Prilly's Journey Pt. 11

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

Maria had untied her then, first laughing at Prilly’s response to the return of blood to her hands— a terrible burning sensation, far beyond anything the words ‘pins-and-needles’ could convey— then slapping her across the face— not hard but with tremendous psychological impact on the weakened and traumatised girl;

“Jou will feel thees offen; jou mos’ get use to eet. Noh fuss; no-one care. Smile, look preety, make tetas move, offer poosy. Pain ees jou problem.”

“Jou thirsty?”

Prilly had not been paying attention to anything so mundane, but as soon as she was asked, she knew that she was desperately thirsty; her mouth dry, her throat thick.

The terrible shyness seemed to have become permanent, though, as she could hardly whisper her assent, which was met with a nod;

“Jou can wal’ now, but jou go on your knees when jou close; crawl to bowl; hands behind back, knees wide, to take jou agua. Jou offer jou poosy, open her, all the time, ask for fock, onnerstan’?”

And Prilly had to nod her head and say; “Yes, Señora,” to such madness, and mean it; because Maria would see, Prilly was sure, if she was not sincere, and would hurt her again, and it had become obvious, so quickly, so shamefully, that Prilly would let Maria hurt her; would not— could not even imagine trying to defend herself. That was just how it was; Maria can hurt me, anytime, any way she wants, and I’ll accept it; like a whipped dog; whining and wincing, but letting it happen, my only defence the meekness with which I accept the abuse.

Even the business of standing, of walking through to the kitchen, naked and filled with the intensity of her recent debasements, were extraordinarily hard for Prilly; her new reality still continually shocking to her, impossible to get used to.

To be working carefully to walk sexually obviously for the housekeeper; naked, on tiptoes, the memory of the woman’s hand moving inside her still disturbing and fresh, the violent emotions of the horrific day-dream raw in her mind— all felt like madness, even as the reality of it all was undeniable, so tactile was it all, so vividly experienced.

Going down on her knees, preparing to crawl, self consciously opening her thighs wide, ducking her shoulders to set her breasts swinging— these deliberate, carefully sexual offerings of herself were all but impossible to make herself do, so wrong, so degrading were they; so far removed from any part of her life until a few hours previously. And yet she dared not fail.

To permit Maria to softly but deliberately kick her spread sex, to stop her drinking and attend to opening herself to that, to lift her bum to make herself more obviously a weak and degraded slut— an easier target— was deeply conflicting for Prilly; shameful and disgraceful for the most part, but undeniably, pathetically, validating as well, to the point that, when Maria ceased, Prilly found herself holding the position, not going back to lapping water from the dish, but flexing her hips a few times, offering herself, making sure that her nipples grazed the floor, hating herself at the same time as feeling a sick sweetness in her— the sweetness of surrendering myself to infamy, to degradation.

She felt a great trembling wash through her at that thought; a great weakness, a further defeat, at her own complicity with what Maria was doing to her, to the relentless, heartless diminishment of herself as a human being.

Indeed, she did not resume lapping at the water, sullied with floating grains of rice and grease from her earlier meal, until Maria ordered her to.

Next, more walking, as Maria followed her out to the hallway, where there was something new; Prilly’s luggage, neatly stacked next to the front door.

“Either jou go tonight, or jou MonSeñor puta; hees to hurt, hees to rape. Either way, no need room; needed for MonSeñor team. Maybe jou jos’ go now. On top is money for jou. Bes’ to go, leetle Preely, before it ees too late for jou, hm?”

And indeed, there was a manila envelope on top of her cute little day bag (an artefact from another world, where a girl called Prilly spent time choosing fun things to buy, not worrying about whether her legs were far enough apart, or being branded like an animal) with what looked like quite a wad inside it.

I could go. Go now, with money; he said he’d look after me for money whatever… I could go— put some clothes on and just go, escape this madness!

It was cruel, to tempt her so; deliberately cruel, she understood, without the knowledge lightening the pain one bit.

Because the words made sense. The thought made sense. All the sense in the world. It was very obviously the sensible thing to do; get herself out of this infamy, this destructive, ceaseless assault on who she was, this insistence that she make of herself some degraded sex-toy, that she accept horrible, shaming cruelty as if it were a kindness, make herself say thank you and sound as if she means it.

The sensible part of her was urgently, desperately eager to do this thing, this simple thing, which would rescue her; she had simply to say the words; I want to go please, and it would all be over.

It all made sense.

