Prilly's Journey Pt. 12c

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

“Preely, jou ask, now; ask nice, girl, for what jou nee’.”

Remembering this, remembering how she had been unable to find it in herself to speak, remembering how patient LeStrade had been; how that patience had been a deeply powerful force, as she was compelled to be present with the heavy import of what was asked of her, what she was going to say, to feel the stark and dangerous reality of the situation; she so weak, so compromised, so destabilised, so lost, was expected nevertheless to make a public choice, to ask to be cruelly whipped across her already bruised and tenderised pussy.

It was a bleak and harsh memory for Prilly; naked, chained by the neck, holding herself in an obscenely exposed position, displaying the terrible wound he had imposed upon her pussy. Presenting herself sexually even though there was no-one to see, in the quiet of the early morning, trembling with the knowledge of her weakness, her vulnerability, the certainty of still greater and more shameful treatment to come; more pain, more humiliation, more degradation, all certain, as if ordained. Even though she had no idea what particular form these abuses would take, she knew they were coming, knew that she would be unable to resist (that she would be brutally forced, in any case, if she tried), felt certain in her gut that her body’s response to much of it would betray her as the ‘whore in her soul’ she had really come to believe that she must be.

All that, intense, degrading, frightening, the throbbing bruising at her ankles and knees, the tenderness of her buttocks, her breasts, her poor pussy, the sharp burning of her violated asshole, the swollen soreness of her throat, her eyes aching from prolonged, agonised sobbing, her shoulders limp and aching from the hours spent pulled into unusual positions, all that…

… all this, and yet here I am, feeling somehow full of depth and meaning and mystery, and wanting to stay that way. Yes, there are tears in my eyes; yes, I’m appalled at the thing in my pussy, yes, I can hardly bear to accept as reality what was done to me only a few hours ago; yes, I was Prilly Smith, this time yesterday, thinking about nothing but getting a good tan by the pool, maybe practicing my crawl technique a little…

Yes. Yes. All that, and still; still, somehow, I’m sitting here, chained her, naked and hurting and degraded, and …

… and I want to keep this feeling; want to understand how to have this feeling….

It’s not the peace I felt after being fucked; nothing as easy as that— that’s a forgetting, a complete detachment from the reality of what is being done to me, what I am letting be done to me; what I am asking to be done to me. It’s not that— but I need this, too, to get me through so that I can be the girl he wants to rape, so that I can ‘behave’ for him, ‘present myself’ for him, use my body to invite his attention, knowing that he is always cruel, always sadistic.

The feelings welled up in her then, so terrible and desperately, desperately sad— the feeling when he had smashed at her ankles, the pathetic misery of it, and she knew that she could not fight them; they were the correct feelings— his treatment of her was indeed vile and degrading and appalling.

But if I want to keep this feeling I have to find a way to feel that it’s right for me to be done like this; to be so abused, to feel so frightened, so hurt, all the time, to feel this shame, this despair, this weakness; to be so awfully, deeply sad…

I must find what it is, this feeling; how it works.

And she made herself, then, relax into the feelings— made herself encourage them, even as they threatened to overwhelm her; they were real, they were justified; fighting them, suppressing was never going to work. She must find a way to have them become her, insane as that sounded in her mind.

She took her awareness, then, to each of the sore places, to each of the feelings, gave them their time to be themselves; and, somehow, strangely, she could feel the panic, the hysteria receding, began to feel drowsy, and heavy, and deep, as when she had woken— just a little— but it had to be enough; she had to accept that, too; that she would have so very little, little of anything from then on.

And as the dream-state began to flow— just a little— just a precious little, as the horror of what had been done to her pussy, the hurt in her ass, the deep insistent distress at her ankles and knees, the undertow of devastation in her heart, and it all became one, and something came to her, something she felt was true— which was the way, perhaps…

This is a freedom. A strange freedom, to be chained and abused, but it feels real— I’ve never been free before. Never. Not like this. These chains make me free. Free to be raped, to be beaten, to be buggered, fist-fucked, made to come in the most humiliating of circumstances, ringed like a nameless steer, and it sets me free.

More: more; it’s the knowing that he will not let me resist his abuses; that I will be cruelly forced to satisfy his desire, whatever my body wants. That’s the freedom; the freedom of perfect helplessness.

Even if the cost is so high that I am trembling with it, teary with it, abjectly terrified by it…

Even with that, I’m opening my legs, readying myself for use… for abuse… for pain and shame…

And she was smiling; a tiny, pathetic excuse for a smile, but a smile nevertheless, a real one, waves of release and energy passing through her, even as she let the tears fall, pleasure in her fear taking her, so that she rolled her hips a little, felt blood push into her pussy, no matter that it hurt, flexed her shoulders, feeling her breasts move, no matter that the certainty that she would be hurt there if she offered herself thus was in the offer, now, felt herself loosen, felt herself imagining being fucked … felt herself getting sexually hot,,

Free to be a whore; free to be a cunt. To advertise myself as cunt; to be used as cunt… to come like cunt; come from rape, come through shame, come through fear.

