Club Y— Episode 5

This story will make more sense if you have read the previous episodes.

“AAAIIEEEGGHHKK!”

Jim had yanked on the rope, hard, shocking her, dragging Robyn along, and his casual callousness stung her almost as much as the thick dildo in her ass did, rigid and relentless inside her as she scrambled along behind him, fresh tears spurting from her eyes.

Where having her wrists tied had been almost intimate and sexy— the stuff of adolescent sex games— being jerked and dragged along like an animal was brutally real, and Robyn felt terribly small and weak and hard done by.

He doesn’t have to be so cruel! Stuffing that fucking thing into me, now dragging me along like this.

But you asked for it, didn’t you? What were you thinking, silly! This is what a sex-slave gets from a hard master.

It burned into Robyn then, hard and deep and agonising, that she was going to be harshly abused— cruelly treated by a greedy, sadistic Master, and she wanted to fall to her knees to process the pain, the fear, for it all to stop.

But it didn’t stop; Jim wasn’t looking, wouldn’t care even if he did. Why would he stop, now, when she had given him her consent?

And he hasn’t even started whipping me!

If … if I had any strength, I’d make him stop. Make him see that this has all been a big mistake. Getting turned-on by sexy stories about whipping and raping is not the same as having it done to me! Not the same at all!

These thoughts though seemed equally to be fantasies, since, all through the shameful, painful and distressing process of having her tied wrists looped into a longer rope which Jim had coiled and thrown over a sturdy metal awning frame, then pulled on, hard, until Robyn was on tiptoes, really feeling a burn in her shoulders, and through the disturbing business of watching her beloved sister strung up in the same way (more like a side of beef than a person), never once did Robyn find it in her to complain or struggle more than was automatic resistance to being manhandled; not once had she tried to free herself. She didn’t like how Jim was pushing her around— not at all— but, knowing that it was what she had asked for, it was Jim’s right, surely? To treat her so badly? And her job to somehow make it easy for him. Something had happened when she had accepted his rules, it seemed; something had broken in her, and she could not see that she was in any position to deny him the rights she had granted him, no matter how much she regretted having done so.

This must be what it is to be a real submissive; some switch in my brain that means that now I’ve called him ‘Sir’, I lose the ability to fight back? Oh gosh I’m in so much trouble!

Maybe I should have read more of the stories I found boring, where they go into every little detail of the knots and all, every slash of the whip, maybe that would have put me off!

Jim walked off, then, leaving the two of them; until an hour ago a reasonably normal pair of sisters, now shockingly revealed to each other as a pair of helpless sexual submissives, both of them firmly under the control of the same casually, ruthlessly cruel master.

Nancy — presumably more used to experiences like this— was looking apprehensive, though not devastated, but did not seem inclined to speak. Robyn though was feeling very strange indeed about having had her sister watch that appalling dildo rammed into her back hole, and also see the way her husband had been with her, for not only had he manhandled her, impaled her on the awful dildo, and roughly tied her, he had not been in the slightest shy about mauling and squeezing Robyn’s breasts and pussy as the opportunity arose. Robyn very much did not want to speak herself, either— except that the burning fear inside her forced her;

“Does it… does it really hurt?”

Nancy looked up, looked quickly sideways, then, softly;

“It really does!! You hear it before you feel it, but then… well, you really feel it!”

Jim’s returning footsteps had Nancy quickly shift so that it was not obvious that she had been talking to Robyn.

Looks as if slavegirls are not really expected to speak to each other!

Jim reappeared, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and his shirt off, carrying a ferocious-looking coiled leather whip, with a solid knot of leather as a handle, and Robyn had to clench her crotch as she felt otherwise she must pee herself with fear. Her hands pulled reflexively at the taut ropes, her body trying to turn in itself— every part of her wanting to hide behind every other part of her, in seeming ignorance of the reality; that she was tied up tight, yards away from anything that could give her any protection, utterly exposed.

He can’t be going to use that thing on me!?!

Except, of course, that she knew full well he would.

He started on Nancy first, without the slightest ceremony; three full-strength lashes, taking his time, cracking the whip elsewhere between ‘business’ strokes, waiting for some moment, it seemed, a moment of maximum psychological impact to strike, thought Robyn, an unwilling spectator, but equally unable to tear her gaze away from Jim, the whip, the appalling impact it had on Nancy.

More experienced she might be than Robyn, but Nancy’s response to each blow from the whip was one of horror and terror, although she seemed able to contain herself to the extent that her cries of pain were muted; it seemed that one did not become accustomed to being whipped, only survived it.

