Prilly's Journey Pt 6

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

Happy to be helpless, yes, and also blessed to be helpless; too weak to resist the imposition onto her of that which fascinated her so intensely, but could never make happen for herself.

Blessed to be weak, because if she had strength, she must either resist, and never get to experience this again, or tear herself apart with guilt for failing to resist.

These thoughts were as deeply troubling as they were squirmily erotic, as she lay there in total disarray, his come on her thighs and buttocks, sweaty, tear-stained, her mouth thick and dry, her shoulders still aching from the strain of clasping her hands behind her, her ass burning, her pussy lips swollen and bruised, alternately leaking tears and having mini panic attacks as the reality of what had just been done to her had to be relived, to process the enormity of it.

The whole sequence had been imposed on her so shockingly, so violently, so ruthlessly, with such complete disdain for her feelings, her desires (except that she was unable to escape from the reality that her feelings and desires had been helplessly, shamefully drawn in by, and deeply aroused by exactly that violence, by that very disdain— the overtness of his treatment of her as a vehicle for his sexual satisfaction, and nothing more— by her first experience of being treated as she deserved to be, as she had asked to be, as what she had admitted to being, as she wanted to be: I have been fucked like a whore gets fucked, and I know I will want more of it, that I will get more of it, that it will change me, and its going to happen and I’m not going to be able to stop it. Because I don’t really want this to stop.)

That this was going to be her life, now, for days at least, seemed certain— she had been relegated to the status of sex toy by a rich and powerful abuser who seemed entirely without inhibition; she had encouraged him and offered herself to him and was now lost in a vortex which she saw no way out of, even if she could find it within her to try. The reality of that was too enormous for her to take in without constant mental effort; simultaneously breathtaking in its outrageousness, terrifying its implications, unbelievable that it could be happening to her.

Her peace was over, and it came to her that it would not return until the aftermath of some further violent usage, and her heart began to thump again.

God I want it. I want it again. Even in the ass like that.

It was so hard to realise this, have it sit in her; she was going to be fucked and abused, at will, and she was going to encourage it, because she was a whore, wanted to let the whore-nature in her be free, be fulfilled, be used— at least until she had experienced it more fully, and perhaps might make a choice on the basis of something other than yearning, fascination, hunger.

Wondering at herself then, she considered her body, sprawled, slumped as it was, and made some adjustments, knowing that these had no other purpose than to make herself more sexually obvious— spreading her thighs, lifting her hips, arching her back, pulling her shoulders back to lift her breasts.

Feeling appalled, feeling delighted, feeling dizzy with the shame of being so blatant about her eagerness to be fucked.

Making it obvious that I want to be fucked. Still, so soon after that. Please fuck me, Sir. God I like to say that. I really do. Please fuck me Sir. I’ll say it to him, one day, when I have the nerve. Please Sir, fuck me. And I’ll mean it, really mean it.

He had told her, too, that he would intensify his demands, even though it seemed obviously impossible that she could handle anything more intense than what had just happened (no matter how much the thought had her pulse racing), and the fear grew in her, and then the tears came again.

Fear, arousal, shame, fear, arousal, shame … round and round, wearing a groove in her psyche as she lay there, quivering.

His footsteps, coming closer; her whole body reacted, conflicted— she wanted to display herself more obviously for him, and she wanted to hide, she wanted him to touch her, and she feared the hurt and shame that his touch would certainly bring.

And the demon in her gloried at the wildness of it, at being so free, of knowing nothing, nothing, at having no control at all of how she would feel next, what could be done to her next, save that it would be intense, intensity being the point, for the demon. And then she saw it; what the demon wanted was that experience of peace; its demands for intensity came from its knowledge that intensity was the only way to get peace. That was why it was driving her.

She wanted to move, offer herself still more obviously, but was unable to; face down on the chaise, legs obscenely spread, one knee bent, she could only quiver and breathe, breathing through her mouth; noisy, obviously unstable, weakened, vulnerable.

And yet nothing happened; he simply watched her, watching her struggle, trapped by fear and need and weakness and …

… it was impossible to live with it, knowing that he knew just what she was, how weak, how low; how bestial and urgent her responses had been to such degrading treatment, how she had orgasmed for him, utterly unrestrained, from such crude manhandling.

