tip of him pushed into her backside, found its way to the tightness of her, and made its first entry. It brought a breathy, weak squeal from her; with his hands, his weight, his leg up on her, there was no struggle that could dislodge him, but she tried anyway, only to be immobilised again, at the same time as he found a way to get another couple of inches into her (which felt like a couple of yards) and she wailed, loud in her despair and pain, even as he pushed right on into her at last, relentless and greedy without crudity, confident in his power and experience; using her with ease and skill to serve his pleasure.

She had let a couple of boys try her this way, but never got very far before tapping out, but it was in her mind that, bad as it felt, he had handled her with care and skill, the feeling of copious lubrication, loosening her gradually, even as he had pushed her so very hard.

To be cared for and hurt, thought about and violated, all at the same time; overwhelming.

She felt as if she must burst apart, so full, so tight, so hot was she, his hand under her right knee, splaying her out, his weight on her left leg, hanging off the chaise, her face pushed down into the leather, her hands miraculously no longer clasped behind her, but still not free— both her wrists captured by his big left hand, his right hand in the roots of the hair at the back of her skull. She knew he was bigger than her, stronger, but at that point she discovered just how small she felt in his hands, under him, and it was good, because it gave her no choice, again, but to accept, work with him to make it easier and, as before, just the idea of accepting, of letting him have her, changed everything.

The same shame, the same pain, the same fear, now felt different as she moved with him, gave herself, surrendered, felt the surrender flood her body, and suddenly she felt special, as she had when walking across the hall, special that it was her who got to give herself to him, grateful that he had chosen her, persevered with her, pushed her, and she rededicated herself to making it good for him and it got better again.

It was even better when she felt him tensing and speeding up, making more noise and she knew he was going to come inside her and knew she was going to feel something. She had always liked when a boy came inside her, had felt gratitude and validation, but with a man like LeStrade it felt like a blessing that he had chosen to use her, no matter how stupid the idea was— this was what it would mean to win his game, to have him as urgent and intense as he was inside her then, the way he held her, just so, for his pleasure, using her, abusing her, yes, but it felt so good to be used like that, to have given him that, and something came to her, and she twisted her head the little she could, the words tumbling from her loose lips;

“Yes.”

“Yes, please.”

“Yes I want to stay.”

“Yes, Yes, Yes.”

And his deeper voice, cracking a little, responded with; “You win this round, little whore, with …”

“… with bonus score, because you got me too hot and I broke the rules. You win, whore.”

And she repeated herself “Yes, Yes, Yes.” as he jerked and thrust himself, deep inside her, hurting her but the pain was part of her victory.

He pulled out of her soon after that, and took himself away, and she had moaned for him, sorry to have him leave her, alone, a broken rag doll on the low chaise; sticky, hot, her mouth dry, everything loose, feeble, drained. Little aftershocks, of both pleasure and pain, exaltation and shame, freedom and total constraint flashing through her, and it dawned on her, slowly, that she was at peace, content, as she had not been in memory, as she had certainly not been since the moment LeStrade imposed himself into her little world.

At peace; it was a strange, new feeling. Life had become very simple.

There was nothing she should do, because she was not in control, nothing was ‘up to her’ (apart from the simple matters of feeding herself and the like, but somehow those had ceased to matter to her once he had explained that he was uninterested in them; she was still thirsty, yes— God she was really thirsty— but she could not hope to attend to that until he was finished with her; it made a perfect, crazy sense).

There was nothing she needed to do for him, until he told her there was, because she had given herself to him, and he had used her just as he pleased, and she had worked with him as best she could.

There was nothing it made sense to worry about, since it was not up to her what would happen next; he would tell her, and it would happen, whether she liked it or not— she had given him permission.

There was nothing worth wanting, because she was his, and she would get what he gave her, rather than what she wanted.

There was nothing terrible that could happen, because the worst had already happened. He had raped her in the ass, shamed her in front of strangers, Roddy knew she was a whore. What had been her life was washed-up, a hollow shell.

He had utterly destroyed her self image so that she was in some sense his creature now; she was already diminished, and yet she had survived, and she was at peace.

He was going to have her and use her— and abuse her, too; she made herself use the word, and it frightened her as it should but it was also now real that she would be abused, part of her new normal— and she had no choice in the matter and all she had to do (all that I can do, in fact) was to be good for him, be naked, silent, present her tits and ass and mouth and pussy for him and let him control her and fuck her and she would be looked after, and she would be his whore for as long as her permitted her to be, for as long as she could give him pleasure and she was going to dedicate herself to that because…

… because?

It was easy— because there is nothing else in my life that matters, now. This is the thing which makes my life; one way or the other, this is it. If I run away now, I’ll be nothing but walking wounded. This is the thing which makes my life something.

It was a wild thing to say but it was true; she tested herself.

College, her friends there— nothing at all compelling; Roddy, get real; her family— hardly existed, source of shame; career plans— all made-up to sound good on application forms, nothing she really believed in; future marriage, husband, kids— again, however she might have discussed that with girlfriends, it had never seemed real for her, never believable.

LeStrade was the only real thing which had ever happened to her for years, and he was big and strong and rich and interesting and uncompromising and he was going to fuck her hard and make her feel all sorts of things and he was going to hurt her and shame her and rape her and that was the price of it and she was eager to pay it.

It was intensely shaming but shame was also a source of sexual heat in her now, she knew it, had felt it work on her, and she would work to channel that for him, so that he would go out of control like that with her again, which, she realised, like a flash of insight into the nature of the universe, was what her life was going to focus on from now on— doing what she could to get him to lose control with her and rape her.

She hugged herself inside with the feelings it gave her. The intensity she was hungry for was through him ceasing to care about her, and using her as hard as he could for his own pleasure.

That was it; frightening and shaming and painful and intense. She was helpless in the face of it. Happy to be helpless.

Read the next episode of Prilly’s Journey.