You will want to have read the earlier episodes of this story.
After that, the ‘cleaning’, awful as it was, was experienced as somehow a continuation of the dream/nightmare of Maria’s story, as first, the intruder in her backside pumped cold water into the depth of her bowels; a feeling like nothing ever before in her young life— not so much painful, but deeply disturbing— not, at least, until the weight and bulk of cold water began to distend her belly and add weight to the awful straining at her shoulders, so that she whined and panted, even while controlling herself carefully, not wanting to earn another slapping.
The release, when it came, was revolting, humiliation in the extreme, but understood as nightmare, rather than the crude and stomach-turning reality it was; the metal rod worked out of her, Maria’s curt commands, first;
“Hold, puta, hold, now!”
Then;
“Okay, preety Prilly, now all you’ inside, she come out, hm? Let ee’ all go, puta; clean for MonSeñor cock in tight asshole, hm?”
And everything did indeed let go, to be sluiced down the drain by the cold jet of water Maria trained on her backside, the feeling when it was done of an unaccustomed lightness, an emptiness equally dreamlike, unreal, Prilly knowing, somewhere in her, that the longer she could maintain the dream, the less she would suffer; seeing at the same time that the whole business of becoming LeStrade’s whore was to withdraw from real life into a small, contained dream; a dream of helpless weakness, continual nakedness, of cocks pushing into her, of being slapped and beaten, of shameful and distressing orgasms, of embarrassment and needy offering, of violation and defeat, of excess and intensity, all of it sheltered from the mundanity of the real.
She would live a small life in that dream, be eaten up by it, entrapped by it. LeStrade could be unspeakably cruel within it, because it wasn’t quite real. She would live there, for him, trapped, while he was free to step in and out as he pleased.
And I want it; I’m eager for it; hungry for it, weak for it.
That’s why I will be ‘cleaned’ like this, demeaned like this, humiliated like this, twice a day; it’s another invasion of the most intimate aspects of my experience of my body, another disempowerment, another release from basic responsibility for my own life, another distancing of me from reality, so that I am easier to manipulate, easier to use and abuse, more likely to behave.
I’m going to behave. I want to behave; I want to be called ‘good girl’. I want to be trained to be a whore— to get good at it. At being what he wants from a whore, whatever it is.
It became harder to remain in the dream as the cold metal nozzle next invaded her pussy, pushing in deep, flushing out whatever remained from Santi’s fucking, but Prilly, needing the dream to stay real, made herself flex, made herself accept the intruder, swallowing the shame, working to have the unbelievability of the situation feed the dream rather than tip her once again into despair, knowing that she was gaslighting herself, choosing to tell herself that the astonishing truth, that just five hours before, she had been a complete innocent; that in just those few hours her life, her reality, her relationship to her body had been utterly transformed— that that impossible truth was yet more evidence that this must be a dream, as Prilly lost herself in a labyrinth of swirling emotions, just trying to live through the ‘cleaning’ with her psyche intact, without losing it, losing everything to the screaming madness which seemed the only other option.
Picture: Prilly, kneeling in chains. Click here to reveal.
At last, after what was probably ony a few minutes, but which seemed an eternity, Maria was releasing the restraints, helping Prilly off the slab, her knees weak, trembling, only just able to keep herself upright, retying her wrists in front of her before attaching them to the same hook and chain, using a remote device to once again stretch her up, until she was again on tip-toes, Prilly soft and meekly accepting as she was rapidly ‘blow dried’ with an electric leaf-blower, closing her eyes in shame, perversely grateful to have been restrained again, not to have been given a choice.
Having her wrists tied, though ten times more frightening, more disempowering, was also ten times easier than having to restrain herself.
And so I gladly accept restraints, bondage, loss of freedom, because it makes submission easier, absolves me of guilt, since resistance is impossible. Oh how is it that thinking these things only makes me softer, more needy, more desperate to please? Is there nothing in me of self-protection? Maria must be right about me— it is going to be easy to take me further, deeper into this dream, this nightmare.
And when Maria, finished with the drying, stepped in and casually forced Prilly’s chin up (I have no ‘personal space’ anymore, none), made Prilly meet her gaze, Prilly found herself simpering, trying to smile, weakly desperate to show Maria that she was going to be obedient, that she wanted to please, that did not deserve another slap, that she understood and accepted.
