You will want to have read the earlier episodes of this story.
Time dilated when you were waiting, Prilly discovered; she really wasn’t sure how long it was after Maria had left that, with an appalling lurching feeling in her belly, she realised that Santi had come into the kitchen; the sound of his voice had changed as he came into the big kitchen from the small, tiled laundry room, and she was suddenly not waiting, but rather fighting herself, fighting that part of her which wanted to scramble herself upright and run, run anywhere, run and hide from her shame, from her dirtiness.
It was strange what it was that made her stay still— preservation of dignity.
It was deeply weird, but somehow also true, that, for whatever she was now; some sort of whore— or possibly worse, from what Maria had said— it was less shaming, more dignified to stay as she was, pushing her pussy up into the air, her thighs wantonly spread, less shaming than running away in a blind panic.
Even though, in letting LeStrade and Maria call her a whore, discovering that they were at least partly right about her; even though that ripped away all normal claims to dignity, even though Santi was going to see her naked, holding herself in this degrading, slutty pose— even with all that, it turned out that she was still desperate to achieve what scraps of self respect, of dignity were to be had.
If I’m a whore, I’d better be a good whore.
If I stay— if LeStrade lets me stay— this is how it is going to be— so what’s the point of running? However shameful it is to be kneeling like this, face down, ass up in the corner of the kitchen, my face still sticky with dog food, turkey slime in my hair and on my leg, this is what I am, now, in LeStrade’s hands.
LeStrade said it; a whore is a girl whose self-worth is entirely dependent upon being useful to others in gratifying their sexual urges. If I run away, I’m losing even what little I have left!
And from that emotional certainty came, immediately afterward, the need— if not as strong as with LeStrade, still real— the need to have Santi find her sexually attractive I need him to want to fuck me! and then, without any further thinking, her body was moving for him, and she found herself immediately breathlessly, tremblingly needy; or am I always like this, so keen to be found fuckable, but have been suppressing it all along? Is this why I find it so difficult to be relaxed around boys? she couldn’t see him— couldn’t bear the idea of looking up, of possibly having to meet his gaze— but his footsteps had paused, so it seemed likely that he was looking at her— looking at my spread pink pussy, which I know is all puffy from before, and her hips flexed— just a little, perhaps— but more than enough, it seemed, because suddenly he was on her, in a hurry, taking his chance while she was alone, grabbing at her wrists with his broad, stubby hand, his slippery nylon sport shorts immediately rubbing at her pussy lips and— she couldn’t help it— she moaned out loud.
Moaned in fear and shame and despair and overwhelm, yes. But she could hear her vulnerability in there, too, her weak neediness, and knew that Santi must hear it, must know that she was his for the taking and it appalled her and fascinated her at the same time and her head and shoulders went down, down to the floor and when she felt him dragging the waistband of his shorts down she knew that she was really going to be fucked, face down on her knees; fucked by a servant whom she had exchanged almost no words with— Santi being taciturn to the point where at first she had wondered if he had a cleft palate or something that made speech hard for him.
And she was letting him do it, unable to decide whether she wanted him to do it or not, but somehow accepting, against everything she had learned all her life, that her wishes, her consent, her desire was nothing to do with whether she would be fucked by him, made herself form the words in her mind; I’m just a whore, available to everyone, fuckable by anyone.
It was an incredible idea, and it blew her away, so that she was in some sort of mental shock as the physical shock of his penetration hit her and doubled the overload in her mind and her body took over and cried out, then sighed, long and shuddering, despairing and aroused both as he pushed himself deeply inside her and then her hips surged for him and he was back in hurry mode as he simply rammed himself into her pussy, rapid, and deep, and she was quickly wailing, softly wailing, a continuous whine but with a little surge at each thrust, and then she was first sobbing with the intensity, with the shame, then really crying, although it wasn’t a heartbreaking sadness in her, but rather a letting-go, a letting-go of Prilly, of everthing Prilly had worked to be, all rendered pathetic and embarrassing by this degrading fuck, which she was more the victim of than a participant in. For all her hips were moving, her breath catching, her own excitement mounting, still, it was his fuck; he was, really, using her— had not seen her face even.
