You will want to have read the earlier parts of this story before reading this.
My first instinct was to hide. I was in no state, not mentally, physically or even appearance-wise, to see anyone. I had no idea what time it was, even; from the light, it was early in the morning— a time I usually only saw if I stayed up through the dawn.
Something about the knock, though; the certainty of it, made the idea that it might be Cool Blonde, or even Madame F., come into my head, and it would be terrible to miss— or even mildly displease— them. So I made myself jump up, and weakly cried out, my voice hoarse, croaky;
“I’ll be a minute, but I’m coming, I promise!"— and dashed into the bathroom to splash my face, drag my fingers through my hair and grab my silk robe, which might at least cover most of the whip marks if it was only a neighbour or friend.
In fact, it was a stranger, but from her appearance, however surprising, I was fairly sure she was something to do with Madame F.
Betty— for that was her name— was a short and petite Asian American, in vertiginous heels and a brightly coloured little two piece suit— short shorts and an open cleavage jacket. She was immaculately made-up, her face almost completely coated in product, and she was examining me sceptically. She looked like a Florida hooker turned businesswoman, and I was very much at a loss, stood there with my head full of confusion, unable to think straight, still half-asleep.
Picture: Betty on the doorstep : Click here to reveal
After an uncomfortable, almost surreal silence, she spoke and acted in the same moment, stepping straight into my apartment;
“You look like the girl I am supposed to see. And the puffy eyes and whip marks on your thighs make no doubt.”
She had such confidence and assurance that I simply shuffled backwards and let her.
She stood, surveying the place, with total certainty, so that I simply let her do what she wanted. She even took pictures of my place with her phone, quite a few, ignoring me, and I just stood there.
It was the right thing to do. Later, I realised that, whatever the content of our bizarre ‘session’, she was reporting on me, and my passivity, acceptance, meek and permissive, was what they wanted to hear. Weak, passive, accepting, permitting of anything, seemed to be my future.
She turned to face me at last, and put out her hand— a bizarrely professional move for someone so strangely and revealingly dressed, but her assurance was total;
“I’m Betty, here for your counselling session. Please, tell me your name.”
This was weird— either she wasn’t from Madame F.— some sort of scammer— or they didn’t know my name; had nothing of me but a ‘phone number; couldn’t even be bothered to name me to this Betty. And ‘counselling’— wtf?!?
I wanted to challenge her, but I couldn’t find the conviction, and so just shook her hand, and blurted out;
“I… I’m Clemmie. Umm Hi, I guess, Betty. Hi.”
I could hear how weak, how nervous, how pathetic my voice was, and knew inside me that this felt permanent. That the night of abuse had fatally undermined me. That I was to be frightened forever. Frightened and weak, having been shown my place, been put in my place, beaten into it, raped into it, terrorised into it, only to find that it fit me like a glove. Like a straitjacket.
She surveyed me then, taking her time— and a couple more pictures. I just let her.
“You should take the robe off, Clemmie; naked at all times, unless there is a good reason. Not my rule, but Madame’s; and I’m sure you wouldn’t want a report of rule-breaking to go back, now would you?”
She waited until I responded— which took a few seconds, while my fuddled brain processed that she was for real— she had said Madame’s name; as soon as that was clear, I responded with a jerk, no matter the shame and fear that rose in me, and shucked off the robe, while Betty took what looked like a video rather than a picture.
It was all the same; I was not my own person anymore; I was an entertainment for Madame and her crowd, and if I was that I had no idea, anymore, what I could be. I made sure I looked as good as I could manage for Betty and her phone, even though I was so desperately embarrassed at the evidence of my degradation, written all over my poor body, my pale skin.
“We’re nearly ready, then Clemmie dear, just hydration to take care of; I’ll have a cup of whatever caffeine-free tea you have. You’ll have a big drink of of tap water while you’re making the tea. I’ll take the armchair, and you will kneel on the coffee table, legs spread wide apart, hands behind your back like a good little girl, and we can begin.”
She took more pictures of me as I obeyed, as if it was normal to be ordered about by a stranger, normal for them to take naked pictures of me; pictures which would show the awful damage Cool Blonde and Green Eyes had inflicted upon me.
While I made the tea, she busied herself setting her phone up on a tiny telescopic tripod. The session would be filmed, it seemed. I had nothing to say about any of it.
And I didn’t want to say anything, because, after the wild swings of the hours since I’d arrived home, it was nice to be told what to do. Not just nice; appallingly, shamefully welcome. To feel controlled, by someone who was something to do with Madame F. felt safer than anything for days. I almost cried with how nice it was, and with the guilt at my own self betrayal, and when I bent to give Betty her tea, saw her watching my breasts sway, and her hand lifted to my inner thigh to trace a particularly heavy welt there, I made myself smile and allowed her, even though it hurt, even though she was a stranger touching me so intimately, and, once I was settled on the table, she she looked into my eyes and nodded, approving;
“You are well behaved. This is good. But you need refinement. Your thighs should be wider apart, emphasising how eager you are to have your pussy used, and your shoulders more deliberately set back; your tits should be held for maximum sway.”