So much, given away so simply, so willingly. So much that would clearly never be given back, that would in fact ruthlessly be taken advantage of, advanced upon.
Why is my pussy welcoming her hand, my hips opening for her, moving for her, encouraging her? Why am I so wet? I have never had sexual thoughts about women, never, but here I am doing everything I can to make it clear I am hers for the taking, if only she will use me. I’m making such stupid, needy sounds, ridiculous little giggles as she grips my poor clit, but I can’t help myself; I want her to enjoy making me feel like that;
“AAH! AaaOaahh!”
Gods but its so fucking NICE, her fingers pushing into me like this, her other hand hurting my clit; so GOOD that I’m chained, that I know she will hurt me if she wants to, that I have to let her, have to please her, that I have no choice.
No choices, ever again— not even about what is done to my poor pussy. God, but that’s frightening. And wonderful.
“Lif’ jor knee, puta, lif’ it high; open jor cont for me.”
And Prilly obeyed, immediately; hesitant because it was going to be such an exposed position, because her legs were wobbly, but with no question but that she was obeying, and her knee came up as high as she could get it, almost up to her breasts, and she whimpered long, shuddering and deep as Maria took full advantage, pushing two, then three, then four bunched fingers, deep inside Prilly’s pussy (wetter, slicker than it had ever been), so that she cried out, loudly; the cry an entangled mixture of everything, all at once— pain, shame, delirious pleasure, submission, despair, gratitude, revelation, shock, as Prilly realised that Maria could easily have her orgasm in that degrading, chained pose, in that clinical, almost industrial room, on tiptoes on one foot, most of her weight taken by the chains at her wrists, Maria’s hand pumping into her then, so that, with a wail of apprehension and burgeoning horror, the girl realised that Maria was preparing to push her whole hand inside Prilly’s pussy, finding herself unable to imagine this such a thing could even be so without it ripping her, killing her maybe, it all felt so tight and wrong and cruel and yet and yet and yet…
So that when Maria stopped, pulled her hand back, so that there were only two fingers in her, to the first knuckle, Prilly’s sigh was not only of relief but also of disappointment, of need— and she knew that Maria heard it, that she would understand that her victory was already assured.
“Now, preety, jou kees me. Make i’ nice, now, like you lov’ me, like you need me to fok you weeth my han’; make me believe jou wan’ it, wan’ it all, all the way into jou poosy.”
“I don’ believe you, you gona get that paddle, on the wall there, on yor ass. Maria is yor MonSeñor, remember that, lil’ cont, remember it goo’. Onnerstan’? An’ then, after the paddle, you gonna get fokked anyway.”
And Prilly was all pathetic willingness, all eagerness to communicate her understanding, to make it plain that she accepted, would accept everything, that she would try. Maria frightened her more and more.
“Si… Si Señora, please. Yes… yes please.”
I am so glad I was polite to her, tried to help; imagine if I’d treated her the way Roddy does!
And then Maria’s mouth was on hers and she was trembling, overwhelmed, desperate, opening herself to the calm, forceful imposition of Maria’s will into her soft mouth, wondering what to do, to communicate as Maria had demanded of her.
It seemed, though, that her body had no such doubts as she found herself giving herself into a kiss as never before in her life, opening herself, giving everything up; almost stupidly sensitive to the way Maria’s mouth and tongue moved on hers, instantly, unreservedly responsive, soft tears of gratitude in her eyes at the first tenderness since LeStrade had bandaged her foot, opening herself, seconds later, to the renewed assault on her pussy, lifting her knee as high as she could in the intensity of her desire to please, her fear of Maria’s displeasure; gasping her pain and astonishment into Maria’s mouth as she was unhesitatingly invaded, the effort needed to continue to respond to Maria’s kiss becoming intense; knowing, even as it happened, that this, again, that this experience would mark her for life. To be fucked like this, so impersonally, chained, up on one tiptoe, as frightened as she was aroused, her whole body electrified with the sensory overload of it, all sensations merging into the core experience of having a hard, bony hand forced into her tight-stretched pussy, slow and steady, but with a promise of unhesitating will to force always present, the knowledge of her helplessness in the face of utter defeat filling her with a soft despair that was almost delicious, and when Maria pulled back again, grinning cruelly at her, unmoved, almost technical in her manipulations of poor Prilly’s intimacies, and said;
“Beg for i’, puta, beg for i’. Le’ me heer that jou wan me to ruin jou, fok jou tight leel poosy wi’ my efist, hm? Punch your wom’, deep in jou’ belly. Tell Maria,”
Prilly, although at first incapable of more than a submissive, placating whimpering did at length manage to speak, and her voice, husky with the intensity of her emotions was urgently, tremulously sincere as she asked to be ruined, not knowing what ruin really meant, except that it would surely be more, even than this enormity, asking for it anyway, adrift in a sea of surrender;
“Please, S… Señora, please f… fuck me with… with your fist, please; please be… please be rough… with me? R… Ruin, me, please.”