It would be good if he killed me now. Because I had it, I have had it now, in my life, but I just don’t know if I can take any more of this; it’s like being put through a mangle, inside, everything at war in me, and so frightened and so weak and so needy and …

He was watching. And death did not come, so that she had to live.

He must be enjoying this; my suffering, my desperation.

There was no resentment, no outrage, it was just obvious, even though it hurt, bit deep, even though she needed kindness so badly; even some tiny fake kindness, anything, so that she could tell herself just one nice thing about what she had given in to.

What she got was a sucker punch.

He knelt in front of her, put his hand to the side of her face, traced a teardrop with a lazy finger, then slid his hand into her hair and took a grip— firm, but gentle, and lifted her; lifted her so that her body came up off the leather, and her breasts swung free, which he obviously appreciated, as he breathed the words, talking to himself, not her;

“Really, excellent tits. They’ll look good marked.”

It was uncomfortable, her back arched, unsupported except by his grip in her hair, but he held her there, and just his touch felt like a balm, and she forced her arms to the small of her back again, crossed them tightly, clamped her hands, each about the opposite forearm, the movement feeling semi-automatic now, reigniting the fires in her shoulders, almost revelling in making herself suffer for him, and she felt— allowed— a tiny hope to grow in her, desperate to see what was in his eyes, even though she was too ashamed to look up; too dirty, too frightened, feeling the shame that was like physical pain, huge in her.

If I look at him it will all be real, and I’ll be condemned to this, this forever. He’ll never see me as a person again. And … and I want it, but … but I can’t! I just can’t!

And she couldn’t, and simply had to wait, wait upon his choice as to how this would go, whimpering softly.

“Good. Very good. You do not feel that you have the right to look at me, even, in your humiliation. And you are correct. You are a whore, who has consented to let her avidity for being used for sex define her; you have given up on your self-respect, and thus lost the right to respect from others.”

“But now I command you to look, to open your eyes; I need to look into you, and you need to understand me, how serious this is for you.”

“Now, little Prilly, now.”

It took her the longest time, but he was patient, and at last she was looking at him directly, having terrible trouble keeping her face calm, so shy was she, so ashamed; there was a small smile on his lips, but it was definitely not for her; not a hint, even, of encouragement or empathy but instead a lazy, greedy smile, a smile of enjoyment, satisfaction.

In contrast to her debauched condition, naked and stained and sticky, chest heaving with conflicting, tearing emotion, he was as suave and cool as ever in his summer suit; upright, in control, composed. While she was trembling, weak as a kitten, distressed, her gaze watery, shifting, fearful, his eyes were clear, direct and untroubled, his body relaxed; the difference between their two conditions was starkly obvious, and his words made it even clearer;.

“Just so, girl, just so; you’re frightened, and ashamed, and weak, and in pain. This is appropriate for a helpless whore like you. I find you beautiful in your suffering, and it arouses me, too; makes me want to hurt you and fuck you, hard, crush you. This too is good.”

The heartless cruelty of his words was hard to take, but despite that, they went direct to the heart of her, accepted them, took them as compliments; there was no anger or rejection in her;

He’s right. I am nothing, next to him; will never be anything; but I want his attention, his interest, so much that it hurts. If he likes to see me like this, then I want him to have me like this, I guess. I want him to ‘mark’ my breasts, too, whatever that means, because it will mean I have interested him. It’s that strong, that important to me. I won’t be able bear it, but I can’t escape it, and because I won’t be able to bear it, disaster, disaster and ruin, must follow; I feel it.

Through this little emotional storm, so raw and harsh, she made herself smile for him, and found it necessary— needful from deep within her to please him— to say;

“Yes. Yes, please … and … and thank you … Sir.”

She was rewarded by a slight deepening of his air of satisfaction, and;

“You see, pretty, I know what you want, even though it terrifies you. I am going to enjoy you, if you ask me to.”

“I will keep you like this, in this condition, in confusion, in fear, in shame— naked, mostly, of course, and often in pain— for my entertainment. You won’t be able to resist my demands on you; in fact, you will find that submitting will be the one and only way to feel safe. You won’t find it in you to resist, so that your freedom will extend only as to the prettiness and sweetness with which you offer yourself up to me, open yourself up to your own degradation.”

