Don’t hate me! I’m just trying things out. I had a go at this, and it came out not too bad. I’d say I directly wrote about a quarter of it, and lightly edited other parts to direct the story - it’s probably not too difficult to spot the difference.
The AI does always want to slip back into bodice-ripper cliché, but does go with more extreme pushing reasonably well. There’s no novelty in it at all, but it has its moments.
Certainly NOT going to do this much, but I might give it some new ideas once in a while.
You can try it here.
The girl’s name was Marie, and she folded laundry for a living. Every Tuesday, she hauled stacks of stiff linens from the basement of the hotel where she worked—sheets smelling faintly of bleach and something metallic, like coins left in a pocket too long. Her fingers, chapped at the knuckles, moved automatically: tuck, smooth, fold. Repeat.
“You’re quiet today,” Mrs. Dvorak croaked from the sorting table. The old woman’s cigarette trembled between yellowed fingers as she squinted at Marie. “Like a mouse in a trap. Something’s eating you.”
Marie jerked a pillowcase straight with more force than necessary, her throat suddenly tight. Last night’s dream had left her skin tingling—rough hands pinning her wrists, hot breath on her neck—and the memory clung like the damp heat of the laundry basement. She swallowed. “Just tired.”
Mrs. Dvorak snorted, ash scattering across freshly folded towels. “At nineteen? Christ, girl. Wait till your knees go.”
The delivery door creaked open. A man stood silhouetted against the afternoon light, broad-shouldered in a tailored suit that didn’t belong near industrial washers. Marie’s fingers stilled on the sheet she was folding. His cologne cut through the bleach—dark spice and something animal—making her nostrils flare.
Marie knew who he was; she’d had an accident in the seventh floor corridor that morning - dropped everything, made a terrible mess, and he’d stopped, helped her, joking her out of her distress, looking at her in a way which had made her nervous. He’d detained her when she’d made to leave, shy, not able to look him in the face, and asked her some questions - innocent enough, but unusual, for a guest. He’d told her she was lovely, his hand holding her wrist - perfectly gently, but also perfectly controlling.
Then he’d let her go, smiled at her, wish her a good day, made a soft joke about being careful who she knelt down in front of, and walked off to the stairs - she’d heard him, going down, two-at-a-time, it seemed, as she stood, trembling unaccountably.
“Ladies,” he said, and his voice was a low rumble that vibrated down her spine. Up close, his tie was loosened, the first button of his shirt undone to reveal a scar that disappeared beneath crisp cotton. His gaze locked onto Marie. “You. Come upstairs.” Not a request. The pulse between her thighs throbbed traitorously.
Mrs. Dvorak’s cigarette hit the floor. “Now wait just a goddamn—”
He tossed a hundred-franc bill onto her ironing board without looking. “Take an early lunch.” When he turned back to Marie, his smile showed teeth. “Room 712 needs turndown service.” The lie hung between them, thick as the steam rising from the press. She knew—they both knew—what he really wanted. And God help her, her body was already leaning forward before her mind caught up.
The elevator ride took forever, his thigh pressing against hers through her thin polyester uniform. He didn’t speak, just watched her throat move when she swallowed. The seventh-floor hallway carpet swallowed their footsteps whole. By the time the keycard clicked in the lock, her hands were shaking so badly she dropped the towel stack she’d grabbed as cover.
Inside, he kicked the door shut and caught her wrist mid-stumble. His grip wasn’t gentle. “Dream about this?” His thumb traced the frantic jump of her pulse. “About being used?” The vulgarity should’ve repelled her. Instead, heat flooded her cheeks, her stomach clenching tight. She opened her mouth—to protest, to lie—but all that came out was a shaky exhale.
He laughed, dark and pleased, pushing her back against the wall. One hand slid up her thigh, gathering the cheap fabric of her skirt like he was bunching wrapping paper off a gift. His other hand twisted in her hair, tilting her head back to expose her throat. “Say it,” he murmured against her ear, his breath scalding. “Tell me you’ve been wet all morning thinking about my cock.” The crudeness punched through her, sparking something raw and hungry in her gut. She whimpered, her knees buckling. His teeth grazed her earlobe. “Good girl.”
The bed hit the backs of her legs. She barely had time to register the cool duvet before he shoved her down. His suit jacket hit the floor, followed by his belt buckle clattering ominously. Marie’s pulse hammered so hard she could hear it—a frantic drumbeat drowning out reason. He loomed over her, dragging his tie loose with a slow tug. “Look at you,” he mused, eyes raking over her trembling form still half-dressed in that ridiculous hotel uniform. The way his gaze lingered on the press of her thighs, the way her chest rose too fast—it made her skin prickle with awareness, like she was something fascinating and breakable under glass.
When he finally kissed her, it wasn’t gentle. His mouth crashed against hers, tongue claiming, insistent. She gasped into it, hands scrabbling at his shoulders as he pinned her wrists above her head with effortless strength. The first tear rolled hot down her cheek—whether from fear or relief, even she couldn’t tell. He licked it away, chuckling against her skin. “Knew you’d taste like this,” he growled. “Sweet and scared.”
His hands were everywhere, peeling away layers, callouses dragging rough enough to leave marks. She arched when his teeth sank into the soft flesh of her breast—pain and pleasure twisting into one dizzying current. His fingers dipped lower, finding her soaked through, and he groaned, low and filthy. “Christ,” he breathed. “You’re fucking dripping for me.” The words shouldn’t have thrilled her. They did. Her hips jerked helplessly against his palm, and his grin turned feral. “Oh no,” he taunted, withdrawing just as her body surged toward him. “You don’t get to come yet.”