He was really fucking her then, hard and fast and deep, and she discovered that, as with the running away, that whatever she wanted, desperately, to do, which was suppress the urgent, breathy cries of arousal and gratitude her body was making, she must instead amplify then, and moderate them too, to deliver them up to Santi as tribute to him, for fucking her. Modesty made no sense for a whore who had been forced to acknowledge her true nature — who had abandoned herself to it.
His other hand pushed under her, to discover her clitoris, and maul at it; there was no finesse, no skill, no understanding of or interest in her; he just wanted to hear her moan, but it did not matter; her cries immediately became animalistic at the feeling of him at her in that way, of herself, moving for him; it destroyed her to hear herself, but she would not deny him the truth of her; could not, no matter how it hurt to have to let him know just what he was doing to her, how helplessly she was excited by it, how wild he was driving her, and this was rewarded, it seemed, as he was coming, then, deep inside her.
He was violently rutting her, hurting her, jerking and grunting and she forgot her own feelings and dissolved into a creature of pure service, pure submission, pure encouragement for him to take everything he wanted from her, do everything he needed to her, until, abruptly, with a grunt of satisfaction— grunts the only noise he had made beyond the harshness of his breathing— abruptly, he was gone, leaving her panting, needy for the orgasm that had never arrived, shell-shocked at having participated in such a mechanical fuck, encouraged it; just to have been used, without words, without her seeing his face, or he hers; to have been used so vigorously, without even an attempt at consent, no communication of any kind except physical, her wrists bruised by his grasp, which had so forcefully controlled her, held her down, helpless as he had fucked her, her poor clitoris sore and swollen from the roughness of his grabbing and crushing of her there, and yet she was almost in tears again as she felt that peaceful sensation, the release from everything, building, softly building in her chest, then flooding out along her nerves; a brief sensation compared to earlier, but truly wonderful to have, even for the scant minute or two which it took for reality to re-emerge in her mind.
The reality that she was still naked, kneeling; her face down in the corner of the kitchen, her pussy open, pushed up in the air for anyone to see, having somehow become trapped in this unbelievable notion that she was a natural, innate whore; the reality that had her. That had her once again falling into that looping, addictive groove of fear, arousal, shame, fear, arousal…
Arousal? Say it for real! It turns me, on, the idea of giving up on my life to be reduced to nothing more than a whore. It turns me on and I can’t control it; not even though I am so afraid of what will be done to me, so ashamed of what I have done to myself.
It turns me on.
It turns me on to feel Santi’s come, slowly dripping down my thigh, cold on my skin, and know that anyone who walks in will know that I’ve been fucked like this, will see me holding my position, offering myself for anyone else who might come in.
And I want it; like a sickness in me; I want it.
LeStrade’s comment to Maria came to her; If we push too hard and she gets ruined, well, we’ll have had fun doing it.
She felt the fear rise— what did he mean by ruined? It sounded awful, horrific; if what he had done to her already was not ruin, how much worse could it get before she would in fact be ruined?
It was insane to be even entertaining such thoughts, as if they might come true, as if she might not have the strength to escape before anything so terrible.
And yet there it came, the sick, queasy knowledge that the idea of LeStrade— LeStrade and Maria, too— forcing what it meant to be a whore onto her (deeper than whore, Maria had said), that at some level that was exciting to her, that she felt a warm fuzzy feeling— knowing that it meant lots of attention from them, lots of intimate personal attention (the feeling of being held by Maria, earlier; one hand at the base of her skull, controlling her head, the other at the inside of her thigh, so close to her pussy— such intimate holds, at the same time so coldly controlling; Prilly felt her back arching, her jaw fall slack, her heart thump at the memory of it, the sudden realisation that she would be held like that often, that her response would be helpless, how much she would look forward to being held like that; oh god how can I be so weak for this, so pathetically easy?)