Picture: Clemmie on the table : Click here to reveal
“Well, that’s a start, at least. You’ll practice when you’re not otherwise needed, I’m certain. And now we begin.”
“Madame F. is very practical. Girls she controls experience harsh treatment without mercy or tenderness. They speak only when spoken to, are required to manage their own emotions. Madam F. expects this. However, it has been discovered that some psychological support is useful. I am trained; I deliver this support.”
Later, I was told that all the training Betty had done consisted of a Community College Counselling 101 course and a large number of YouTube videos.
“Don’t make any mistake, this counselling is not ‘healing’, not ’therapy’— no-one cares about your ‘wellbeing’— obviously.”
“What Madame cares about is your delivery, your perfomance, your availability— as cunt— as the deepest, most abject kind of whore; as a girl— a nymphomaniac it seems— who needs to be abused. Which is what you are— or had better hope you can find a way to become, from now on”
“My job is to keep you from spinning out. To give you the tools to gaslight yourself with when it feels like it’s all too much; to feed you the happy lies you can tell yourself when you’re feeling like ending it. I’m a whore, I know about it. I survived. Maybe even such a weak and eager slut as you, Clemmie, can get through. Probably not, though; you seem pretty far-gone already.”
“But let’s see what we can do.”
“You recently spent an evening and a night in the hands of some clients, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“And did they inflict these marks upon you?”
“Yes.”
“I observe some ligature marks, too— at your wrists and on one leg— did they do this to you?”
I didn’t know what ’ligature’ meant, and so it took me few seconds to grasp what she was talking about, and was then very flustered— it was somehow very hard indeed to admit to having done things to myself.
“Oh? Oh, yes… I mean… I mean no… that… that was me.”
“I see. Tell me, had you been whipped like that before?”
It was getting very uncomfortable, being questioned like this— it felt more more like a police interview than a therapy session, but there was nothing I could do unless I just refused, threw her out of my apartment, and there was no way I could manage that; so I answered as I could.
“Not… not that hard, although…”
“Although Madame F. and some others whipped you last week, yes?”
It was increasingly appalling, having all this talked about as if it were public knowledge, as if it was all perfectly reasonable, not a deeply shaming, private wound I was carrying, trying to deal with. But she was expecting and answer, and so I had to speak;
“Yes.”
“But the clients whipped you much more severely?”
“Yes” I was crying by then.
“And how do you feel about having been whipped so savagely? About being marked like this? And violently raped as well, I imagine?”
And now it became almost impossible. Earlier, I had realised that my deep feeling was pride at having been able to offer myself up for such treatment— but now, hearing it described out loud by this hard-eyed stranger, being made to acknowledge it— how could I?
“I… It… it was horrifying, to be whipped; they… they were very cruel, and they… they enjoyed making me scream, and… and it destroyed me, to be so… so disregarded. For my suffering to mean nothing to them but entertainment. It makes me cry.”
For I was crying.
“Keep your posture, Clemmie; crying is acceptable, sobbing is not allowed.”
“There is more. Say what is in your mind, Clemmie; it will help Madame F. manage you to know what is in your pretty head, apart from that juicy, red-lipped fuckhole.”
And here it was, shaming beyond belief, disempowering, weakening (strengthening Madame F. of course).
“Yesterday. Look… looking in the mirror, I was sad, but… I was proud, too. Proud to have been trusted by Madame F. to be good with them, proud to have been able to… to ask for the really hard whipping when they wanted me to, proud to have… have been worthy of their time…”
I was almost whispering by the end of it.
“And, talking to me about it now, how is your pussy responding? Are you wet?”
This was desperate; I couldn’t be!
“No!, No , I’m not!” I wasn’t thinking about reality, but about what must be the case, for my sanity.
Betty leaned forward, smoothly but too fast for me to have reacted, and had two fingers a little way inside me almost immediately, making me gasp and then— too quickly, too shamefully— moan, as her fingers moved in me, as it was made clear to us both that I was hot and slick down there.
“Lies are punishable.”
She pushed her fingers at my mouth and I couldn’t think of anything to do but lick them clean of my own shaming juices, shaming me further.
Adding to the wetness between my legs.
“Very good. Sexual response to the memory of vicious cruelty, pride in having served, through great pain and abuse.”
