Prilly's Journey Pt 10

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

She knew herself to be naked. She was splayed open in an obscene pose, experiencing physical stress doing it, sitting on the edge of a table, her hands held high, tied above her shoulder, straining to hold her thighs out wide, bent right up, presenting her pussy, split open by the position; her heart was racing, breathing laboured; the room was dark, but there was a pool of light centred on her pussy. LeStrade was sitting in front of her, relaxed and cool as always, holding a fat cigar; in the shadows, there were others, an audience, watching; her heart kept wanting to stop, she was so frightened;

“This will of course hurt a great deal— but honestly, it’s the psychological damage that will be the worst. Your wet pussy will quickly quench the burning, and you will be amazed by how fast and fully everything heals down there. But this is going to be awful for you, knowing that you’ve asked for it, that you want these fellows to understand that you can be treated like this, will hold yourself open for it.”

She could feel her whole body juddering with the stress of it, fighting against itself, wanting to curl up, cringe away, protect herself, and at the same time grimly, hatefully, forcing herself to maintain the awful pose, as what was left of her identity collapsed in on itself, challenged beyond its ability to cope, to comprehend, appalled by hearing its own voice, tiny, hoarse, shivery, but determined;

“Please … Yes. Please … show, show these gentlemen what … how … how I need to be treated… B…Burn me. B… Burn my pussy, please. Thank… Thank you, MonSeñor.”

“Good girl”

She couldn’t help herself; a little thrill of pleasure went through her at the words, at him approving of her, so worthless did she feel at all times, even as she saw him taking a slow, full draw at the cigar, until its glowing tip brightened to a red intensity which mesmerised as it horrified as it moved steadily towards her; as he pushed it, without the slightest hesitation, directly, inexorably into the softest, most sensitive, most intimate part of her, as it seared itself, audibly, into her flesh, as Prilly screamed, hoarse, despairing, destroyed…

… and woke herself up, shaking and trembling, sweating, twisting and struggling senselessly against the hateful ties at her wrists, anguished in the extreme, not knowing for quite some seconds what was real and what was not, and, not— not at all— finding the recalled reality of her situation in any way a relief from the dream; seeing— all too clearly— that the dream was in all likelihood a premonition, a warning, rather than something which could be real only in a dream.

She felt something like a panic attack coming on, and violently quelled it, her mind insistent that she find a way to release herself from this danger; something too important for her survival to risk by allowing herself to lose control.

But, in truth, there was nothing she could do— her wrists were tied with some knot which, far from being loosened by her struggles, kept tightening, so that now there was something like a tourniquet effect happening, her hands losing sensation; she had to force herself to be still, to take stock.

For a while, an intense clarity possessed her, as she did all she could to think clearly about everything which had happened that day— not dwelling on details, but taking the most dispassionate version of the cold facts, suppressing the constant upwelling of emotions as best she could, trying hard to think, to see, to decide what to do to avoid that dream being any part of her future.

I … Yes … I, I wanted the sex. Yes, I came back downstairs, naked, because I wanted it, wanted … everything, so far, until … until that disgusting enema, but … well, even after that , I …

Yes, yes but I can’t … that can’t happen to me— branding, like Maria, being burned… NO!

What I am weak for is rough fucking, being … being controlled … not actual torture! I … I can’t let … risk that happening?

I have to go. Have to tell them I’m going to leave. They’ll let me, won’t they? Yes… Yes, they said they would. In fact, Lestrade said it’s me begging to stay, to be … to be treated like this, so , so I just have to …

At this, that reality that it was her— her begging to stay— quite suddenly then, she began to cry; not wild, not noisy, not even stressed, just large, fat tears collecting in her eyelashes before falling, as heavy as rain, splashing onto her breasts, as the enormity of the changes the day had wrought in her hit home. All struggling ceased, her body instead doing what it could to hug itself close, comfort itself, give itself some love.

All the energy, all the determination, the stress and strain simply ebbed away, finished; she had exhausted her reserves. It was over. Resistance was over, and it had failed. Her hands were still tied, she was still naked. They would do with her as they willed. She had no strength left, could not even be sure whether she wanted to go or stay, could not even consider the question. LeStrade, Maria must decide; she could not bear the responsibility of choosing.