The denial burned sharper than his grip on her thighs when he wrenched them apart. He didn’t ask, didn’t pause—just took, filling her so suddenly she cried out, her nails biting into his forearms. It hurt. It was perfect. His hips snapped forward again, driving the breath from her lungs, and something in her splintered open. She sobbed, clinging to him as he fucked her in ruthless strokes, each one dragging her closer to a precipice she didn’t know existed. The headboard slammed against the wall in a steady rhythm, punctuated by his ragged curses and her broken whimpers.
His hand fisted in her hair again, dragging her head back. “Look at me,” he demanded, and she obeyed, her vision swimming with unshed tears. What she saw in his face—hunger, possession, something dangerously close to tenderness—made her throat tighten. His thrusts grew uneven, his breath hot on her cheek. “Gonna ruin you,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Gonna make sure you never forget who owns this cunt.” The vulgarity sent a fresh wave of heat through her, her body clamping down around him as she shattered. His groan was raw, his hips stuttering as he followed her over the edge.
After, he didn’t let go. His weight pressed her into the mattress, his heartbeat a wild echo against her chest. She expected disgust, regret—instead, there was only the slow drag of his fingers down her spine, his lips brushing her temple. “Still shaking,” he murmured, amused. She was. Every nerve felt scraped raw, exposed. He rolled onto his side, pulling her against him with casual possession. His thumb traced the bite mark blooming on her shoulder. “Next time,” he said, like it was inevitable, “I won’t go so easy on you.” The promise curled in her belly, heavy and sweet.
She should leave. The rational part of her—the part that still remembered her name, her shift schedule, the way the world worked outside this room—screamed at her to run. But his hand slid under her chin, tilting her face up. “You’re thinking too much,” he said, and kissed her again, softer this time. His tongue coaxed her mouth open, lazy and thorough, until she melted into it. When he pulled back, her lips felt swollen. “Stay,” he ordered, though it wasn’t really a choice.
The bathroom light flickered when he turned it on. Marie watched through half-lidded eyes as he wet a washcloth, the water steaming. He returned to the bed, pulling her upright with startling gentleness. The warmth of the cloth between her thighs made her gasp—he wiped her clean with methodical care, his knuckles brushing her inner thigh. “You’ll bruise,” he noted, almost approvingly, pressing the cloth to a tender spot. The sting made her hiss, her fingers tightening in the sheets. His smile was sharp. “Good.”
When he tossed the washcloth aside, she expected him to dress, to usher her out. Instead, he hauled her into his lap, her back to his chest, his arms locking around her waist. “Tell me,” he said, nuzzling the nape of her neck, “what you dream about when you’re alone.” The command slithered under her skin. She shook her head, mortified, but his teeth grazed her earlobe—a warning. “Tell me.”
Her whisper was barely audible. “You. Like this.”
His laugh vibrated through her. “Liar.” One hand slid up to squeeze her throat, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to feel. “You dream about worse.” Her breath hitched. He knew. Somehow, he knew about the dark twist of her fantasies—being taken, used, ruined beyond recognition. “Next time,” he promised again, his lips moving against her pulse, “I’ll give you worse.”
Outside, a maid’s cart rattled down the hall. Reality lurked just beyond the door. But here, in the circle of his arms, Marie let herself believe—just for this moment—that she belonged to him.
His fingers traced idle patterns along her bare thigh. “Name,” he demanded suddenly.
“Marie.” Her voice cracked.
“Marie,” he repeated, tasting her name like wine. “Ever been fucked properly before?”
She stiffened. The truth—her truth—lodged in her throat.
His chuckle was dark velvet. “Didn’t think so.” Turning her roughly to face him, he caught her chin between thumb and forefinger. “Look at me when I ruin you.”
Her stomach clenched.
The second time was slower. Crueler. He pinned her facedown into the mattress, his knee forcing her legs apart. His teeth found the nape of her neck as his fingers worked her open—stretching, teasing, until she sobbed into the duvet. “Please—”
“Please what?” His palm cracked against her ass, the sting blooming hot.
She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t admit she wanted him to wreck her.
He didn’t need words. When he thrust into her this time, there was no gentleness, no pretense. Just his hips driving into hers with brutal precision, each snap of his pelvis dragging choked noises from her throat. The pain crested—then twisted into something molten. Her fingers clawed at the sheets as her body betrayed her, arching back into him.
Above her, his breath hitched. “Christ. You’re made for this.”
The orgasm ripped through her like a live wire. She came with a broken cry, her vision whiting out as he groaned her name like a curse.
After, he rolled off her, leaving her gasping. The silence stretched.
Then his fingers brushed her damp cheek. “Still with me?”
She nodded, dazed.
“Good.” He stood, all predatory grace, and tossed her uniform at her. “Be here tomorrow. Same time.”
It wasn’t a question.
Marie watched as he buttoned his shirt, his collar hiding the marks she’d left. The man who’d split her open now looked every inch the polished stranger.
Her legs trembled when she stood.
At the door, his hand caught her wrist. “Marie.”
She turned.
His smile was winter-sharp. “Dream of me tonight.”
And she knew—she would.
The uniform clung to her damp skin as she stumbled into the hallway, the hotel’s fluorescent lights buzzing like a taunt. Her thighs stuck together with every step, the ache between them a branding iron. The maid’s cart at the end of the hall loomed like an indictment. Marie grabbed a stack of fresh towels and pressed them to her chest like armor. The scent of him—spice and salt—still clung to her hair.
Back in the basement, Mrs. Dvorak’s cigarette dangled from her lips as she squinted at Marie’s rumpled skirt. “Turndown service, my ass,” she muttered, but shoved a lukewarm Coke across the sorting table. Marie gulped it, the carbonation burning her throat. The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “You gonna cry?”