“If I’m right about you— and so far, you are very much conforming to type in the most helpless of ways— you will become increasingly dependent upon me, even as you know that I am corrupting you.”

“All of which is why, when I ask you later, at dinner, ask you once again, I suggest to you that you should choose to leave tomorrow; to escape me. If you stay, there will be no way out for the next twenty four hours. I will go fast and hard with you and it will change you rapidly, mark your psyche, heavily, in ways which will not heal, only stain.”

He stopped, enjoying the near hysteria he had induced in her, her eyes still trapped by him, the rest of her body heaving with rapid, almost random breathing, the noises from her throat full of dismay and fear and weakness.

“My prediction, though, which I happily share with you, is that you will beg to be allowed to stay, since a large part of you is desperate to be changed, wants to experience more of this intensity.”

“You will have time to consider, now. Go, now. Go to your room, clean up, get dressed, then go and see Maria, for food. You are a normal girl again for a few hours, at least free to be so, if you can manage it.”

“Talk to Maria if you want— she knows a great deal about your situation, for she has lived a version of this herself, with my father, and then with me. I have no idea what she thinks about it all, about you, or me— since she is a whore I don’t concern myself with her thoughts; she’s there for what she is used for; it used to be sex, now it is managing this place. But she is a smart woman and appears to have become wise, in her way; she may help you. I trust her implicitly in these matters; you can take what you hear from her as if it was from me.”

The harsh realism, the stark promises of this speech chill Prilly to the core; she sees even more how cold he is, how little he is interested in her as a person, and it is devastating.

Doubly devastating, because, once again, his warning to her has made it even more certain— a feeling in her core, not a thought in her mind— that she will say yes, say yes again, beg to stay, even, knowing that once she does, there will be no hiding place for her.

She was almost a robot, then, she felt, as she took his words as her guide.

Straight to her room, to shower, carefully and conscientiously cleaning herself, then dressed herself for the first time that day in normal clothes— shorts and t-shirt as she had done every other day— then straight downstairs again (walking down the stairs, the pain in her heel forcing her onto tiptoe, the memory of earlier, of walking down the stairs naked so powerful within her that it almost felt wrong to be clothed) and straight to the kitchen; through the heavy door which so obviously demarcated the ‘servants’ part of the old house, desperately thirsty (he had not instructed her to drink in her room. She had wanted to, but had almost proudly resisted, obeying he who was not there to see, who would never know, or likely care, but obeying him anyway, almost like a child playing by a set of rules, just to see what it felt like; realising, uneasily, deliciously, that she did, she did like it— the feeling of being controlled by him even though he was not interested).

Everything is easier, doing what I think he wants of me. All that internal back-and-forwards, what I should do, who would it please, who would it upset, was it allowed, ought I to try something else, was I good enough, did I deserve …? All gone. Such a relief. So good not to have choices.

So frightening that it’s so nice not to have choices.

Oh God this is so weird and I’m lost in it. I really am, and I know I’m going to go with the frightening, with the ‘have no choices’, because I have to know, to really know, what that feels like, to be kept, like he said; naked, frightened, vulnerable, in pain, even. And get fucked. Get fucked hard. He must be right; I really am a whore. In my soul. I want to live to be fucked, to have everything else taken from me; I do.

Seeing Maria, though, Prilly almost lost it. Not having choices meant talking to Maria; Maria, a woman. Maria, who had been in the morning room while Prilly had humiliated herself, been humiliated, accepted the label of whore, allowed LeStrade to march her, naked, into his room, obviously to be used for sex. Maria, who (his words resounded in her head; knows a great deal about your situation, for she went through a version of this herself, with my father, and then with me, words she had heard but simply not processed; words which exploded in her mind at that minute, still impossible to understand, but full of destructive potential). She could not talk to Maria. She could not face Maria, even.

And yet he had told her to.

She froze, stuck, on the verge of tears; everything, everything since the moment she had realised LeStrade had seen her, naked, so little time ago, at the pool; everything was impossible; could not have happened. And yet it had.

Her responses were equally impossible, unbelievable, and yet that was how she had behaved.

She had no idea, no idea at all, none, how to be in the world any more. She almost hated LeStrade for having sent her away; alone with him, she had been his, and that had lasted while she was alone in her room, for she had installed him within herself, as her commander, her master. But this— talking to Maria— this was truly impossible.