Except that it was impossible for her to act on any of it. Impossible to even make her mouth form the words, because she had been changed. Because it was impossible for her to imagine stuffing herself back into the meaningless, endless business of being the old Prilly; there was a terrible cost to staying, it was certain, but if leaving was at the cost of feeling alive, of experiencing everything so intensely, so deeply; for meaning to be alive in her in every second, where even those periods of waiting had been intense; of losing the possibility of ever again experiencing the peace she had felt after the rapes..

These words made no sense; Peace after rape?? Madness! Crazy words. And yet my body knows it was true, and will not accept life without it. But asking for it? Asking for such terrible things to be done to me?

Why do they give me these choices? Make me ask for what I know I will not be able to bear, yet cannot bear to lose?

Because I can’t save myself, and Maria knows it. Because I do want him to rape me again. And Santi. And Maria. Roddy, even. Because the thought of leaving now fills me with terror that is somehow bigger, deeper than the fear of having his mark burnt into me.

Prilly turned, then, to look back at Maria, her eyes full of pain and doubt and need; naked, tears forming, her knees trembling, her lips too, her hands meekly held behind her back, up high on tip-toes, legs parted— attending, earnestly, to their requirements of her presentation, even in her distress, begging Maria. Begging for help. Begging to be released from this terrible requirement that she affirm her surrender to madness.

Picture: Prilly, naked, pleading with her eyes. Click here to reveal.

But there was no help; Maria simply waited, her face giving nothing away, just looking, interested, until Prilly’s trembling became visible shaking, as the tension in her, the shame and fear inside her built and built, until Prilly heard herself, half moaning, half whispering;

“Please… please…”

Maria laughed softly then, came behind Prilly with the now familiar grasp, one hand into her hair at the back of her neck, the other sliding to end up immediately next to her sex, softly but firmly grasping her inner thigh, belittling and controlling.

Oh, but so welcome, too, to be so held, to be absolved of responsibility. I can feel myself relaxing, wanting to please her. Wanting to be fucked. God, but I am so horny all the time. Knowing that I can be raped at will makes me think about being raped all the time and it makes so fucking hot this is crazy I can hardly breathe thinking about her hand punching into my pussy like it did…

Maria’s voice came soft in her ear then;

“Jou reelly wan’ it then? Fokking, whipping, sadismo? Be a good girl and le’ Maria hear it agen.”

And it was easy, then, to say it— to please Maria, even as she doomed herself; “Yes. Yes please… Señ… Señora, I… I want it.”

“Goo’ little Preely. Good girl. Now, we sheep jou things back to storage in Dartfor’. Jou don’ need nothin’ no more. Jou don’ hav nothing no more. Jou just thing to fok.”

The understanding that she was soon to be divested of all her things; left with nothing, was overwhelming— deeply frightening but immediately and powerfully right. Of course it had to be that way. Naked Prilly, hands behind her back, so vulnerable; looked after, yes, but not by herself, for she had nothing, controlled nothing, was utterly dependent, utterly powerless, infinitely needy, completely free.

How can it be that I want this, too?

Maria dragged her back to the business at hand; the business of transforming her into something LeStrade wanted. Without which she would be nothing.

She had given herself to the madness, and its logic was the only sense she could cleave to; Prilly’s attention belonged to Maria. There was little point trying to think, since her future was entirely in the hands of others. There was beauty in it, beauty and safety; and sweetness, too, if she could give herself sufficiently.

I must try harder

“Alora, one thing we keep; heer is your preedy lil’ dress.”

Maria turned Prilly until she saw, hanging in an alcove, her favourite summer dress; much more daring than anything she usually wore, she’d found it in a flea-market and bought it on impulse. She hardly ever wore it— it was not really her normal style— floaty, lacy and gauzy above and below a tight little waist, its pretty print very different from Prilly’s usual student garb. She had worn it to a couple of garden parties and picnics, but rarely otherwise.

“We gonna make ver’ sexy for MonSeñor, now.”

It was bizarrely embarrassing, putting on the dress, naked in the most open part of the house. She hadn’t worn clothes since … since breakfast— a thousand years and two different lives ago, it seemed — and she somehow didn’t feel right with the little dress on— lack of bra or panties meant she didn’t feel dressed either.

Maria showed her the big scissors then;

“A bi’ shorter, I theenk…”

Big tears formed in Prilly’s eyes then, as much of her lovely dress was cut away from her— inches off the skirt, until she could feel the hem at the back touch the lower curve of her buttocks; the bodice cut away too, until her breasts were mostly exposed, sleeves reduced to little caps at her shoulders, the collared neck only connected by thin straps to the bodice, the cold steel of the scissors sliding along her soft skin making her tremble.

But when Maria turned her to face the mirror in one corner;

“There, jou ver’ tasty little innocen’ girly now, to offer as puta to cruel man. Jou like?” Prilly could not but draw in a breath.