She knew that it was desperately dangerous to let herself feel like this, to let this madness take her; knew that this was a way down, but she chose it anyway, her chest heaving softly, seismically, with the intensity of all the feelings, and she let them take her, and the sensation of freedom welcomed her choice…

The feeling was destroying her.

And she was in love with being destroyed.

And the memories rose in her again…

“Preely, jou ask, now, ask nice, girl, for what jou nee’.”

But Prilly could not speak; could not bring herself to the point.

LeStrade was patient; well he knew the rhythms of when to press hard, break down resistance with brute force, disrupt mental processes with incessant transgressions, and when instead to use silence, time itself, to force a girl to do the work for him, to discover for herself that to join with him in perverting her, subverting her, converting her, transforming her, was the only way out of her distress.

He had pressed her hard, delivering such a harsh beating so soon; he was confident enough that she was building a neat little mental and emotional trap for herself to let her find her own way toward the inevitable truth of her total defeat.

He took slow tastes of his whisky, savouring its mellow smokiness, emptied the glass, then waved it at Santi, swinging it in a circle, indicating that the boy should make sure everyone had a refresher. He stepped in toward the lovely young girl, trembling so violently now, but still evidently making efforts to hold her degrading position with some elegance, and he took her with his trademark hold, his right hand working its way, gentle but relentless, into the junction of her thigh and groin, left sliding up her neck into her hair;

“It’s OK, pretty girl; take your time; I’m enjoying this, watching you work this out for yourself; no fear of earning a black mark now— so soon into your first day; you’ll tell me when you realise that you want it, want to give yourself to me so thoroughly that you’ll ask me to whip your pussy, knowing that I won’t hold back; that I’ll really hurt you, right there, where you are most vulnerable, where the damage will be the worst.”

He began stroking Prilly then, making free with her soft young body, his hand moving from her thigh to her burning buttocks, enjoying her flinches, her rapid correction of herself so as to hold herself available for him, deliberately gentle with her, stroking up and across, his hard hand sliding up her flank, then softly cupping her right breast, to bring a soft gasp of pain for her, caressing her there, feeling a shiver of helpless sensuality from the girl, savouring her emotional intensity just as much as the whisky, feeling his cock surge, grinning at the satisfied, fascinated look on Maria’s face, remembering time with her from his initiation into the ways of handling cunt, of treating women like this, as little more than helpless playthings, tameable, responsive, their will subjected to his cruellest fantasies, their pain or pleasure his choice, lost in their submission.

He was secure in his maturity, having layered experience onto the precocious confidence of those early days, grinning at Maria as she looked up at him, as she showed him, wanting him to see it, showing him with her whole body (no matter that her son was in the room) that she was jealous of this young girl, that she was still his for the taking, still eager to be used by him, still needy, still open to abuse from him.

Inspiration took him, and he went with it, offering up the thick, heavy handle of the whip to Prilly’s flushed and puffy sex lips, gleaming softly with her juices, the arousal from Maria’s recent manipulations still obvious, and, satisfied again by the girl’s trembling but determined control of herself, accepting the alien invader as it nuzzled at her, he suddenly rammed it, six or more inches deep into her sex, enjoying her sharp moan of shock and distress, how weak it was, how defeated, working the thing deep into her pussy as visible tremors shook her, as her hips worked, seemingly involuntarily, to aid him as he thrust into her, a deep moan betraying the intensity and complexity of her emotions.

“You like that, pretty whore? Shall I do it again? Harder? Deeper?”

And for this question her answer came rather quickly, rather breathless and desperate;

“Yes, oh yes, please, M … MonSeñor.”

“Ha! Prefer your pussy to taste the whip handle than for the whip to taste your pussy, hmm? Here you go then!”

She didn’t speak, then, but her head went down and her hips lifted for him and he thrust the whip handle back into her then, fast and hard and deep, repeatedly, intentionally brutal, deeper each time, until she squealed in distress as her cervix was violently penetrated, deep inside her, and she shook and trembled with the intensity of it, of having her helplessly responsive sensuality made so very obvious to everyone, tears spurting from her eyes again even as her hips worked to welcome the wood and leather invader, as she rocked herself for him, shamefully seeking, compelled, working to engage his knuckles with her clit, quickly at the brink of orgasm, shocking herself with her hunger for it, no matter the abjection of orgasming under such circumstances, with so many watchers.

He denied her, pulling the whip handle from her pussy and rapping it smartly into her engorged clitoris, eliciting a moan of pain and humiliated disappointment, soon stilled as the handle was unceremoniously shoved between her teeth and into her throat, causing a different set of noises and convulsions.