“He is a man, my Señor, no? He saw jou, and he knew what no-one else could, and he took jou. I thought jou were sweet girl, sweet American rich girl, pretty girl, friendly girl; weak maybe, but no interesting at all.”

“Now, jou his.”

Maria, who had been facing away, doing something brutal to a turkey carcass, had turned and was now in front of Prilly, her face almost blank, hands covered in blood, but her eyes looking carefully. There was no way to know whether she despised Prilly, approved of her, or was indifferent.

“He send jou to me?”

And suddenly, it was easy to speak; Maria was taking control; you can take what you hear from her as if it was from me. Easy, perhaps, but deeply shaming. One thing to have a powerful older man take control of her, one for whom she had strong sexual feelings, and had had intimate relations with; quite another to have a servant do so, an older woman. But she found herself urgently needing to please.

“Yes … Yes, he … he said I should ask you for … for water , and … and food.”

It was pathetic, she could hear how pathetic it was; just this morning, she had unthinkingly, as of right, selected just what she wanted from the fridge, the fruit-bowl, made herself a luscious breakfast and eaten it by the pool. Now she was weakly begging for ‘water and food’, as if she were some street tramp.

“Why jou wearing clothes, girl?”

There was no weight in the words, no pressure, a simple question, but it hit Prilly like a truck. Why … had she not dedicated herself to doing what he would want her to? Her mouth was making words already, though;

“He … he said I should be a normal girl again for a few hours, if … if I could manage it.”

Silence, Maria’s face as inscrutable as ever, Prilly feeling insecurity, uncertainty building inside her, uncertain, wishing Maria would just tell her what to do, even if it might be shaming. Instead, though, Maria asked a question;

“He ask jou, this morning, to come down with no clothes? Hm? Or you choose, think, how jou please him?— how jou get him fock you— hm?”

“Jou want to please him? Jou want him stay interested in jou? In jou little poosy? In jou pretty tetas? You want him fock jou more, hm?”

It was awful that she could get no clue from Maria’s face what answer the woman wanted from her, to be put on the spot, the point of the question so deep and shameful; Do you want to be my boss’ whore?

It took a little while, but Prilly could only say one thing, her voice almost a whisper;

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

And then, in the face of more silence;

“I want to please him. I want him to be interested in … in my pussy, and … and my tits.”

“… and … and I want him to … to fuck me. Fuck me more.”

Prilly could no longer hold her head up, no longer look Maria in the eyes, felt her face hot, knew she was showing her shame, had to work hard not to cringe, the shame was so strong, the weakness in her sapping all strength; she had to work to stop herself from begging Maria to tell her what to do, and actually felt relief at the woman’s next words.

“So why jou dressed, putatita?”

It was devastating to strip herself, there in the kitchen, even her sliders, to be once again barefoot, naked, up on tip-toes (that too had begun to feel automatic)— hearing Santi in the laundry room, the door to it open, cheerily rapping along to something he would be listening to on the enormous headphones he always wore, knowing that he could step into the kitchen at any moment.

It was shaming, it was frightening, it was another step down, but it was so much better than being unable to decide what to do, being face to face with her crippling new uselessness.

She was painfully shy, naked, cringing, but Maria had helped with that, too;

“You want he see jou like that? All curlin’ up? He want to see the tetas, the poosy. He no want to see the hands.”

And Prilly made herself stand straight, hands back behind her, shoulders back, legs parted, her head up, but her eyes on Maria’s feet, blinking back tears.

Putatita. That meant something like ’little whore’, didn’t it? It hurt, but still not as badly as the agony of being left to make a choice herself.

But the reward Maria gave her, shaming as it was, overwhelmed the hurt with a flood of weak pleasure; just as LeStrade had done, Maria reached out with one hand to touch the side of Prilly’s neck, stroking softly upwards, making her tremble a little, then lightly to hold the side of her head— controlling, but equally reassuring; then Maria’s other hand— again following Lestrade’s precedent— came to Prilly’s inner thigh, casually confident, to hold her there, too— tinglingly close to Prilly’s sex, but not quite touching, while at the same time powerfully invasive of her intimacy, so that Prilly really was trembling with it, blushing, her breathing shallow and fast, her submission to being held like that speaking volumes in itself, the rest of her body language confirming it, as she sighed softly, to dissipate some of the emotion of being treated so, of liking to be treated so, of responding to being treated so.