And then it was Robyn’s turn, and, as with Nancy, terrified though she was, she could not keep her eyes off Jim, could not close her eyes and just wait, but became utterly, completely enmeshed in Jim’s psychological game, her eyes glued to his hands, her body twitching helplessly in response to even a flex of his wrists, until, with merciless clarity, she knew that he was winding up to let the whip have her, and tensed, desperate, unable to believe it was real, even as— just as Nancy had told her— she heard the angry hiss of the whip, just an instant before a line of intense fire crashed into her upper back, the physical blow of impact almost equal in devastation as it jerked her wrists against the tension of the rope, and she screamed. There was no possible control that could have stifled her yell of shock and pain and despair. Her suffering had to be made loud, so that he who was dealing out the pain must know that she could not, must not, be subjected to anything like that, ever again. All her desperation went into that scream (the neighbours forgotten about), in the certain and urgent demand that this horror must cease.

Except that, of course, it did not, and, at her weakest moment of course, the next whistling hiss gave her all too little warning that the next blow was incoming, driving an even more abject scream from her, filled as it was with despair that her urgent need for him to realise that it had all be a terrible mistake had been ignored; that her desperate requirement, that he must stop, must free her— that this absolute necessity was going to be trampled down, and then, before her scream was even over, a new one was triggered, the whip this time flicking round to cut into the underside of her breast, the pain as if she had been scalded with hot oil, and she began babbling, begging, pleading, offering him anything, anything to stop, which only made him laugh;

“That’s three of twenty-five, Robyn; you’ll need to conserve your strength I think; we’ll see, I guess.”

Then it was Nancy’s turn again, only now Robyn was no longer interested, focused entirely on managing her own desperation, on finding ways to cope with the terrible reality of her first real thrashing. Just as Nancy had said, their Dad’s razor strop, which had not been spared either of them— even into their teens— had been a walk in the park compared to the horror of the strokes of Jim’s whip.

As the session went on, it became a matter of survival of her identity; Jim taking his time, enjoying himself, playing his games with both of them, the whipping as psychologically destructive as it was physically devastating. As the count went up, Robyn was inexorably, brutally reduced to a near animal state, grimly struggling to hold on to something, refusing to be broken, to relinquish the last scraps of her pride, desperately trying to control her body— to minimise the shame of her unstoppable but utterly pathetic writhing and twisting— through which her instinct sought to escape the unescapable; the brutal, searing cutting of the terrible whip into her soft flesh— bitterly, hopelessly working to constrain the appalled and appalling shrieks which ripped from her throat at each lash.

She couldn’t fully control herself, but she could at least not totally give in, not become simply a mindless, screaming, jerking puppet.

Remember who she was.

And then something changed.

It stopped.

In the silence, she could hear Nancy sobbing; even though her sister had experienced this before, it was clear from the ragged edges of that sound that Nancy, too, was close to the edge of sanity.

Was that 25? I have no idea, but somehow it doesn’t seem like it! Maybe … maybe he’s thought better of it? Maybe that’s … has it stopped? Oh God please make it have stopped.

The sound of a neighbour mowing, birdsong, was ridiculously normal, banal when close at hand there was desperate, broken breathing, and wracking, despair-filled sobs from her and Nancy. How could the world not have stopped at this horror?

Then there was a lower sound, and Robyn was compelled to look up, despite her self-absorption, to see Jim close in with Nancy, his lips at her ear, talking to her, quiet, serious. His arms were around her, intimate, the whip hanging down behind her, its cruelly weighted end now gently swaying, caressing her buttocks.

Lord, those marks are actually grooves in her skin!

And Nancy was noticeably calming— Maybe it is over?— the need for that to be true was intense, plangent, pathetic in its hopelessness.

Nancy was lifting her head, peeping at Jim through lowered lashes, weakly nodding— her lips trembling, trying to smile, perhaps, and then speaking herself, very soft, weak, but clearly in the affirmative, her eyes shining, her body trembling as Jim slowly, grinning at her, ground his crotch into her, dry humping her while she was helpless, crying, Nancy really trying to smile for him then, weakly working with him, her eyes full of desparate need, fearful hope, her mouth soft and trembling, giving herself to him. And then, with a grin that had no mercy in it, he stepped back, shucking out the loops in the whip.

Robyn was trembling, too; it was like the scenes between René and O, chained in her cell; where René was lover-like, gentle, even as he told O that she was about to be cruelly whipped by the valet, and Robyn’s pussy throbbed and her heart gained a slower, stronger thump to it, in spite of everything.