This time she could not control her bucking and jerking as her body forcefully objected to the cruel invasion of her airway, the appalling thickness, the hardness of it, his hand in her hair controlling her without mercy, the elbow tie too coming into its own as her arms wrenched at their restraints— she would have grabbed and wrestled with his strong hand with one or both of hers if she could have. The helplessness terrified her, drove her close to panic then, as she fought for air, convulsing as she choked, feeling as if he could be killing her, hearing him laughing, enjoying himself, before he abruptly relieved her of her torment, pulling the whip handle from her, standing up and back, abandoning her as she fought her body, as she worked urgently to control herself again— more for some tiny shred of self-respect at that point than anything else— not to be completely the abject victim; working for some sense of being something, even if that something could not aspire to anything more than obedient, well-presented sex-toy.

As soon as she seemed to be winning the battle he pressed her again;

“Now. Now, Miss Prilly, you will ask me to whip you, whip your soft pussy. You will ask me to hurt you there.”

And he emphasised his demand with a soft flick of the tip of the crop between her sex lips, which brought from her a strange, strangled squeal; fear and pleading mingled.

The appeal was ignored, and another soft but accurate stroke a few seconds later, tipped her over the next step down, the next step of her submission, which he was increasingly certain would eventually be complete.

“Ye…. Oh, Gosh I … I can’t, but … but …oooh fuck I can’t believe this …Yes. Yes, please … please whip … please whip my … whip my poor pussy and hurt … oh god!…. hurt me there. Please?”

Her voice was hoarse, breathy, desperate, without conviction. but the words had been said, clearly, and heard by all; that this was enough for LeStrade was rapidly obvious as he delivered three measured strokes, well spaced in time, so that each was a mini catastrophe of its own for poor Prilly. Three strikes, one mostly lined along her left labia, one along the right, and the third, notably softer, but in impact much, much greater, dead central, cutting into her slot, the crop tip across her engorged clitoris, eliciting a blood-curdling scream and a total collapse, as Prilly gave up on her position and threw herself sideways, onto the floor, her body curled around her pain, her shame, her destruction.

She was granted no time, though, none at all, to attempt to deal with the terrible disaster which he had imposed upon her, before she was dragged by LeStrade, his hand in her hair, the pain of this almost a welcome distraction from the hurt between her legs as he hefted her back to her position, pushed and shoved at her to encourage her to arrange herself properly, a hard kick at one of her ankles bringing another hoarse scream but also eager, urgent obedience from the sobbing Prilly, spreading her feet, tucking them in tight, thrusting her lovely ass, with its five livid pink stripes darkening already as the blood leaked from capillaries ruptured by the impact of the crop; presenting herself for more pain and abuse, even as she sobbed.

“You’re not through, pretty, though that was the worst of it; it’s Santi’s turn to hurt you now, while I work myself off in your throat…. Maria… "

And Maria was at her head then, forcing something into her mouth, something both stiff and springy— a ring, it transpired, which, once behind her teeth and forced into position by Maria, using the straps attached to it, reasserted its original shape and held her jaw painfully wide open, as Maria tightened the straps around Prilly’s neck.

Maria stepped back then, and LeStrade, one knee up on the seat of the chaise, one foot on the floor, hands on her head, pushed his throbbing cock, the skin notably taut, the veins pulsing, directly into Prilly’s throat, just as Santi commenced to lay into her bottom with the dreadful whip.

Santi, true to his impulse of earlier, but mindful of his need to keep his employer satisfied, tried to take a path between softening his blows, and looking as if her were really trying to hurt her. In his inexperience, this resulted in complete inconsistency for Prilly, some blows noticeably less painful, others astonishing her with their force, so that she was indeed screaming — or trying to— around Lestrade’s stiff cock as it thrust, repeatedly, violent and deep, into her throat.

LeStrade came, pulling back deliberately so as to fill her airways with his seed (he enjoyed watching pretty girls struggling to breathe, naked, bound and desperate, wholly occupied in their pathetic struggle to stay alive), while Santi delivered the last two strikes of her punishment to her poor breasts.

The sensation of drowning in her Señor’s come (his cock having jammed itself back into her throat again even as she was overwhelmed by his come blocking everything, as he luxuriated in the feel of her convulsions massaging him), suffering the pain of the whipping and the increasing unbearability of having her elbows tied behind her, the atrocious ring gag in her mouth— all of it— overcame Prilly once again, and she collapsed to the floor as soon as he was done with her. She was semi-conscious, head swimming, her breathing ragged, her moans almost continuous, if soft and weak, the tone of them piteous in the extreme; a girl destroyed, but yet not dead, unsure if she could carry on living affecting the two young men in the room quite powerfully, LeStrade and Maria not at all.

LeStrade himself was noticeably a little breathless as he grinned at Santi and Roddy;

“Here endeth the lesson for you two tonight— off you go. I’ve the rest of the blue pill’s effect to work off on young Prilly and I think Maria has something in mind, too, but that’s all for you two— make yourselves scarce now, until tomorrow. You’ll get your chance at her, I promise, and she’ll serve you like you never dreamed a young pretty girl would.”