Of having her whore-soul made obvious, her pussy wanting the touch which was so close, but denied her; the neediness strong, overwhelming, so that her whole self was focused on the hand that was so near to possessing her. Of feeling grateful that this has been done to her. Of the powerful implications for what this meant for her future.

Maria held her like that, standing close to her, watching carefully (Prilly could feel it, even though she could not have looked directly into Maria’s eyes for worlds), for an exaggeratedly long moment, waiting until, at last, Prilly’s body did what it wanted to— did it of its own accord— as Prilly very clearly offered herself into the hands that held her— allowed their slight pressure to be her guide, shifting herself in response to the small shifts those hands made— straightening, coming up higher on tip-toes, lifting her head while maintaining her lowered gaze, opening her thighs a little.

Until they both knew that Prilly was Maria’s puppet, had fully accepted that condition, that it was not just a one-off, but that there was an understanding, now, that Prilly could be, would be controlled by Maria, the understanding being sealed, made public, by Prilly as she gave out a soft little half sob, half giggle of embarrassed but unmistakeable surrender, flashed her eyes up to maria’s for a microsecond, acknowledging her subordination, offering it, the tremor in her belly unmissable, felt by Maria, both at Prilly’s neck and her inner thigh.

“Alora, putatita, alora. Now jou are mine, hm?”

Maria’s voice was soft, intimate, warm, but there was a hardness at its core, and Prilly knew that she would not forget that moment, not for a long time, even as Maria, taking Prilly for granted, turned and left her there, went and washed her hands, the took two bowls, filling one with water from the faucet (not the chilled supply from the fridge), the other with rice, adding a few plain looking beans on top, and placed both bowls on the floor, in the corner nearest Prilly, before returning to the turkey without a look or a word.

It took Prilly long, hard minutes to come to terms with it, the shame of it, the despair in her. She tried, tried hard to summon up righteous anger at Maria for insulting her so, and utterly failed.

She was again drowned in deep and urgent emotions, but that made no difference. After making her control over Prilly clear, LeStrade’s housekeeper had placed those bowls there for her. She was expected to kneel and eat like a dog.

And she was so thirsty— looking at the rice, hungry too, she realised— ravenous…

But she couldn’t. Kneeling here, her back would be to the laundry room door; Santi would walk in and see her like that; it was unthinkable. Walking downstairs with him watching had been shaming, yes, but thrilling, too— a woman descending a staircase— such a movie cliche. But eating like a dog?

LeStrade had told her she could talk to Maria, ask her questions, but Maria had reduced her to wordlessness, made her strip, invaded her personal space and effortlessly established her domination, and now insulted her. The idea of quizzing her about LeStrade was unimaginable; it would be easier to talk with LeStrade than with Maria.

Tragically, heart-breakingly, it was more unimaginable, she found, that she might try to explain to Maria how degrading it would be to kneel and lap from those bowls, ask to be allowed some other way, than that she would soon give in and get onto her knees and lap food from a dog bowl, naked.

Maria paid her no attention, and Santi continued to rap along with his music, without a care it seemed, during all the long, bitter minutes over which Prilly lost her battle with pride, managing only to stop herself sobbing, but not to defy Maria.

Tiny, trembling, tip-toe steps eventually took her to the corner; each a step into despair, before, horribly, she let her legs bend until she was kneeling, facing the bowls, feeling herself needing the water, feeling herself weaken, before making a miserable discovery.

With her hands held behind her, if she leant forward, she would topple over, fall uncontrollably onto her face in the bowls.

If she wanted to have any control at all, she would have to shuffle up to the bowls until her knees were almost touching them, then spread her thighs wide apart, before bending right over at the hip— folding herself double, really— in order to get her face low enough and keep her balance. Her crotch would be outrageously splayed between her spread thighs, and when she leant forward to actually eat, her ass would lift, presenting her pussy very obviously— she saw it in her mind’s eye with horrible porn video clarity, and trembled with the shame of it. Because she was committed, because she couldn’t see a way out.

“I’m going to eat like a dog. A naked slut, waggling her arse, advertising her spread pussy as she eats like a dog.”