Why does he insist on me choosing, again and again? Why is all the pressure on me? He’s getting to use a young girl like a sex-toy, and he wants her to do all the work too— the work of forcing herself to be a whore for him? At least Maria tied me up, forced me. Why do I have to ask to be humiliated and degraded?

The tears kept coming, soft and slow, but the answer to the questions she was asking herself were forming in her mind, even though she didn’t want them, knowing that they would banish tears, banish self-pity too, give her no hiding place from her own complicity.

I don’t want to think these thoughts! Please! Please, Maria come and do something nasty to me! MonSeñor! Please Santi come and fuck me; Roddy— anything— not to be left alone with these questions.

But there was no-one, and she dared not call out, and so the answers came. The answers she already knew, the answers that meant that, if there ever was to be burning, the responsibility, just as in the dream, would be on her. There would be no-one to blame but Prilly for the pain, for the shame, for the degradation.

The scorpion is made to sting. If you don’t want to be stung, avoid scorpions. If you choose to get close and personal with a scorpion, then you are choosing to be stung.

By the time Maria came in, an unknowable time— Prilly was, if not calm, then at least just about able to deal with the sudden rush of shame, of terrible shyness that rose in her alongside the visceral, bodily recall that Maria’s presence provoked, of how it had been to have the woman’s fist pumping in her sex, how helplessly she had been made to orgasm, just about able to live with the feelings without spiralling into panic again.

The reality bit hard that after Prilly had allowed Maria to do that to her, she, Prilly, was a lesser creature, without any claims at all, able to do nothing but simply wait on Maria’s pleasure, not daring even to raise her eyes; it was all she could manage to pull herself together a little bit, her unfocused eyes on the opposite wall, feeling herself trembling;

I am trembling in fear of Maria, because I know that she can and will hit me and sexually abuse me as she pleases, and that I will do nothing to stop her; not even if she should want to fuck me with her hand again.

And with that acceptance, shamefully, there came relief, along with even more fear.

I’d rather be frightened and ashamed, than stop her from hurting me or shaming me.

“Is swee’ jou so frighten’, preety girl, but whore mos’ presen’ hersef’ when someone arriv’. Offer poosy, offer tetas, open legs, weegle jousef’, make tetas mov. Goo’ to mak’ tong come ou’, etoo. Show Maria that jou know jou puta, hm? That jou wanna be goo’ puta; ge’ foked, no hurt, hm?”

Maria was taking less and less care to make her English clear for Prilly, and so she had not fully processed the import of the words before Maria knelt down, very close, intimate, and did that thing again, sliding one hand softly up Prilly’s neck and into her hair, taking control of her head, while the other, just as suavely, slid up Prilly’s naked thigh, curving round into her crotch, possessing her there, too, making her quiver in a different way; a darkly exciting way, despite everything;

“Jou hav’ to keep scor’, preety; scor’ of all jou mistake, jou fail. This a blak mark. Jou coun’ them. Ever’ day, eef jou beg MonSeñor to stay, eef he let jou, then, straigh’ after, you ge’ ponish, for jou scor’. Ponish weeth the wheep. On jou tetas or een heer, between jou legs, on jou poosy.”

Maria’s hand squeezed, pushed at Prilly’s crotch, to emphasis the point;

“Jou learn to be goo’ girly, real fas’, hm?”

“How meni blak mark jou have, girl?”

“One … one black mark, S… Señora.”

“Goo’ girl. Don’ jou forge’, now! Eef jou forge’, Maria decide. Beeg nomba, hm?”

Maria was enjoying herself, it was all too clear as she stood up and stepped back, clearly wanting a show;

“Now, preety, jou presen’ for me, OK. Make i’ goo’, now.”

Prilly experienced yet another emotional switchback, then, as she found herself possessed by an urgent and almost desperate need to have Maria find her attempt at ‘presentation’ to be good enough.

