You will want to have read the earlier episodes of this story.
“Better, preety, better— jos don’ need remindin’ now, becos’ remindin weel not be words, soon, but like thees, an’ mor.”
Which words were quickly followed by another couple of hard swats across Prilly’s backside, confirming her realisation that they would be beating her. The surprise, though, was that Prilly could find nothing in her of outrage, anger, or even resentment at having been hit with intent to hurt, to shame.
I feel the pain and shame, I really do, but there is guilt and self-shame as well— for having failed. Far from rejecting it, I can see it is justified, deserved, even. Welcome, almost, as confirmation that I am correct when I feel myself to have been demoted from full personhood; that Iam so weak that I almost welcome that demotion, experience it as a relief, that I can let go of having to be someone. That I can just be this; be a naked whore, not in charge even of my own pussy.
The tears which stung her eyes were not from the pain, but from the bleakness of having to accept that she won’t even hold being beaten against Maria, let alone resist it.
It comes to her that the way her breasts will be marked as LeStrade had said, is with a whip. Whips leave weals. She realises that LeStrade wants to whip her breasts so hard that visible damage is done, make marks in the tender flesh of her breasts, marks that will last. She can taste the fear, but at the same time, there is a part of her which is almost impatient to know what it will be like to be whipped like that, how it will feel afterward, when LeStrade grabs her breasts, how the weals will burn under his hands, how small and weak and desperate she will feel; desperate to please him, desperately ashamed to have been so degraded, to be so low that she is not even able to control whether her poor soft breasts are to be whipped or not; how pathetic it will be to like the way her breasts have been marked, because she knows that LeStrade likes them marked.
Prilly trembles violently at these thoughts, her breathing ragged, knowing that Maria, who understands so much, somehow, about what she is going through, about how it really is with her, that Maria is watching, and will draw her own conclusions about how weak and helpless and open to further abuses she, Prilly, really is. It is at once terrible and lovely not to be able to hide anything, not to have any choice about accepting Maria’s hand at her sex, direct, invasive, probing, to feel herself compelled to let Maria see how deeply that enforced acceptance affects her, as she sighs and moans openly when Maria’s manipulations ignite a surge of arousal in her.
How did I get so easy, so fast? It’s like anything turns me on, now— anything! I used to think I had a bit of a low sex drive, that it took me a while to be ready to even think about sex, but now I’m always ready, it seems, even when it’s not my choice to be ready.
“Thees is goo’, too, preety; jou mus’ be joosy for MonSeñor always.”
“I am goin’ to cleen jou for heem, now. We weel do thees every day, twice at least, so jou gona have to get joos to eet.”
And with that, there was presented at Prilly’s sore and tender ass something cold and slick and hard which, despite her shocked and despairing squeal at the thought of being penetrated there again was inexorably forced into her, past the sphincter into her bowels; and it hurt. Tied and shackled as she was, though, there was nothing for it but to moan and endure, as whatever it was was pushed deep inside her, until a smooth bulge in it brought progress to a halt. A sudden, decisive shove, though, agonisingly forced that wider section through the tightness of her sphincter so that it was lodged inside her and her asshole had closed tight behind it; Prilly was impaled.
There was no explanation, Prilly dared not ask what it was, and so there was nothing to do but try to bear it, but it felt so alien, so hard and cold and unnatural; it was too awful, her imaginings of what was being done to her too hard for her to bear, and she let out a long-drawn-out moan of despair and shame and self pity as she was once again conscious of utter, hopeless defeat, so hot on the heels of the previous one.
Accepting being fucked by Santi, being told she is a whore, even that she is going to be hurt, are all disturbing, shaming; all have deeply frightening implications for her life— all this is true, but all of them (and this is definitely evidence that she is a whore in her soul), they are also hot— really hot— she can feel it in her belly when she thinks about them— there’s a mainline to her pussy, to the dream of being fucked without restraint, of being helpless in the face of it, of being consumed by fucking … There I go again, grinding my hips, think about being raped, and Maria can see exactly what I’m doing, and … and I’m happy that she can, even though it’s so humiliating, because I know she’s going to encourage LeStrade to push me hard, and … and I want that; I do, however much it makes me shake with fear.
But this; being shackled into this cold basin, which feels— and probably is— where they would slaughter a pig; having a cold, hard metal thing stuck into her hurting butt, so wide that it is stretching her, so hard that it hurts inside, this is torture, pure cruelty, and it’s not hot; not at all, it’s just awful; it’s not just defeat but bitter destruction, and Prilly began to sob, and once she had started, all the shocking things about the day demanded to be remembered, seen in their worst light, all the pain and shame and fear surfacing and she was quickly crying, heavily, shaking in her bonds, her breasts swaying delightfully, crying out in her despair, as if a dam had broken on misery.
She was so far gone that she was only vaguely aware that Maria had come round to face her, was squatting in front of her, but when she was slapped across the face, hard; first forwards, then backhanded, the crying ceased, quickly. Swatted across the ass was one thing, but these hard slaps which had rocked her deeply were entirely another. Her arms pulled against the bondage, her legs too, but this time there was nothing in the slightest positive about it; nothing but awful knowledge that she was helpless, being abused, in terrible distress, and that there was nothing she could do about it.
As her eyes focused, something else shocked her out of her tears.
Maria was naked.
Seeing that Prilly was paying attention, then, Maria slowly stood, and once upright, she turned, slowly, fully around, and Prilly began to see things.