Maria’s voice shocked her— I was lost inside myself, in fantasies of being further controlled; this is taking me over so terribly fast and I don’t know what I’m doing; I’ve lost all control now; I need— I must try and concentrate, pay attention; I can’t … can’t just— slide— like this? Can I?
“Sticky lil’ cont. Santi took you, hoh? And you jos’ let heem?”
Maria was trying less and less with her english, and it made perfect sense; no need to work hard to have a whore understand you; a whore is simple; all that matters to a whore is being fucked. Just another obvious reality.
“Goo’ lil puta. Jos’ a fockhole for everyone.”
Prilly was breathing heavily, then, heart pattering; it was appalling to let such things be said about her, to her; even worse to feel that they were true, to know that there was no real protest in her at Maria’s words except, feebly, at the intentional mean-ness of them; I’m trying my best, letting all this be done to me, holding myself open for you even though I’m dying of shame, and you, another woman, have to say mean things to me…
Even the pain, though; even the pain of those cruel words, meant to hurt, was stupidly welcome— Maria had thoughts about her, was spending time on her, wanted to hurt her; it was all there, all real, and it was worth it, for Prilly; worth everything, even as tears once again leaked from her eyes, even as she shook with the shame and pain of it.
“Op! Op with you preety! Follow!”
And Maria’s heels clicked away (another change in Maria since LeStrade’s arrival— from flat local espadrilles to strappy high-heeled sandals).
Standing without unlocking her wrists from the small of her back was surprisingly hard, her knee and hip joints stiff, her shoulders knots of pure low-grade pain, but Prilly forced herself to achieve it with maximum elegance, minimum awkwardness, even though no-one was looking. She had become convinced of her grandmother’s strict edict, which had come back to her from her early years, long since rejected as outdated and ridiculous, now making perfect sense; an urgent requirement; “Always elegant, always in control, never a spectacle, but always worth looking at.” An unattractive whore would be worse than a nothing; a pathetic joke; a whore had so, so little; what was possible must be maximised at all costs; even if there was no-one watching.
The smallness, the pettiness, the breathless vulnerability of a whore’s existence!
Nothing matters but my body— how I present it. Naked, there is nothing hidden, everything is obvious, everything is available, nowhere to hide. No-one to think about but the nearest person, the few people who could possibly appear, the appalling knowledge of my vulnerability to their desire, my inability, my refusal to protect myself against those desires, whatever they might be. More than that— my need to encourage their desires, because to present myself so and not get fucked, not be worth looking at, is too appalling to bear.
Just walking across the kitchen, following Maria, no-one even looking at her, was a voyage, for Prilly; everything about her life new and changed, enmeshed in it, overtaken by it, overwhelmed by it, aware of a deep gratitude at being allowed to live this way, at being liberated to think about nothing more than the placement of each foot, the sway of her breasts, the extremity of her ability to walk on the very balls of her feet without losing elegance, the astonishing surge in her when Maria turned to look back at her; another woman, judging her as a whore, a naked whore; consumed by the need inside herself to win some approval, or at least not be too harshly criticised, the emptiness in her at the lack of any evidence at all from Maria as to that judgement, the neediness it opened up in her as she passed into the laundry room, so close to Maria, trembling, quivering with it all.
Just that, just walking across a room; nothing at all, and still I am thrilling inside me with it; I can actually feel myself juicing at the idea she might touch me, that I can’t, won’t, won’t want to stop her if she does; that I’ll be happy if she puts her fingers in my pussy; at the simple fact that she is watching me, naked, walk across the room, even though that she can see my trying so hard is so humiliating.
The intensity came and went, by its own inexplicable logic, alternating with moments of extreme despair, bleak misery, quivering fear, dreadful shame over the next period, as Prilly experienced many things for the first time.