Maria had made her lovely dress into an invitation to rape, while somehow still retaining its girly, summery feel, and Prilly’s knees went soft at the beautiful cruelty of it all.

I’m the sacrifice, yes, but they are doing me so carefully, so elegantly, that I am half in love with it, can’t help feeling grateful to be so looked after.

“Thank you, thank you Señora,” and when Maria’s had went up between her legs, straight to her puffy sex lips, it was easier than before to suppress the instinct to clamp her thighs together, to do what she could to open herself, to welcome the casual grasping of her sex, to lean in to the grinning Maria’s clever manipulations, to let herself become aroused, to work to become aroused, to lean in to the shaming truth of that arousal in such degrading circumstances, hearing herself gasp, sounding exactly like the porn girls did, unable to know if that was the noise she wanted to make or the noise she wanted to offer to Maria as a sign of her subordination and then it didn’t matter as she was moaning again, this time in pain as Maria gripped and twisted Prilly’s stiffening clitoris and she had to fight herself to stay open, not to screech.

But Maria was just playing; it was over, and Maria’s fingers were in Prilly’s mouth, being carefully and submissively licked clean.

“Now we go veesit MonSeñor, and jou hav’ a lil’ question for heem; jou ask him if he want to take las’ chance to rape jou before jou become hees puta, hm? Jou gona try hard for Maria, now?”

Prilly’s eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away desperately, as she made her lips smile and wriggled her hips, and did everything she could think of to show Maria that she wanted to please. That she was an eager whore, a sexual degenerate, a willing slut.

Maria knocked on the study door, then with the assenting noise from inside, opened it and signalled to Prilly to follow.

Seeing LeStrade again hit Prilly like a sledgehammer.

The first thing was that she realised how little she knew the man; his face, his figure all registered as if for the first time. She had misremembered him— he was not quite as tall, his face was more rugged, his mouth thinner and more cruel.

Oh God I’m whoring myself to a stranger who I know nothing about, whose face I don’t even remember from the last time he raped me! And it just feels like a machine now; I’m in it, and it’s happening, and I just have to go along with it or get mangled— even though it is going to mangle me anyway. Oh fuck I’m going to ask him to rape me again and I want to; I want him to, because if he doesn’t I’m going to die of the shame of being so worthless.

The next thing, as she felt rather than saw how his eyes were appraising her, was everything which had been done to her in his name since he had seen her last— when I was on my knees, face in a dog bowl, lifting my bum so he could get an easy view of my pussy! The shame and humiliation rose like a grey wall in her mind, like an acid which ate away at whatever little self-esteem she had left, so that she felt weak— so weak; weak and worthless and needy, and when Maria kicked her ankle, hard, Prilly found herself trying her very best, in a low, husky voice which was all she coud manage;

“Mr… Mon… MonSeñor… I… I would… Would… would you like to… to r… rape me now, before… before supper, whe… when I hope to become your… your whore”

Hearing herself say those words, out loud, with Maria hearing them too, Prilly knew she had become something else, something beyond her, something impossible; that she had cast herself adrift from everything, lost herself completely; it was terrifying, and liberating at the same time; There is no Prilly, anymore; there is just being this creature, this whore, this slut, trying to live with what is being done to her, what she has offered herself up for. It was devastatingly sad, too; it was everything, all at once, and it was overwhelming.

Picture: Prilly, presenting herself for LeStrade, frightened. Click here to reveal.

The silence was long, and Prilly, looking at LeStrade’s feet, which was as much as she dared, simply trembled, wondering if the wildness of her heartbeat, the boiling fervent of conflicting emotions meant she was about to die or simply lose herself utterly. She could only try to stay upright, try to keep her shoulders back, remember to clasp her hands at the small of her back.

“You want me to rape you, pretty girl, hm?”

It was ridiculous, shaming beyond belief, but Prilly found herself doing a weak little almost-curtsey, saying;

“Yes. Yes Sir, please, MonSeñor.”

Nothing made any sense, she was lost in it. Ridiculous, but knowing that she had said that in front of Maria, deeply humiliated as she was by that, there was also a weird, stupid pride— that she had shown Maria that she could be a good girl, ask nicely to be raped.

Her heart was thumping, hard, because part of being lost was definitely now a heat between her legs, and a need in her belly; she felt her chest heave, knew that LeStrade and Maria would both see how deeply affected she was, see her neediness, that they would know they had judged her correctly, handled her expertly, so that she could now be abused at will, and it was again overwhelming, so that she heard herself making a strange noise, deeply embarrassing; a sort of prolonged giggle, or a whinny from a horse, her fear and shame too intense not to seek an outlet in this shamefully weak and betraying sound; Prilly heard them both laugh, confident, self-satisfied, amused.