“It is healthy to dwell on the content of these sessions, Clemmie; the work you will need to do is to integrate these shameful, degrading realities about yourself, about your future; accept them— build them into your self-image, learn to love them.”
“Now, about the ligature marks. Tell me.”
It took quite a while to pull myself together until I could answer;
“I… I… decided to… to tie myself up; I… I don’t really know why.”
“I tied myself to… to the bed end, with… with a pillowcase over my head, one leg up, and… and my wrists, too. I… I chose the wrong knot— one which only tightens, and… and I badly frightened myself. Nearly… I… I thought I might have to have my hand cut off…”
“I see. And how do you feel about having done that, now that it’s over. Do remember, pretty girl, that lies are punishable— and will be found out.”
“I… I… it… it was good, to, to be so frightened, feel so powerless. It’s crazy, but… it was good, even… even though it was so dangerous.”
It was also crazy, but it felt good to say this out loud to someone who might understand. Indeed Betty made a point of establishing eye-contact, then, and held my eyes locked to hers, looking deep into me, like a scientist looking at an insect, impaled on a pin; my breathing became disordered, my nipples tightened, my clit pulsed, and I could feel a deep, hot blush rising. They would know everything about me, with this method; every dirty little secret, every weakness; and I would give them up, for the tiny relief it gave me to know that I was not alone in their world; that I could talk to Betty; even if Betty was working for them, to strengthen their hold over me. I saw it all, it wasn’t a trick or a secret.
But it held me. Made me feel safe. I told you it was crazy.
At last, Betty looked down, freed me from the trap of her hard stare, and I could breathe again, until I realised she was looking directly at my pussy, and something told me I must respond, and so I did; immediately, without hesitation— pushed my hips forward and up, leant my head back, rolled my pelvis, just a little, up, sideways, down, back, my eyes closed with shame as I did it, my heart filled with soft pain, but equally with gratitude; this was what I was for, now, this was what I needed to be, this was what I needed to learn to become, this was what made sense. This was what made me feel good about myself. This was what made me feel safe.
“Not a bad effort, Clemmie— and self-initiated, too— keep it going.”
And this was what made my poor weak heart flutter with gratitude.
“Now, time to pay for your session. No— " Betty allowed herself a small, hard smile of amusement, “— I don’t want money. You don’t have money, any more, in any case. No, I need you to bend yourself right back down. It will hurt your knees, I know, but you’ll have to accept that, like everything else— there will be sex yoga training, too. But right now, it’s gonna hurt like hell. But you’ll forget that soon enough, because I’m going to be sitting on your face, playing with your soft parts. Looks like that nipple took a lash directly— bet I can make you scream into my pussy if I twist on that, hmm?”
And everything she said came true.
It did hurt my knees to lean back until my head touched the far side of the table, and even more when Betty unceremoniously dropped her pants and panties, standing behind me, and squatted down to press her large, fragrant pussy onto my mouth, and hurt my elbows too, since my arms, still folded, were crushed behind my back.
And I did forget the pain at my knees when she started biting my poor clitoris, twisting my swollen, hurting nipple, my hips bucking and jerking helplessly, moaning and screaming into her pussy, doing my best to make my expressions of pain a pleasure for her, since getting her to orgasm was clearly the only way she was going to stop suffocating me, stop hurting me.
At the same time, she was also doing just enough to pleasure me also— mixing caresses with cruelty, and I began to lose myself in it, until I was gone, adrift in a sea of pain, pleasure, desperate eagerness to please and desperation to breathe, sometimes zoning in and out of full consciousness, until suddenly she was jerking and ramming herself into my face, wrenching my neck, doubling my pain and completely cutting me off from any air, so that I pretty much blacked out; grateful, by that point, to be relieved of consciousness.
By the time I could see again, dare to move again, racked by spasms, choking, Betty was as smart and neat as she had been when she’d arrived. She threw a cold, wet towel over my face and briskly instructed me to clean myself, then get back into the kneeling position.
Even pushing myself, this took longer than she was happy with, and I was jittery with nerves by the time I could present myself again, possessed by the terrible thought that— having mentioned punishment earlier— she might be going to whip me. I would have promised the earth not to have that be true, my back, bottom, breasts, crotch all too bruised and tender to make it possible for a whipping not to be a terrible agony.
So I was more than happy with what she actually presented me with: a small, simple-looking mobile ‘phone, all black, unbranded, Chinese as well as English symbols on the keys.
“This is modified. Basically only a secure messaging app, the camera, and the location tracker. Carry it at all times, and check it often. Sleep with it next to your head, if you know what is good for you. You’ll be told what is expected of you. If you fail, you will regret it.”