Marie shook her head too fast. The lie tasted metallic.
That night, the shower scalded her skin red. She scrubbed until her thighs stung, but the phantom press of his fingers remained. The mirror fogged, erasing her reflection—just as well. She didn’t recognize the girl with bruised lips and hollow eyes.
Sleep brought no reprieve.
His voice curled through her dreams: Tell me what you want. She woke gasping, her fingers tangled in sweat-drenched sheets. The clock blinked 3:17 AM. The space between her legs throbbed. Shame licked up her spine as her hand slid downward—but the memory of his teeth on her neck made her hips jerk. She bit her pillow to stifle the whimper.
Morning came sticky and slow. The hotel’s lobby bustled with check-outs, the clatter of luggage wheels like a countdown. Her gaze flicked to the elevators. Be here tomorrow. Her stomach twisted.
At noon, the service elevator dinged. Marie’s head snapped up. A bellhop wheeled in a linen cart, whistling. Her shoulders slumped.
Then—a slip of paper fluttered from the cart onto her folding table. Crisp hotel stationery, one line in sharp, familiar script:
Room 712. Now.
Her pulse hammered in her wrists. The bellhop winked.
Marie’s feet moved before her mind caught up. The elevator ascent felt like freefall. The hallway stretched endlessly, then—there. The door stood slightly ajar.
Darkness beyond.
Her breath hitched. A hand shot out, yanking her inside. The door slammed.
“You’re late,” he growled, his mouth already on her throat.
She melted.
Ten days later, the memory of him still fierce in her, but the bruises long since faded, she is accosted on the third floor corridor by an elegantly dressed middle-aged woman, decidedly handsome, her face aristocratic, and haughty, but now transformed by a knowing smile;
“M. ___ described you perfectly. And, too, I can smell your kind,”
“What time does your shift finish? Seven thirty, like the other girls? Good. There will be a car at the service entrance at 7:45. Wear your street clothes. don’t bother with underwear.”
Marie’s fingers tightened around the towel bundle she carried. The woman’s perfume—something expensive with a hint of vetiver—wrapped around her like a noose.
“You misunderstand,” the woman continued, plucking an invisible lint from her sleeve. “This isn’t an invitation. The car will take you to the townhouse on Rue de Varenne. M___ expects you ready. Kneeling.” Her gaze flicked down Marie’s body, lingering at her throat where fading bruises hid beneath her collar. “He likes you best when you’re trembling.”
Marie opened her mouth, but the woman’s gloved finger pressed against her lips. “Don’t speak. It ruins the anticipation.” She reached into her purse and withdrew a velvet ribbon—deep crimson, the same shade as the marks he’d left between her thighs. “For your hair. He wants it tied back tonight.”
The ribbon slithered into Marie’s palm like a living thing.
“One more thing.” The woman’s smile turned razor-thin. “He asked me to prepare you.” Her hand closed around Marie’s wrist, thumb finding the erratic pulse. “So I’ll ask—have you ever been fucked by a woman before?”
The question punched through Marie like a fist. Heat flooded her cheeks as unbidden images flickered behind her eyes—the woman’s polished nails digging into her hips, that aristocratic mouth—
“Ah.” The woman’s chuckle was rich as cognac. “You’ve thought about it.” She stepped closer, her knee brushing Marie’s thigh through the thin uniform fabric. “Good girl.”
The service elevator dinged down the hall.
The woman straightened Marie’s collar with brisk efficiency. “Seven forty-five,” she repeated, then leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of Marie’s ear. “And Marie? Don’t eat lunch.” Her teeth grazed the sensitive skin just below Marie’s earlobe. “You’ll want to be hungry.”
When Marie blinked, the corridor stood empty save for the fading scent of vetiver and the ribbon coiled tight in her sweating palm.
Downstairs, Mrs. Dvorak took one look at Marie’s flushed face and muttered, “Jesus wept,” before stubbing out her cigarette in a linen-folded ashtray.
Marie’s shift ended at seven. By seven-ten, she stood in the employee washroom, staring at her reflection as she tied the ribbon through her hair—hands shaking so badly she had to restart twice. The velvet slid against her fingertips like a promise, like a threat. She’d obeyed the unspoken command: no underwear beneath her modest blue dress, the fabric whispering against sensitized skin with every step.
The service entrance was deserted when she slipped out at seven forty-three, the summer air thick with the scent of diesel and jasmine. A black sedan idled at the curb, its windows tinted opaque. The rear door clicked open as she approached.
Inside, the woman from the corridor waited, legs crossed at the ankle, a slim silver case balanced on her knee. “You kept him waiting,” she said, though Marie was early. Her gloved hand patted the seat beside her. “Come. Let me see you.”
Marie hesitated—then the car’s lock engaged with a decisive thunk. The woman’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.
Up close, she was older than Marie had guessed—mid-forties, perhaps—with the sort of beauty that came from ruthless maintenance. Her fingers, when they grasped Marie’s chin, were cool and precise. “He was right,” she mused, turning Marie’s face toward the passing streetlights. “You do have that… unfinished quality.” Her thumb brushed Marie’s lower lip. “Like a sketch waiting to be inked.”
Marie’s breath hitched as the woman’s other hand slid up her bare thigh, pushing the dress fabric higher. “Tell me,” the woman murmured, “did he fuck you here?” Her fingers grazed Marie’s inner thigh, avoiding the heat between. “Or here?” Nails scraped the crease of her hip.
The car turned sharply, throwing Marie against the woman’s shoulder. Perfume flooded her nostrils—vetiver and something darker underneath.