There were tears running down Prilly’s cheeks but she was smiling— a tiny, weak, desperate smile perhaps, but she was showing Maria a smile even as the older woman made good on her promise and formed a fist deep inside Prilly’s tight young belly, then, softly at first, but with suppressed violence and increasing force, made good on her promise to punch Prilly in the womb, eliciting a great and hopeless cry of pain and despair from her young victim.
And then Maria’s other hand was back at Prilly’s clitoris, manipulating with great confidence and crudity, with powerful and immediate effect, kissing Prilly so deeply she could not breathe, and in total control, tipping Prilly into a whole-body orgasm, such as she had never experienced before, during which she lost her footing and felt herself hanging from her chained wrists, all her bodyweight serving to impale her poor pussy on Maria’s strong arm, penetrating her even more deeply, as she jerked and spasmed and moaned her climax, utterly devastated, her first orgasm while in floods of tears, but very certainly not her last.
Prilly was lost, then, completely away from the world, in a welter of delirium, only in the most abstract way aware that Maria was lowering the chain, Prilly’s legs giving way at once, so that she ended up in a heap on the cool floor, naked, degraded, debilitated, dazed, and was unresisting as Maria very deliberately manipulated Prilly with one foot, until the girl’s head was on the floor, Maria’s foot on her neck, with real weight on it.
“Pull you’self together now, putatita; jou’ orgsam is not jou orgsam, but hees, jou onnerstan’? No time for self, for cool down after; jou jos cont, jour body all for heem. Jou get your ass up now, knees apart, lif’ up so tetas sway nice. Then, maybe you have a meenit, if locky— if no’ some guy wana fuck yo’ tigh’ leel assho’ straight away.”
And Maria gave her a minute— maybe even three, once she was in her humiliating position, so familiar from earlier; just a few minutes to assimilate another life-changing experience, Prilly feeling the diminution eat into her.
Maria will always know I asked her to do that to me, offered myself up for it; that she can do it to me anytime; that I’ll beg for it if she wants me to. I’m done. I’m sooo done. Because I’m happy, happy to have her foot on my neck, even, happy to be pushing my sore pussy up in the air for her, for whoever might come in to see me like this, degraded, ruined, giving myself to it. Because I want to come like that again, whatever the cost. Because I’m at peace again, and this is going to last a little while, I can tell— even in this position, I’m at peace again. Actually, it’s better like this, with her foot on me; easier to be at peace, because I know what she wants from me, too.
Peace is not belonging to myself. Peace is having it proven to me that I am nothing but a plaything, so that nothing is my fault, nothing is expected of me, because I’m nothing; it’s just that the proof seems to have to be extreme for it to work. And so it’s going to cost me everything.
And that’s just how it is, even if it is heartbreaking.
And indeed the peace lasted a good while. Maria had fetched a plastic covered pad, about a metre square, and thrown it onto the floor before attaching Prillys tied wrists to a ring fixed quite high on the wall, then brought the dog bowl refilled with water, telling her;
“Jou rest— esleep, even. Maria come get you ready when it time.”
And, Prilly, in her peace-state found it natural and easy, somehow, to curl up on the pad, her wrists unnaturally high, and go into a doze, the events of the tumultuous day replaying themselves as a pretty, high contrast dream in her head as she all but swooned into a deep sleep of emotional exhaustion.
Read the next episode of Prilly’s Journey.
Don’t look at these animations if you won’t appreciate them!