Asked to progress through the laundry room to the utility room, where she had never been before, she found herself in a large, brutally practical space, strangely beautiful in its absence of any consideration of style, all white tiles, and obviously equipped for the business end of the housekeeping of the centre of a large estate in an age before electricity; cool from the enormous, felt solidity of the walls, the big slabs; large mesh fronted cold-cupboards, noisy with the crudely adapted modern chillers; exposed beams with crude metal hooks and chains, antique machines with hand cranks mounted on timber pedestals, racks of big tools, cleavers and knives and shears and grinder blades.
Starkly beautiful it was, but not in the least comforting to a vulnerable naked girl, already destabilised at the knowledge that those who has given herself to have nothing but abuse in store for her, and the fear builds in her; she can feel her knees trembling.
And it only got worse as, arranged on her hands and knees on a low, tiled slab, equipped with a large drain at the base of a deep central depression, feeling cold, skin goose-bumping, her knees shackled to each side, so that her thighs were spread shamefully wide, her wrists were first tied behind her, then linked to something heavy and swaying (she could not see exactly what). Whatever that was was then raised somehow, with accompanying grinding and cranking sounds, until she screamed with the intensity of the upward and backward rotation of her shoulders, having already lifted her haunches as high as she possibly could, no longer posing but rather obscenely stretching herself because it hurt too much not to; no choice.
No choice. Helpless. Controlled. In Pain. Frightened. Ashamed. Her thoughts entirely consumed by whether she was pleasing Maria.
It was utterly bizarre to be suffering so much, to be so horrified at the shameful exposure of her body, and yet to find herself totally occupied by the need to be worthy of Maria’s attention, even as the woman treated her so cruelly.
“Silencio, puta!” This order was emphasised by a casual but stinging slap across Prilly’s buttocks, and another obvious but previously unconsidered reality was forced into her consciousness;
They can hurt me— physically hurt me— any way they like, and I will let them. It’s obvious. I’m going to be hit! Probably whipped, too (it’s in all the porn, dummy)!
It was impossible to reconcile these new horrors— the agony of her bondage, the understanding that she would be beaten as well as raped, that she would be as helpless in the face of the one as the other; they could not be real!
And yet they were more real than anything she had ever experienced; inescapably, painfully real, and deliberately imposed, by cruel and powerful people to whom she had given over control of her body.
It made no sense at all, and horror engulfed her, so that she wailed, long, low, deep and raw, with the impossibility of living with all of it, twisting in her bonds, almost welcoming the sharp new pains at her shoulders, left, then right, then left again as she writhed, feeling the reality of it; that what she was doing was teaching herself to accept, doing her grieving in real-time, as a way of allowing herself to be defeated, diminished; taken a further step toward being ruined.
Maria must have understood what was going on, for the woman did not apply further blows, but rather waited a few tens of seconds as Prilly’s moans first broke up into little, strangled sobs, then died out altogether, leaving her limp, hanging in her bonds.
Maria came to her head then, and forced it up with a hand gripping Prilly’s hair at the crown of her head, looking down into Prilly’s tear-stained, despairing eyes;
“Esactamente, puta. This weel happen, agen, and then agen. Somthin’ bad be done to jou, jou cannot bear it; jou have a leetl panic attack; poor putatita with her pretty tetas jeegling when she cries! No-one cares; mos’ly, they will be angry because you make annoyin’ noises. Maybe hit you, like I do. Then, jou mus’ realis’ it; this is jou, now, this is jor choice, and jou are beaten. Jou los’ another battle. Jou are whore, even more.”
“Thees is entertainin’ to wash; MonSeñor, he enjoy seein’ this; I enjoy, too. But no’ for long. Important, qweekly, to reset; make jouself preety again, fockable.”
“Understan’, puta?”
And Prilly found herself helplessly nodding, wondering how Maria could know so exactly what was going on inside her head, wondering at her weakness, her willingness, as she had immediately began to use what few freedoms she had, tied as she was, to render herself more ‘fockable’, feeling the blushes rise, the shame eating at her, but doing it anyway.
If I’m a whore, I’d better be a good whore.