“He’ll want you like this,” the woman continued, hooking a finger beneath Marie’s chin to tilt her head back. “Eyes wet. Mouth open.” Her other hand finally—finally—cupped Marie through the dress, the pressure just shy of painful. “And most of all,” she breathed, her lips brushing Marie’s temple, “desperate.”
The car slowed. Rue de Varenne’s wrought-iron gates loomed outside the window.
The woman withdrew her hands, smoothing Marie’s dress with clinical detachment. “Remember,” she said as the driver opened their door, “he doesn’t like begging.” Her smile was a blade. “Not at first.”
The townhouse swallowed them whole—dark wood and burgundy velvet, the air thick with beeswax and something faintly medicinal. Marie’s bare feet sank into Persian carpets as the woman led her up a spiral staircase, each step tightening the knot in her stomach.
The bedroom door stood ajar. Candlelight flickered beyond.
“On your knees,” the woman whispered, pushing Marie forward. “Hands behind your back.”
The carpet burned her kneecaps. Across the room, he stood by the fireplace, swirling amber liquid in a crystal glass. His suit was different—charcoal instead of navy—but the scar peeking above his collar was the same. He didn’t turn. Didn’t speak.
The woman’s heels clicked against hardwood as she circled Marie. “She’s prettier when she’s frightened,” she mused, trailing gloved fingers down Marie’s spine. The touch burned through the thin fabric.
Finally, he turned. His gaze moved slowly from Marie’s ribbon-tied hair to her trembling lips. “Undress her.” The command wasn’t for Marie.
The woman’s nails caught on Marie’s zipper. Fabric pooled around her knees, leaving her bare except for the ribbon. Cool air prickled her skin.
He approached, boots silent on the rug. His knuckle tilted Marie’s chin up. “Still shaking,” he noted, almost approvingly. His thumb brushed her lower lip. “Good.”
The woman’s hands settled on Marie’s shoulders. “Shall I—”
“No.” His grip tightened on Marie’s jaw. “Watch.”
Marie barely registered the woman retreating to an armchair before his fist twisted in her hair. The pain was sudden, bright—her scalp screamed as he forced her head back. His other hand slid between her thighs.
“Christ,” he growled, finding her wet. “You knew.” His fingers pressed deeper, cruel in their precision. “Knew I’d have you like this.”
Marie whimpered. The woman’s perfume spiked the air as she leaned forward in her chair, gloved hands folded primly in her lap. Her gaze never left Marie’s face.
“Look at her,” he ordered, dragging Marie’s attention to the woman. “She’ll remember every sound you make.” His fingers curled inside her, relentless. “Every tear.”
The woman crossed her legs slowly. Silk whispered.
Marie’s vision blurred.
“Now,” he murmured against her ear, his free hand tightening in her hair, “let’s see how quietly you can scream.”
The hand in her hair yanked her head right back, so that she was unstable - would have toppled over backards if he had not kept hold of her. She despertely wated to lasp her hands across her chest, to protect herself, but dared not. The feeling of her hands, dangling, useless, when she was being treated so badly, was to stay with her, burn into her self-image.
His other hand was at her neck, then, ripping the bodice of her dress with a powerful, controlled jerk, so that her breasts spilled free.
She could not control a weak and frightened moan; her head was pulled to his groin - she could feel his stiffness, the heat of him as his free hand now unbuckled, then freed his belt.
“Madame, he said, looking across to the seated woman; Your choice - the leather end, or the buckle end, for her soft breasts?”
“Oh, the buckle, I think,” came the soft, self-satisfied answer, as if the woman were choosing a naughtily sweet desert, rather than condemning Marie to terror and pain.
The belt slid free of its loops with sinister fluidity. Marie squeezed her eyes shut—until his fingers dug into her scalp. “Eyes open,” he commanded.
The buckle gleamed gold in candlelight as he folded the leather, testing the weight. Madame leaned forward, her lips parting slightly when he drew the strap across Marie’s exposed breasts in a slow, taunting drag. The metal kissed one nipple—icy contrast to Marie’s flushed skin—before lifting away.
The first strike cracked like a gunshot. Pain bloomed in a white-hot stripe. Marie’s cry shattered the stillness, her body jerking against his grip. Madame’s exhale was audible, her gloved fingers tightening on the armrest.
“Count,” he demanded, already raising the belt again.
“O-one,” Marie gasped, just before the second lash landed lower. The buckle bit deeper this time, tearing a sob from her throat. “Two!”
Madame uncrossed her legs, her pumps tapping the floor in restless rhythm. “Lovely,” she murmured, watching a bead of blood well where the metal had nicked Marie’s areola.
He rewarded Marie’s compliance with a third strike—diagonal now, crossing the first two. Her shriek dissolved into hiccuping breaths. “Th-three…”
The belt clattered to the floor. His palm replaced it, rough and sudden, cupping her abused flesh. Marie whimpered at the friction, her traitorous body arching into the touch despite the sting.
Madame stood abruptly, her skirt whispering as she approached. “May I?” Her hand hovered near Marie’s mouth.
His grip on Marie’s hair shifted to force her face upward. “Open.”
Marie obeyed, trembling as Madame’s gloved fingers pressed past her lips. The leather tasted of bitter dye and faintly of some other woman’s perfume. Marie’s tongue moved involuntarily against the intrusion, earning a pleased hum from Madame.
“She learns quickly,” Madame observed, twisting her fingers to smear saliva across Marie’s chin.
He released Marie’s hair only to grip her throat. “On the bed,” he ordered. “Hands and knees.”
Marie crawled unsteadily, the rug scratching her kneecaps. Behind her, she heard the rustle of clothing, Madame’s low laugh, the clink of his belt buckle hitting hardwood again—but not, she knew, for punishment this time.