“You will send messages when you believe you have done something to merit punishment. So, that’s your first job. Three failures since I arrived I think. Better say you’re due four, in case I think of something later. Nothing worse than under-reporting failures— extras cost double, at least. Typically, you can expect to be punished either before or after a booking: double the number of failures across your back and ass, the whole number across your tits, and a third of the number— rounded up of course— between your legs.”
“You really, really do not want to collect punishment points. If you don’t get a booking, no-one will have delivered punishment, so it will mount up.”
“Of course, you need to know what counts as a failure. The answer is in two parts; first, the obvious; complete and unquestioning obedience, no orgasms on your own account, no using your hands on your pretty parts— none at all, no exceptions, although you should be rubbing your cunt very obviously against inanimate objects all the time, keeping yourself hot, building your sexual heat; just not coming; your orgasms belong, as do you yourself, to Madame F.”
“Other rules: first, nakedness as I explained, no speaking to anyone without them initiating conversation— even then you say the minimum, no eye contact with your betters— which is, essentially everyone, no sobbing; second— you’re on your own, really, but if you do something you do think may have been a failure, the right thing to do is report it. You won’t supply any details, so you’ll never know, but you’ll sleep easier knowing you haven’t under-reported.”
“Two things: one, always aim to outperform on client bookings— that way you’ll get called more, so punishments will be smaller; two, you can ask for a forfeit: there are some clients who are known to be extra tough; if you ask for one of them, and get selected, your punishment points are deleted. Mind you, you may wish you’d taken the beating.”
“So, that’s me done. I’ll be back when I am back— no schedule— I turn up when someone thinks I should.”
“Oh, yeah, something else. You should pack up all your stuff. It’s all going to storage. No personal possessions for cunts. Someone will be round to collect it. Anything not packed away will be in a dumpster that day— and you’ll be punished. They’ll install the surveillance and control equipment. Oh, and rape you hard of course.”
“Which reminds me— don’t forget— report four failures on that phone, right away!”
And she was gone, leaving me stunned.
I had allowed myself to be sent to meet Green Eyes, and lived through what she and her friends had done to me, just on the basis of doing something to keep Madame F. interested.
But now it seemed as if my life had been annexed, without anyone telling me. Except— unless— and then it became obvious— Betty was the message; that was all I would be told. No chance to question or to demur. I was to consider myself ‘owned’, I was to be controlled, sent to service clients, monitored, my apartment emptied, depersonalised, I was to be harshly punished for even minor failings, and no-one was interested in my views about any of this.
And, worst of all, I was happy with it.
Not, ‘happy’ happy— not at all.
But deep inside me, I knew that the question of my life had been answered. I would belong to Madame F., and she would be the answer to all questions about me, or from me, from then on.
It was ridiculous to accept this, so casually communicated, so arrogantly assumed. There was no way it could be enforced.
And so it was up to me.
Up to me to accept it, or give up any hopes of a connection with Madame F.
I should go to the cops. That was what any normal person would do.
Except that I was not normal (a rueful little smile at this, almost proud of myself); I was not going to the cops.
And, after all, acceptance was the easiest route. All I had to do was not run away, not fight, not protest, and it would all be done to me.
So that was it. Decided.
I was picking up the ‘phone, going to the simple, almost crude, text app, and typing ‘I need to report four failures’.
I then sat for the next hour, looking at the ‘phone, waiting to be controlled, until I realised I needed to eat. Naked. Thinking about what I should be practicing.
And that was it; accepted.
I really was, almost, ‘happy’ happy, for the rest of that day; caught myself singing at one point as I packed stuff into boxes and bags, making up words to a catchy song from the radio, almost deliberately testing myself, using frightening words in a happy little song, as if it was genuinely going to be OK that a woman who had sent me off to be brutally treated thought she now owned me;
Well, you done done me in, you bet I felt it. I tried to be chill, but you’re so hot that I melted; I fell right through the cracks. But you, you pulled me back. Before the whip comes out, I’ll be giving it my bestest. Nothing’s gonna stop you but divine intervention. And now its always your turn. To whip me some or rape me. But I won’t hesitate no more, no more. It cannot wait, I’m yours.
The test failed, or I failed, or I succeeded, I guess it depends on your point of view. But in any case, I kept on singing, and smiling as I did so.
Maybe I was using the song to distract me from the pain as I threw so many things directly into the trash— they meant something only to me, and I had been deleted, so they were trash.
Whatever, that night, I slept better than I had for months. Naked, no covers even— I had decided they were not safe— that if I slept under covers I might find myself deciding to report a failure on the morning.
My first night as the property of Madame F.
Several people have commented that they would prefer not to have animated images with the stories.
At the same time, I keep making them (posting some at ArtUntamed). But the animations which have come from the images in this post are too good to bury.
So, for those who like this sort of thing, here’s a short gallery.