Maria’s golden copper skin was disfigured, everywhere, by fine— and not-so fine— paler lines and tracks. everywhere.
Her nipples were pierced, and heavy steel hoops hung from them. She was heavily tattooed, some beautiful ones, some crude amateur work, brutally simple numbers, some crossed out even more crudely.
Her sex was pierced, too— a ring at her clitoris, small and elegant, but still shocking, and a larger ring, joining her outer labia at the very base of her slit, and from that ring hung a short chain— chunky for jewellery, again dull steel, and from that chain hung a medallion formed of the linked letters ‘L’ and ‘S’.
It was hard to know which was the more shocking, this ironwork, which seemed to reduce Maria to the status of a slave, or the realisation that the identical tattoos on her inner thigh and right shoulder-blade were in fact seared burns— brands— which must have been achieved through inflicting deep wounds, terrible, unimaginable suffering, on the beautiful, dignified woman in front of her, something that went further than slavery, that spoke of animal status.
Prilly was appalled, yes, but in truth, she was more fascinated, in particular by the gently swaying pendant between Maria’s thighs, by the instant, powerful knowledge in her;
I want him to ring me like that. I want to be his slave. I want him to want me that way. I want to serve him like that. I want anyone who sees me to know that I am his, for it to be unmistakeable that I am his whore.
In the back of her mind lurked the obvious follow-on, that of course that meant that she, too, would need to be burned, scarred for life, marked indelibly as his property. That she must want that, too— but she refused to let that thought surface— it was too frightening.
Prilly’s heart was beating fast, then, her breathing shallow, through her mouth; she was transfixed by everything that had been done to Maria, and the woman’s words soaked into her as if part of a particularly intense dream;
“Jou hav’ it eesy, girl. Jou born for this. Maria (ees no’ my reel name)— Maria was force’ to be thees. They take me een my house when I am thirteen, the Carteladores, keel my family where I see eet, then they rape me an’ beat me an’ cut me an’ wheep me, and then they make me drog factory eslave; sex-eslave, too. But they no break me; I hate, I plan to keel; I preserve my soul strong. I not puta in soul; I free espireeto. I trobble them vary much; even if they keel me, ee’ will no’ be eesy for them.
“The boss there took me, then, and take me to his house, tell me I am going to be hees personal slave, and I speet on him. But he is clever man, cruel man, careful an’ slow, and, in half a year, he break me down. Break me to nothin’; nothin’ essept eat, breathe, dreenk, sheet, pees, scream. Nothin’. Then, he make Maria. Maria become puta, become eslave, needy sex-eslave, needing fock all the time. Even smile at heem, the man who destroy me, even theenk I lov’ heem, let heem cut me, mark me hees property.”
“Estupido Maria. He no lov me, of course no’. When big boss come, say he like me, like to fok my ass then stick him een my mouth, Maria all smiling, eager, weeling all the time, always want to plees more. He say he want to buy me. Boss geev me as present.”
“Thees happen a copple times, then I am belong to Beeg Boss; I maybe sissteen. Beeg Boss train me like lady, like cook, like money book girl, like many theengs. He have me like meestress, take me out to deener, parties, opera, theater; he no kind— he vary cruel, hurt Maria, wheep Maria till she scar all over— but he train me.”
“Maria meet LeStrade— her Lestrade, thees one father, sometimes. He fok her good, he hurt her, too, he laugh when she is wheeped. But he look in her eyes— reely lookin’— entiendo?. He see her.”
“There is a war— cartel war; vary dirty, vary cruel, vary frightening. Beeg Boss, he leave, take hees men, jos’ go, vary qweek one day. Maria run. Run to LeStrade, geev herself, beg. An’ he take her. Maria has her MonSeñor. Maria safe. Maria geev herself again; geev everything, Maria lov’ even LeStrade wheeping, love hees cock, lov’ his men, lov’ hees dog even, fok dog for heem, show him com’ for heem like that. And LeStrade burn her like horse, like cow, and Maria lov’ that, too.”
“Then he geev Maria to yong LeStrade, and he ees new MonSeñor; no same as father, but strong and greedy, too, and Maria ees sad and happy etoo. He no need Maria for sex eslave now many yeers— have many preety yong girls; he can see the puta in them. So Maria steel slave, jos’ now house slave.”
“Maria life har’, vary har’. Because in her soul, Maria no eslave, no puta. Maria free espireeto. For Maria, always work, to be eslave; always har’, always pain.”
“But Maria don’ cry. No cry for yeers an’ yeers, no since yonger than jou.”
“Jou have it eesy; just geev een to what body want; open legs, say plees, smile, fok, com’ for him, let heeem hort you, smile, beg for fok— all weel be eesy for jou. Maria plees for heem, but Maria jeloos, too. Maria no’ gona be kin’ to pretty puta Mees Preely.”
“Jou no get to was’ Maria time weeth cryin’. Preely want cry, wait til middle of noght, everone asleep. Cry then, leetl girl.”
Maria’s hand swipes out again, forwards, then backwards, hard, shocking.
“Onnerstand, putatita?”
And Prilly, humbled, mesmerised by Maria’s story, trembling, feeling like the most insignificant, pathetic creature on the planet, not worthy of licking Maria’s feet, shivering— and yes hot inside, too, can do nothing but nod, transfixed, and murmur;
“Yes … Si … Si Señora.”