The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he positioned himself behind her. One broad hand spanned her lower back, pressing down until her spine curved. “Breathe,” he instructed, just before thrusting into her with a single devastating stroke.
Madame’s gloves closed over Marie’s splayed fingers, pinning them to the sheets. “Now,” she purred against Marie’s ear, “let’s see if you can count his thrusts too.”
When Marie, almost having forgetten her name, entirerly consumed by intensity, hoarsely managed the word “ten”,, Madme’s gloved hand slid under Marie’s belly, and her clitoris was firmly grasped between leather clad finger and thumb.
“The smaller entrance, next, I think” The woman’s voice was light, amused; the contrast between her mood and Marie’s almost funny to Marie, who was on the verge of hysteria, desperately controlling herself - though she could not discover for why.
Marie found herself turned over with a rough push, so she was on her back. The older woman had undone the two buttons at the neck of her dress, and was sliding the fabric down her chest. They were studying her breasts, still marked from the belt. Marie felt exposed, stupid, weak - but could not stop herself moaning softly when the woman pinched her nipple, hard, twisting it.
“Pass me the balm,” the woman murmured, removing her gloves, and Marie realized with shame that she was being told to fetch it herself. No matter the intimacy of the encounter, there was no confusion as to her position as a servant, a menial, a lesser being.
Shame burned through her as she climbed from the bed, her legs shaking, and retrieved the small glass jar from the dresser. The cool tile of the floor shocked her bare feet, a sharp contrast to the heat between her thighs.
Kneeling again, she offered the jar with trembling hands. The woman’s laugh was a silken threat as she unscrewed the lid, the scent of menthol and lavender sharp in the air. “Such pretty bruises,” she mused, dipping two fingers into the ointment. The balm burned where she smeared it across Marie’s welted skin, a cruel mockery of tenderness.
Marie bit her lip hard enough to taste copper when those same fingers trailed lower, skirting her navel before slipping between her legs. The balm’s heat mingled with her own wetness, amplifying every touch to unbearable intensity. The woman’s breath hitched—whether from approval or amusement, Marie couldn’t tell.
Now, the woman’s hand moved on, to the cleft between Marie’s buttocks; the balm both eased the entry of the woman’s finger into her tightness there, but brought the heat and tingling of the menthol, too, and Marie gasped, appalled, hearing, too, the pathetic weakness, the absence of any resistance, in her own voice.
Behind her, the man’s shadow loomed as he leaned down, his teeth grazing Marie’s shoulder. “Now,” he murmured against her damp skin, “let’s see if she can count higher than ten.”
The woman withdrew her fingers with a wet sound, wiping them deliberately across Marie’s parted lips. “Start over, darling,” she whispered. “One.”
Marie’s gasp as he slowly, but relentlessly drove his cock into what seemed an impossible entrance quickly fractured into a broken, appalled moan. Somewhere beyond the pounding in her ears, she heard the rustle of silk as Madame settled back to watch, her satisfied sigh the last coherent sound before Marie was lost; lost to anything but sensation and emotion - so many of them, contradictory, urgent, searing, all at once.
Madame’s finger and thumb pushed into her nostrils, gripped, vice-like, and viciously twisted;
“I asked you to count, pretty thing. I do not like to be ignored.”
Marie’s breath came in ragged bursts, her vision swimming—Madame’s cruel grip on her nose forcing tears to spill hot down her cheeks. The pain was sharp, bright, anchoring her even as his cock stretched her impossibly wider. She gagged on a sob.
“F-f-four,” she choked out, the number fragmenting as he thrust deep.
Madame released her nose with a contemptuous flick, wiping her fingers on Marie’s thigh. “Such a small number,” she mused, settling back in her chair with the predatory grace of a cat. “And so much left to endure.”
His hands locked around Marie’s hips, fingers digging into fresh bruises as he set a punishing rhythm. Every snap of his pelvis sent shockwaves through her—pain and pleasure blurring until she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. The balm’s menthol burned like hellfire inside her, amplifying each sensation to unbearable clarity.
“Five,” Marie gasped, her voice breaking as his thumb found her clit, rubbing rough circles. She writhed, her back arching off the bed, but there was no escape—only the relentless press of his body, the creak of the bed frame, Madame’s low hum of approval.
The woman stood abruptly, her shadow falling across Marie’s heaving chest. “Look at her,” she murmured, trailing a fingernail down Marie’s sternum. “So desperate to be good.” She leaned down, her breath warm against Marie’s ear. “Shall we see how she begs when she’s not allowed to come?”
Marie’s stomach dropped—just as he withdrew completely, leaving her clenching around nothing. A whimper tore from her throat, her hips lifting shamelessly, seeking friction that didn’t come.
Madame’s laugh was velvet. “There it is.” She straightened, smoothing her skirt. “On your knees again, darling. You have a lesson to finish.”
Marie blinked up at her, dazed, but his grip on her hair hauled her upright. The room spun—then she was kneeling at the foot of the bed, her forehead pressed to the mattress, Madame’s gloved hand guiding her mouth to his cock.
“Count properly this time,” he growled, thrusting between her lips.
Salt flooded her tongue. Above her, Madame’s fingers tangled in her ribbon, pulling just shy of pain. “Such a quick study,” she purred.
Marie’s jaw ached around him, her throat working to accommodate each thrust. Tears blurred her vision—she blinked them free, watching them splash onto his boots. The leather gleamed under her humiliation.
His fingers tightened in her hair. “Six,” he reminded her, voice rough.