Then Jim’s arm went up and back, easy and powerful and threatening…

Oh God it’s starting again and I can’t take it! I won’t be able to take it! No! No! NOOO!

Jim wound up and laid into Nancy first, three in relatively quick succession; Robyn was sure he was putting even more into the blows that he had been; horrified at the thought of it. But something had changed with Nancy; she was still crying out with each blow, still jerking helplessly as it bit into her pale skin— there wasn’t anything obviously different, but it was definitely … definitely something; the way she was moving, the sound of her cries— more accepting; the tone deeply, tragically sad rather than hysterical, all harshness gone…

And then, horrors, Jim was turning toward her and Robyn’s whole body was cringing, one knee lifting high in an attempt to shield herself; all ridiculous, stupid, shamingly useless as Jim grinned at her and idled the whip, selecting his moment to curl the heavy bullhide cruelly low across her buttocks, his arm extended so that the weighted tip flicked round and pain exploded through the thin, sensitive skin at the top of her inner thigh, terrifyingly close to her pussy.

Robyn shattered at the impact, in a shock of pain and terror— he was hitting harder— that blow was like two of any she had felt so far, and he was already winding up for another.

The next few strikes were catastrophic; Robyn lost everything, forgot her name, forgot everything but the pain and the fear and the horror as her body took over, as animal noises came from her throat, as her breathing went haywire, her heart hammering until she felt it must burst, hysteria overwhelming her frenzied mind.

So broken was she that, lost in her moaning and crying and despair, she did not notice that the flurry of blows had paused until the warmth of Jim’s body announced itself, telling her he was close (even in the sun, the evening breeze was cool), and then she felt his arms coming around her; soft, gentle and slow— almost lover-like by contrast with his earlier brutal directness.

He was in no hurry it seemed, patiently waiting as Robyn spasmed and trembled in his embrace, utterly at sea, her mind only slowly coming back into focus, her breath catching, a rage of searing emotion surging and crashing in her, over and again while he gradually held her closer— not tight, but rather more and more of his body in intimate contact with hers— she was powerfully aware of the ridge of his cock, hard against her belly, until at last, something changed in her and she relaxed, gratefully, desperately needy for his gentle hold, knowing it was crazy, but in the midst of terrifying insanity still terribly welcome, and she gave herself to him, knowing she was being manipulated, handled, managed, doing it anyway; gave herself, in her despair, her weakness, her desperate, terrible need for something, anything that could soften the appalling misery of having asked for this horror; gave herself, gave herself fully, eagerly, softly, willingly, gave herself to the man who had brutalised her ass, tied her wrists so that her hands have gone numb, and whipped both her and her sister into hysteria. The man who would soon, of a certainty, start whipping her again.

The man who owned her now, owned her life in that moment; the man upon whose smallest whim she was utterly dependent, for her life, for her sanity, for her existence.

And he was holding her, holding her carefully, intimately, holding her without cruelty, although she knew that he controlled her, absolutely, was controlling her through his gentleness in that moment, just as he had through his brutality when he had rammed the still awful thing into her asshole. He had become her world.

He IS my world, now. Because I forfeited my own world. Stupidly, weakly, threw it away in search of a sexual thrill, not realising that it was so much more that I risked. All gone; gone now; not even worth thinking about. Because THIS IS IT, now; all there is left. Him.

She felt very, very small and weak and pathetic and needy then, but something else, too; weird, but deeply true— she was grateful; deeply, heart-tremblingly, limitlessly grateful; he had given her something, at least; some small thing which she could hope to live by; the little pause, such a small comfort, his attention, his manipulation, all in the midst of a hell of her own making — I asked him for this, I wanted it! — and she let herself melt into him, betrayed herself forever; betrayed herself gratefully; humbly, sweetly— because there was nothing else.

He had taken everything from her; he had immobilised her, stripped her, stolen her sister, brutalised her, shamed her, controlled her, tied her, skilfully and mercilessly terrorised her with the terrible whip, demolished any sense of self-worth at all by laughing at her pathetic writhing and twisting, reminding her that she had asked for this; that this was what she was; all she was. A victim, a loser, a needy, pathetic, worthless thing, only interesting in the slightest through his interest in her; she having lost all claim on the world through her helpless sluttish nature.