Laughing at me giving every decency I have to them, letting them rip me into pieces, destroy me!

It was tragic, but the tragedy was also a glorious intensity for Prilly, and when LeStrade asked;

“Tell me why, little Prilly; why you want me to rape you?” after it had stunned her, after she had realised that she was expected— required— to give him an answer, after she had let the question sink in, after she had looked inside herself, after she had been dismayed by the obvious and shameful reality of her feelings, after all that it was almost a relief to tell him;

“MonSeñor, you … you have … have destroyed me; who… who I was… who I thought I was, anyway. And now … now, the most important thing about me is you wanting to fuck me, wanting to rape me. Please”, and her hands were at the few remaining buttons of her tiny dress, shucking it off herself, falling to her knees and spreading them wide, panting noisily, a low refrain of;

“Please, please please…”, until he stepped forward and backhanded her powerfully across the face, knocking her sideways into a sprawl, Prilly bleak in her realisation that she would always have to expect to be hurt, to be hit, knocked around, used like a punching bag; that she would have to learn to live with this, accept it— maybe, learn to need it, even? went the insane thought in her head.

His hand was in her hair, then, grabbing a handful to lift her with, as she cried out, a sound with nothing but weak submission in it, sobbing with the pain and shame of it, forcing herself to hold her hands away from her head, though she was desperate to relieve the sharp agony there, as he twisted her around in front of him, until he was behind her, then throwing her sideways, yanking her head down, so that her back was across the leather chaise he had had her on earlier, her head hanging down, facing his thighs.

“Maria, will you give her some pain between her legs please? Use the dog whip I think. You, pretty girl, must control yourself now while I fuck your throat and Maria thrashes you.”

The situation was other-worldly— beyond anything; Prilly could do no more than try to survive each moment as LeStrade forced his engorged cock into her mouth and then her throat, thrusting vigorously, fucking her face as if it were a hole in a wall. She felt him bend forward then, hook his hands under her knees and straighten up, holding her thighs apart, split, thrusting into her throat again as a blaze of pain erupted across her inner thigh on the left, then again on the right, her whole body arcing up with the shock and fear of it, the work— as he had predicted— of keeping her jaws wide apart for him requiring her whole attention, screaming her pain around his thick cock as he thrust into her, wrenching her neck, uncaring, it seemed, whether he injured her or asphyxiated her, using her as nothing more than a sex toy.

Thankfully this lasted only a short while, before he once again manhandled her with rough practicality, lifting her bodily and twisting her again, arranging her face down over the low back of the chaise, one foot on the floor, splayed wide, the other dangling as he pulled her knee up high, a ripping feeling in her groin from the strain of it, before ramming himself directly, deep into her womb, making her scream with the intensity of it, grinding her clit against the hard leather— her sexual response both pleasure and pain, the difference between the two impossible to discover, all suffused with despair and shame and helpless, urgent gratitude. Maria, squatting at the side of the chaise, lifted Prilly’s head by the hair as she jerked and jounced with the violence of LeStrade’s thrusts, the housekeeper’s face cool, cold, interested, demanding that Prilly’s eyes open themselves to her, so that the thought floated through Prilly’s ravaged, disordered mind;

She knows more about what I am now than I do myself.

LeStrade’s pace picked up, became more urgent, until he was coming inside her, jerking and grunting, animal himself now, hurting her with his force. Prilly, nowhere near a crisis herself, was nevertheless flooded with weak, shaming pleasure at the feeling of it, the knowledge that he had found her desirable, had taken her just as he wished, and found her easy, had had his pleasure of her; it was almost like love, and then she knew that she was permanently lost, she felt so soft and vulnerable and open to him, to anything he might ask of her, even though she knew already that it would be too much.

I want him to have it of me. I want to be the one to give it to him, even though I know it could just as well be some other girl as far as he would care.

Her mouth on his cock, cleaning him of their mingled slime after Marie forcefully twisted Prilly’s head to make it available to him, was servile and tender, eager and desperately willing, even though having Maria watch filled her with a shame so deep it was like a black pool, suffocating her.

There was nothing else to do but suffer, though; keep serving LeStrade, hope to survive, whatever survival might mean.

Maria’s fingers were inside her pussy then, and she and LeStrade watched, exchanging amused observations, as Prilly was quickly, almost mechanically brought to a sobbing, hiccupping, irresistible, shockingly painful climax for their entertainment, and Prilly’s further devastation.

Read the next episode of Prilly’s Journey.