She tried—but the vibration of her attempt drew a groan from him instead. Madame’s knee pressed between Marie’s shoulder blades, keeping her folded forward. “I think she needs incentive,” she mused. The whisper of fabric—then cold metal pressed against Marie’s spine. The belt buckle.
Marie tensed instantly, her moan muffled around him.
“Ah,” Madame sighed. “She understands.” The buckle trailed lower, skating over Marie’s welted thighs. “Count properly, darling, or this goes inside you next.”
Marie’s whimper was answer enough. She forced her throat open, sucking in air before rasping: “S-seven.”
The belt disappeared. His hips stuttered. Madame’s approving hum vibrated through Marie’s skull as she swallowed around him, her nose brushing crisp curls. The room smelled of sex and Madame’s perfume, layered over the menthol sting still burning between her legs.
When he came, it was with a sharp tug on her ribbon—her name half-curse, half-prayer. Marie swallowed convulsively, her throat working until he withdrew with a slick pop.
Madame caught her chin, turning her face upward. “Open,” she commanded. Marie obeyed—and the older woman spat neatly into her mouth. “For your effort,” she explained, thumbing Marie’s swollen bottom lip.
Behind them, the bed creaked. “Up,” he ordered. Marie staggered to her feet, her knees protesting. He caught her wrist, pressing something into her palm—the crumpled ribbon, soaked through. “Tomorrow,” he said simply. “Earlier.”
Madame was already at the door, straightening her gloves. “The car will wait five minutes,” she informed Marie. “No longer.” Her gaze flicked to the ribbon. “Wear that again,” - holding out a small, brown paper-wrapped bundle - “and this.”
The door clicked shut. Alone, Marie’s legs gave out. She folded onto the rug, the ribbon clutched tight. Somewhere beyond the windows, Paris glittered—indifferent to the girl trembling on a stranger’s floor, her mouth still full of the taste of them both.
Clutching her ripped bodice to her, she limped from the house to the waiting sedan.
In the tiny bathroom along the corridor from the room she shared with two other girls, Marie looked at her breasts, wonderingly. The imprint of the heavy metal buckle was there, repeated, a dark spot of blood where the prong had actually punctured her skin.
“How am I not reporting this to the police! I’ve been beaten, violated, abused, raped..” Marie whispered to herself, staring at her reflection in the cracked mirror, her fingers hovering over the belt marks.
The throbbing pain pulsed in time with her racing heartbeat, yet her nipples hardened traitorously against the rough fabric of her makeshift bandage. She pressed her thighs together at the wetness she couldn’t deny.
The paper-wrapped parcel Madame had given her sat unopened on the sink ledge. Marie reached for it with shaking hands, the brown paper tearing easily to reveal black silk—a skimpy, lace-trimmed slip-dress, terribly short, no underwear but a garter belt, the stockings sheer as spiderwebs. Nestled in the folds lay a velvet choker with a small golden padlock dangling from its center.
Her breath hitched.
Footsteps in the hallway sent her scrambling to hide the items beneath her towel. One of her flatmates rattled the doorknob. “Hurry up in there!”
Marie splashed cold water on her face. When she emerged, clutching the concealed contraband against her chest, the corridor was empty save for Mrs. Dvorak leaning against the payphone, cigarette dangling.
The old woman exhaled smoke through her nostrils. “Townhouse on Varenne, hm?” She flicked ash onto the linoleum. “Rich bastards play rough.”
Marie froze.
Mrs. Dvorak’s grin showed yellowed teeth as she pushed away from the wall. “Don’t look so shocked, girl. That ribbon in your hair? Same shade as the Comtesse de Varenne’s famous boudoir drapes.” She tapped her temple. “Us laundresses notice fabrics. He’s her lover.”
Marie’s knees weakened.
“Word of advice?” Mrs. Dvorak ground her cigarette underfoot. “Eat something before you go back. They’ll want you conscious for the worst of it.” She walked away humming, leaving Marie clutching the stolen finery, her pulse hammering where the choker would soon clasp.
The next evening, the back seat of the sedan was not occupied by Madam, or M.__, but by a stranger - young, boyish of face, muscular, well dressed, grinning cheerfully;
Frightened, confused, Marie hesitated, unsure whether to enter;
“They told me you were pretty; Wonder why no-one mentioned those lovely tits, though?”
In you get, girly. I need your throat, Urgently!"
He was smiling at her, as if he’d just made a good joke.
This is all just entertainment to them! I’m nothing, not even a name to this one, just tits and an available throat.
Her mind was in overdrive as she stood, her arm twitching, as a part of her is desperate to slam the door in his face, turn and go back to her mean but safe little life, rather than expose her weakness, her neediness, her disturbing desires to any more of this madness.
If the young man had made any sort of move, exhibited any trace of impatience, and hint of disappointment, perhaps .. oh perhaps, she could have saved herself.
But instead, he he had tilted his head a little, smiled conspiratorially at her, and shrugged;
“Of course, pretty, there are always others. But there are no second chances - not for this lot. Never fear - I won’t tell about your little wobble - if you give me your throat prettily enough, of course…”
His grin remained, lazy and knowing, as he lounged back against the leather seats. The scent of his cologne—something citrus and expensive—clashed with the lingering vetiver from yesterday’s visits. Marie’s fingers tightened on the doorframe.
Then his hand dipped to his trousers, undoing the fly with practiced ease. The glimpse of bare skin above his waistband sent a jolt through her—fear, revulsion, and something darker coiling low in her belly. He patted his thigh, never breaking eye contact. “Clock’s ticking, girly.”
Her knees hit the car floor before she’d consciously decided to move. The sedan’s interior smelled of cigars and the faintest trace of Madame’s perfume clinging to the upholstery. When she leaned forward, his fingers tangled in her ribbon immediately, yanking her head back sharply.