He had come to her in her absolute distress, her emptiness, her despair, he had come to her and offered her comfort; and it was good. It was wonderful; it was amazing; it was like a beautiful summer dawn in a world of pain. It was so good she cried. Tears still, but different tears, soft tears, weak tears, despairing, but also sweet in the pain, as she felt herself on the threshold of something tragic, deep, some terrible but inescapable loss. A defeat that would bring something— would bring his attention, his interest, his care, in some fucked-up sense. His care for her inevitable destruction, which would ensure that her life meant something, despite her appalling failure. That she would be his victim was something.

All of this impinged itself on her mind in only a minute or two, intense, soflty violent, irresistible, reshaping her world at that point of maximum weakness, so that she would never be the old Robyn again.

He has me. I’m his. God, but I’m going to suffer.

He spoke, then, low and soft;

“Listen, Robyn; you are gorgeous; sexier even than Nancy— which is saying something. It’s an honour to have you like this. I will only rarely talk to you in this way— as one human to another, in full communication; usually it will be in the middle of some terrible outrage— something destructive.”

“And I talk to you with an ulterior motive, which you understand, of course; no tricks, really; I’m just taking advantage of a special moment to take control of you; to make it easy for you to give up on yourself as an independent person; to let go of that, to accept that you’ve failed at life, that you need me to give you any meaning at all. I’m not being kind; I’m using this time— one of maximum psychological vulnerability for you— to cement your position as my creature, my property, my slave.”

“To help you see yourself for what you can become, if you will only give up. Give up on Robyn. You can become as you are now; utterly beyond all responsibility, free of everything. Nothing but a body which is a toy for me, and anyone I give it to. Perfect peace, in perfect powerlessness.”

He fell silent then, holding her with what felt like infinite strength, infinite tenderness, infinite power. As with Nancy, she could feel the heavy end of the whip softly brushing her buttocks, and it was a perfect caress, and she began to cry again; not harsh sobbing, though, but soft tears, weak tears, for she knew that he was right, that in this moment, he had won her; that she had given herself over.

That she would accept the whip from him forever, no matter what it did to her.

That he would whip her forever, until he had destroyed her.

That being destroyed by him was her destiny.

He held her for what seemed an age— an age of sweet despair, infinite sadness for the end of Robyn. Infinite softness as Jim’s property, all doubt erased, since Jim would be everything; he so reliably certain and unbending in his desire, his certainty as to what he wanted from her, and she felt her pussy soften, despite everything; felt everything soften; felt herself trembling, softly, in the intensity of her surrender.

He spoke, then; “I’m going to hurt you more, now; it will be terrible. If you can— if it is real for you. If you want to— when you want to— you can start thanking me after each lash. And you can begin to keep yourself still and open for me, for the cruelty of the whip, so that I can hurt you just as I like, so that you can thank me. So that you will know that you are mine. Mine to do even terrible things to.”

“Remember, I will never normally speak to you like this… You must not expect it.”

And she was overwhelmed, then, transported, and she lifted her face to his and offered her lips, and he bent and kissed her and she gave herself to him again, even more fully, as the hand holding the whip gripped her pussy, the leather grinding on her clitoris and her right knee lifted high, higher as she opened herself to his hand and to his tongue and half laughed, half sobbed into his mouth, saying “Thank you, thank you, thank you”, knowing she had lost. Lost everything, perhaps. Happy to no longer have to fight. Never fight again; accept every violation; welcome it; because it was inevitable in any case.

Because she was worth only what he would make of her.

He stepped away from her, then, and she whined in her soft distress, but when he asked her to turn her back on him, so that he could ‘curl one around into your tits’, she did it, trembling and shaking but controlling herself, and it was unbelievably painful, and the deliberate cruelty, the laugh of pleasure at her agonised cries all burned her like nothing before, but this time, there was no hysteria, only despair, and his wishes of her to help her through that despair.

It was terrible, it was appalling; she knew it; saw it very clearly for what it was, saw that it was clever, cruelly manipulative abuse.

It made no difference. I was made to be abused.

He had demeaned, degraded, shamed her beyond belief, but it was somehow manageable now. Because she was no longer Robyn. Because she was his— his to do this to, explicitly, permanently his; it didn’t make anything right, but it did make sense of her, just enough.

And the words ‘Thank you’ formed on her lips, without any sound. And so she did it again, on purpose, and said ‘Thank you’— ‘Thank you’, out loud, to the man who had just caused a blaze of agony on her left nipple that from the feel of it meant it had been destroyed forever.

It was what was proper. What made her feel good.

And for the last few blows, both Robyn and Nancy mostly uttered soft, breathy, despairing but sincere Thank yous.