And it was that position she was in, a couple of minutes later, her face in the rice and beans, hands tightly clasped behind her back, when she heard footsteps coming, LeStrade’s voice, and the agony of being discovered like that rendered her frozen, helpless, destroyed by shame;

“Antonin and Jasmine will arrive tomorrow, we’ll have to rearrange the rooms. We can discuss it in the morning, but I thought you should know. Antonin is bringing the dogs.”

He was right there, behind her! They were both there, and she was down on the floor, naked, her breasts swaying, her face sticky with food, her thighs spread wide. And they were talking as if this was not worth mentioning, as if she were uninteresting, not worth a second’s notice.

She was paralysed, trembling; sure they must be looking at her, horrified at that certainty and equally devastated that they were ignoring her, LeStrade seemingly only interested in Maria’s confirmation that she would manage everything.

It came to her that she must advertise herself. Advertise her sexual availability, her sexual hunger, for it was hot and jittery in her belly, then; unasked for, but needy and eager, demanding expression, satisfaction. Now that her body knew what violent, untrammelled fucking from a greedy man felt like, it wanted more; did not see why it should not have it, would do much to get it; that was what a whore would do, wasn’t it? Beg for sex, beg with her body.

Without any real thought, she found herself shuffling her knees a little wider apart, lifting her ass up further, flexing her hips as much as she could, moving her head so it was between the bowls, lowering her forehead to the floor, so she could lift her ass even higher, whimpering to herself at the rush of shame which overtook her as she realised just what this must look like, but not stopping herself, not stilling the slow, slutty roll of her hips.

And it worked— they noticed her! LeStrade laughed;

“As usual, Maria, you exceed my expectations; moved her on already.”

The attention burned as much as it as it satisfied her need, and Prilly wondered how she was to live with the speed, the depth of this degradation, until her suffering was interrupted by an intensification of shame as Maria’s foot planted on the back of her head, pressing her face into the floor, until she had to turn her face sideways.

She’s grinding my face onto the floor, and I’m letting her, and holding my pose to advertise my pussy to him, a man I only met a few hours ago, a man who has raped and shamed me. And I won’t even free my arms to defend myself.

“This one go deeper than whore, MonSeñor. I like to pooch her for jou. Hard, bery hard.”

“Would you now? Well, I will trust your judgement, as always. Don’t hold back, not at all. Our little Miss Prilly is a random; I’ve no long term plans for her, and I can only be here for a couple of weeks, so let’s see what we can do with her. If we push too hard and she gets ruined, well, we’ll have had fun doing it. It will be interesting to take the gloves off completely.”

There was too much in this which was understood between LeStrade and Maria for Prilly to know what it really meant, but the cruel callousness, the implications for continued abuse were obvious enough and deeply frightening. At the same time, crazy as it was, there was a fierce glow of satisfaction, of ridiculous pride and pleasure in her at these words.

He’s interested! Maria sees prospects for me! He wants her to work on me; I’m worth trying with; I can be more special!

In any case, LeStrade was gone as soon as he had heard Maria’s assurance that she would manage the new arrivals, and Maria’s hand was in her hair, pulling her away;

“Enough, puerquitita! He like his girl skinny! Jou stay here like this now, until Maria ready for jou.”

The bowls were removed, and Prilly was abandoned.

She didn’t at first realise she had been abandoned— assumed something was going to happen soon, held her pose, shameful as it was, because she hadn’t been told anything else, and hardly dared breathe, let alone use her initiative— but then Maria opened the door to the garden and left, and didn’t come back,

And she began to realise something about being less than a full person, being a whore. That your time meant nothing. If you were not required to entertain someone, then you were simply abandoned. That this did not mean you were free to do something you wanted to do; quite the opposite, you were just left; in ‘suspended animation’, as it were.

Waiting.

Waiting, until someone came along who wanted to be entertained. Who wanted to fuck you, or hurt you, or shame you. Someone you would wiggle your ass at in the hope of encouraging them to want you for something. If for nothing else than for the release from waiting.

Waiting, with nothing to to but think about how you ended up where you are; what sort of a girl you must be, to have been treated so badly, to have so few options left that you spend your time waiting; to have encouraged people you hardly knew, strangers, cruel strangers, to treat you like that.

Waiting.

With nothing to do but destroy yourself.

Read the next episode of Prilly’s Journey.