“Ah-ah. Slow.” His thumb pressed against her bottom lip, dragging it down. “First, show me that tongue.”
She obeyed, the humiliation scalding her cheeks as his approving hum vibrated through her. The first brush of his cock against her lips sent electricity skittering down her spine.
Outside, a streetlamp flickered to life, casting golden streaks across his smirk. “Good girl.” His grip tightened. “Now—”
The car door slammed shut behind her.
When he’d finished, he kept her on her knees, his softening cock in her mouth, talked gently to her, in an abstracted way, as the soft tears gently welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks into his groin, spoke to her as if to an injured animal;
“I know, girly; I know it’s hard for you; and of course I love that it’s hard for you; love that you are in despair and fear now, even as you suckle me so nicely. but it’s your fate; has been since M.__ and Madame saw just how it is with you.”
“You just have to find the sweetness in it, in your defeat, in your degradation; it’s in you, I’m certain - the ability to fall in love with the process of being degraded. You all have it - you chosen ones. You can be proud, too, in a weird way; while your sort is not exactly rare - commoner than one might imagine - you are, still, somewhat special. Maybe it will help you, in the dark moments, to know that.”
“In any case, we’re here. Wipe your lips with this, dry your eyes.”
Looking at her, offering his immaculate silk handkershief, his expression was gentle, personal, engaged, and a fresh wash of tears came. He was patient with her, but still, she knew there would be limits, and hastened to do what she could to make herself presentable.
The way her breasts moved in the thin silk, the open lace almost rough against her nipples, the extreme tightness of the garter belt - and the choker, too - every breath a noticeable act, the lace of the hem high on her buttock reminding her of the heart-stopping shortness of the slip, all made her tremble as he helped her from the car - just like a gentleman with a lady, looking her in the face, smiling with pleasure, entertaining himself, enjoying her surprise as, instead of the austere door of the Hôtel Varenne, there was rather a brightly lit enrance under a discrete golden sign, and two uniformed flunkeys to welcome them.
The night air was cold on her skin, and she shivered, feeling her nipples pucker, and he laughed at her;
“Oh my word they are going to eat you alive, little one. Absolutely devour you whole.”
In the small but sumptuous foyer, another set of attendants waited, with a black leather thong, which the young man, still enjoying himself enormously, tied around her wrists after placing them, crossed, at the small of her back - she docile and helpful; tied them painfully tight, so that she winced and softly gasped;
“Yes, the circulation is reduced; in many ways it would be better if you had no hands, you see.”
Then a black silk mask for her eyes;
“Goodbye, pretty. You will be someone else when I see you again; changed forever.”
And with that he left her, back out to the car it seemed. She felt herself bereft. He had been cruel to her, yes, raped her throat, yes, frightened her badly, yes, but also ..
Why am I such a sucker for this kindness / cruelty cocktail?
But it didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered, of course - nothing that I think or want matters now - as a leash was attached to the padlock on the choker, and she was led, gently enough, the finger softly applied to her lips, warning her to be silent, unnecessary - Marie could not have spoken had she wanted to.
She was not paralysed, not numb; she walked as elegantly as she could, emulating the models, her feet holding to the same imaginary line, her hips switching, her breasts swaying; she remained preternaturally aware of every sensation, of the hushed acoustics, the light but destabilising trip-hammering of her heart, the slick rustle of her silk, the thickness in her throat, the churning anticipation in her belly, so disturbing, the soft metallic noises that told her the leash was chain - no, it was not at all that she was absent - but rather, that she had been stilled; tamed; something about the young man’s speech had found its way inside her, perhaps.
In any case, it didn’t matter, save for her poor mind, since a door had opened, the acoustic changed; she was chained, wrists bound, as naked as it was possible to be while still in a dress, and now in a room with more than a few people, though she could not tell how many, greeted by a small, polite round of applause and soft murmurs of approvsl.,
There was a pause, then Marie felt gloved hands - Madame’s, she was certain - at her throat, unclasping the choker. The padlock jingled as it was removed. Then—cold metal encircled her neck, something heavier clicking into place. The sudden weight made her gasp.
A man’s voice—not M___‘s—spoke from her left: “Ah, perfect. The collar suits her.”
The leash reattached with a definitive snap. Marie swayed slightly as it was given a testing tug.
Madame’s perfume enveloped her suddenly. “Helplessly slick” she murmured, fingers brushing Marie’s inner thighs—a clinical assessment. “Good. We’ll use that shortly.”
Then—unexpected warmth as someone pressed close behind her. Lips grazed her ear: “Count the strikes.”
Before she could react, the first lash landed across her shoulders. The pain was a white-hot brand. Marie’s knees buckled, but strong hands kept her upright.
“One,” she gasped, her voice foreign to her own ears.
The second strike crossed the first.
“Two.”
By six, her back was aflame. By nine, her vision swam with tears. At twelve, she hung limp between her handlers, her breath sobbing.
Silence.
Then hands turned her roughly. A familiar thumb wiped her tears—M___. His kiss tasted of blood and cognac. “Now,” he murmured against her mouth, “let’s see how well you kneel when you can’t feel your hands.”
The crowd’s hungry murmur followed as she was led toward something soft—a chaise? A bed? The leash went taut, guiding her down.
“Open,” Madame commanded.
Marie obeyed—and choked as fingers pushed past her lips. Not Madame’s. Someone else’s. Male.
“Sweet,” the stranger mused, thrusting deeper. “But we’ll ruin that soon enough.”
Across the room, crystal clinked. Someone laughed.
Madame’s gloves smoothed Marie’s hair. “Shhh,” she soothed—even as the man’s fingers fucked her mouth with increasing violence. “You’re exactly where you belong.”