It went further, though— much further— than what she had told herself before— if I’m going to be a whore, I need to be a good whore — much more; there was a strong emotional need in her for Maria’s approval, with multiple strands to it; fear of more black marks, fear of being whipped of course, the need for approval was there, too, very strong— possibly even stronger, and as well the underlying continuo— this is how you get fucked, Prilly; by offering yourself as a whore. This is what you have to practice, because this— this is it for you, here, from now on. Its very simple. What is hard is making yourself do it well, and doing it in spite of the shame. I’m going to have to mean it; just like cheer squad; either you do it with your whole body and your heart and your mind, or it doesn’t work.

It was shocking how good it made her feel, then, to orient herself to face Maria, to first straighten her back, then arch it against her taught arms, held tight against the wall by the high-up hook, to feel her breasts lift free of her chest, and sway a little, to spread her thighs out wide— almost painfully wide— to lift her buttocks off the floor, swivel her hips, then, feeling especially self-conscious, to part her lips, let her jaw go slack and tremulously push her tongue tip out a little; rewarded through the mounting quivery shame, and by an upwelling of sexual anticipation in her belly as she made herself think the thought; this is how I get her to fist-fuck me again; this is what I need to have in my mind when I do this for Maria; that I am offering, begging her to do that to me again.

And the thought worked, did something to her, so that she was briefly possessed entirely by the memory of being so powerfully invaded, impaled, by Maria’s whole forearm, it seemed; the enormity of a hand, clenched into a fist, thrusting within her belly, overwhelming, and she shivered, violently, knowing that she had betrayed the intensity of her emotions to Maria; as stupidly proud of herself as she was desperately, shockingly embarrassed, feeling both pathetic and sweetly happy at the same time when Maria said, with clear and patronising amusement in her voice— but also pleasure, too;

“Jou like Maria fok poosy with fis’, hoh? Jou want again. Jou theenkin’ of it now; asking Maria to fok you tha’ way agen, hoh?”

Prilly could not speak (and indeed she was correct not to), but her hips surged and she found herself letting out a weak little giggle that was nearly a sob, ashamed and delighted at the same time, nodding her head rapidly a couple of times, knowing she was pathetic, but happy to be pathetic for Maria.

And all the time, in the back of her mind, the knowledge that she was asking, not just for Maria’s fist but, in truth, for the whole future. The future that included being sexually tortured for LeStrade’s entertainment.

Her heart thumped, but there was no let-up in her enthusiasm and willingness to please.

It was all there was, since she had let go of everything else.

It was going to be hard, but there would be moments like this, and moments like those she had experienced with LeStrade, moments of complete transport, and those would have to be enough.

When the pointed toe of Maria’s black patent court shoe pushed its way between Prilly’s moistening labia, there was of course a moment of horror and despair; it was allowed its time, Maria watching, reaching out, not harshly, to grip the hair at Prilly’s temple and tilt her head back, force her, for the first time since Maria had entered the room, to meet her gaze, and to speak; soft, almost kind, but without the slightest space for misunderstanding as to what was required of her;

“You open jou’sef, putatita; open jou’sef to thees; to anytheeng at all. Open the poosy that is MonSeñor’ poosy, no jors, hm? Open wide and geev. Geev poosy to heem; moov jou heeps; nize and zlow, yes? Foking. Jou foking a shoe; jou fok anything. Jou puta, remember always. Puta ees thing to fok. But thees another blak mark, jes? Now jou on two!”

And Prilly obeyed. Softly, sweetly, letting the shame eat her, not fighting it, moving her hips, doing all she could to welcome the shiny black toe of the shoe into her sore and puffy sex, working to arouse herself, to feel the intrusion as sexual stimulation, to let herself show her arousal, her breath catching.

Oh Jesus I can do this. I am getting turned on like this; I do want it. I do. So I’m going to be burned. I am. One day. Pierced and tattooed and burned and branded, because I’m a whore and I like it, and so I deserve it and I will ask for it and… Oh!

Maria, having made her point, had slapped Prilly across the face— not particularly hard, but psychologically immensely powerful, making the searing shame twice as destructive to Prilly’s remaining sense of self. Reminding her that her own pleasure, her own feelings are of zero value any more.

“Now, we get jou ready for begging, hoh?”