Marie fought, inside herself, not to believe her, not to have lost all hope of decency, of the cartoon picture of a successful life, but if she did not concede full defeat, inside herself, she was euqally unsure of the possibility, even, of saving herself.
She realised that she was slowly nodding, but not daring to speak, and Madame smiled at her, tightly, nodding herself, slowly, in response, as if she understood, and had expected this.
Marie tasted salt, and realised she was crying again.
She wondered if she had ever stopped.
Madame smiled again, tight-lipped, and stepped back, snapping her fingers, and Marie was bundled forwards, naked, her hands still bound behind her, the leash pulling tight, her bare feet padding against the thick carpet.
The room smelled of beeswax and musk, and something else—something metallic and sharp. The scent of anticipation, of sweat, of something darker.
Marie was pushed to her knees before a low, padded bench. The leash was looped over a hook above her, forcing her to arch her back, her breasts thrust forward, her neck exposed.
Hands—gloved, cold—traced the welts on her back. Madame’s voice, low and amused: “Such pretty marks. You take pain well, don’t you?”
Marie swallowed. Her throat was raw.
Madame’s fingers tightened in her hair. “Answer.”
“Yes,” Marie whispered.
“Good girl.” The praise burned worse than the lash. “Now, let’s see how well you take pleasure.”
The first touch was a shock—cool, slick fingers between her thighs, probing, testing. Marie gasped, her hips jerking involuntarily. Madame chuckled. “Oh, you’re sensitive.”
The fingers withdrew. Marie whimpered—then froze, horrified at the sound she’d made.
Madame’s gloves snapped off. “Watch,” she ordered someone behind Marie. “This is how you ruin a girl properly.”
The next touch was hotter, rougher. Marie’s breath hitched as Madame’s fingers worked her open, her thumb circling ruthlessly. Pleasure coiled tight in her belly, sharp as a blade.
The fingers did not stop at carsses, though; increasingly, they worked themselvs into her dpeth; first, one, then two, then three; deeper, the knuckles bone inside her. Abandoned for a moment, Marie cannot contain a moan of need, which brings a ripple of laughter, some sneering, some smug, some happy - and a round of demeaning comments.
Marie’s head fell back. The leash bit into her throat. Above her, Madame’s smile was a knife. “Come for us,” she murmured. “Let them see how pretty you are when you break.”
Then the hand is back, slickened now with the loved/hated balm, the sting and tingle of menthol, four fingers, bunched, in her more deeply than ever, bringing a devastated moaning cry as Marie realises what is to be done to her, dreading and wanting it at the same time, appalled and transfixed by the knowledge that strangers are seeing her like this, seeing how complicit she is, shuffling her knees wider apart at the slightest tap of Madame’;s fingers at her inner thigh, flexing her hips, enabling her own destruction as the hand, Madame’s lovely, elegant, hand - is thrust fully inside her tight sex, so recently virgin, and her moans become throaty, hoarse, - Marie can feel the need, the submission, the invitation in her own noises, and is ready to die of shame even as her hips thrust backward, wanting .. wanting ..
And then Madame’s other hand is at her clitoris and she screams and squeals her climax, helplessly , sobbing and crying out, her body bowing against the leash, her vision whiting out. The applause was deafening, destroying her, blinded, her hands desperate to be free, writhing uselessly in the tie, which only bit deeper into her flesh..
“Ahhhh, yes,” Madame laughs, withdrawing her hand, slick with Marie’s spendings, and presents it to the audience, dripping fingers raised, slowly rotating her wrist to show the glistening evidence. “She comes like a common whore,” Madame announces to the murmurs of amusement and approval, “but she trembles like a virgin.”
Marie shudders, still twitching with aftershocks, her face burning with humiliation. The leash slackens slightly as she sags forward, forehead pressing into the carpet—only for cold fingers to grip her chin and yank her upright again. M___ looms over her now, his tie loosened, his gaze ravenous. “Look at her,” he murmurs to the room, thumb pressing into Marie’s swollen lower lip. “Still so desperate to be good.” His fingers twist in her hair. “Aren’t you, little one?”
Marie whimpers—not in denial, not in protest.
Madame leans in, her lips brushing Marie’s ear. “Shall we test that theory?”
Hands seize Marie’s shoulders, forcing her onto her back on the bench. The leash is hooked somewhere above her, stretching her throat taut. Someone spreads her legs wide—too wide—the strain burning her inner thighs.
M___ unbuttons his cuffs, rolling his sleeves methodically. “Count,” he reminds her, as something cold and metallic presses against her inner thigh.
Marie barely has time to register the scent of oil before the first stroke lands—a riding crop, sharp and stinging. “One,” she gasps, her voice breaking.
The second strikes the same spot, harder. “T-two!”
By six, she’s writhing, her thighs slick with sweat and something else. By nine, her vision blurs with tears. At twelve, she’s begging incoherently, her body arching away from the pain only to be dragged back by the leash.
At eighteen, she can barely contain her hysteria, utterly devastated.
The crop lifts. Silence.
Then—hands spreading her wider. A warm mouth replaces the crop, tongue laving the throbbing welts. Marie sobs, her hips jerking into the touch.
Madame’s laugh is dark with triumph. “Oh, she’s perfect.”
M___’s teeth graze Marie’s inner thigh. “Isn’t she just?”
Marie knows then—she’ll never leave this room the same. The realization sends a fresh wave of heat between her legs.
Madame notices. Her smile is cruel. “Again, before we let everyone have you?”
Marie nods—shame and need twisting together in her gut.
The crop rises.
“One,” she whispers, already trembling.
