This story will make much more sense if you have read the previous episode.
The days, weeks after that were awful.
It was as if, all her life, she’d been living on a platform, floating above reality, but that evening, that terrible evening, she had triggered a trapdoor, and fallen through into reality, which was deeper, darker, more frightening and difficult that she could possible have imagined in her former life.
That there was no way back.
Wren felt as if she were being simultaneously crushed and pulled apart. Crushed by her marriage to a Jack she now looked at as if he were some creepy stranger, but had to smile at and do the laundry for, let him see her naked, let him cuddle her and try to say cute things to her. Crushed by the crazy idea that she might end up letting this creep and some of his horrible workmates treat her like a whore, rape her, hurt her.
Crushed by the idea that Trent, too— whom she had thought, for an hour or two at least, that she loved— wanted to treat her like that.
Torn apart by her own confused desires, part of her desperate, truly desperate, to have things back as they had been, before that terrible evening, before she’d been so stupid as to pick a fight with Jack, and torn their comfortable, safe existence apart. But then, at other times, she’d almost run from the house, unable to bear the fake-ness, the falseness, the presence of the creep Jack; determined to go to Trent, throw herself at him, tell him anything, anything, to have him take her.
Not because she loved him— she had no idea if she did or not, couldn’t even think about whether she really loved him. That way, it seemed very clear, lay madness; every time she even let herself even begin to think about loving Trent, she felt it building inside her, then, wilder and stranger even than everything else. So she stopped doing that.
It was much dumber, much more desperate than that, when she thought of running to him— it was just that he was tough. Tough enough to do anything, if he decided to; he could just tell her how it would be and he would make it so and it would be alright, even … even if he … even if he did treat her like a sex slave (her mind would go wild, then how can I even think such things?).
Other times, she would find herself carefully planning the rules for the insane idea that she would let herself be gang-fucked by Jack’s workmates; obsessively thinking through how she would organise things so that it happened, but she stayed safe (what kind of ‘safe’ is that, then, you stupid, stupid cow!).
There were other awful hours, when she’d dream up some inane, impossible, self-destructive escape from all of it, insisting to herself that it could work, knowing it couldn’t, until she’d have some sort of frenzied hysterical screaming fit, get a terrible headache and go to bed for a day.
It was destroying her, she felt it. She’d always been the competent one, the sensible one, the planner, making sure everything worked. Now, things kept going wrong; she bought the wrong food, forgot to pay the bills, pissed off the cleaner, who ‘sacked’ them, so that she needed to do yet more around the house, just when she was least able to, and things felt as if they were falling apart.
It was the same with herself; she would stand at the mirror, in the bathroom in the morning, looking at her body, her face, away with the fairies, trying to imagine herself being hit and hurt— sometimes by Trent, sometimes by anonymous men in office suits and ties, imagine herself crying, frightened, imagine them touching her, fucking her, their cocks in her mouth— trying to jolt herself out of something, make herself angry, get some energy— something! It never did— she just ended up crumpling.
Other times, she would remember Trent telling her how many men would like to fuck her and getting all trembly and fearful— or, just as often, refusing to believe it, savage about her body— tits too small, pussy not obvious enough, was her ass too flabby, legs too skinny— a million things wrong with her.
She could see it objectively, calmly, sometimes. First Jack, and then Trent, had proved Jack’s point. By telling her, in their different ways, that she was a vulnerable woman, who could be subjected to male violence and sexual abuse— that she was too weak to prevent it, that it would cow her, that she would become weaker— they had made it true.
She rebelled against the thought; it shouldn’t be so, it mustn’t be so— but she knew that it was happening to her— the evidence was everywhere; she was much, much weaker than she had been. She felt sexually vulnerable now, in a way that she never had; it was impossible to ignore.
On the train to college, a man had been staring at her, and she’d felt it; felt the ease with which he could put his hand up her skirt in the crowd, grab her tits, say awful things into her ear; knew that she would not be able to fight back, not as she felt these days. A bag of nerves.
She had either to escape, or somehow learn to live with herself as weak, sexually vulnerable, pathetic.
She was tearing herself apart, she knew, feeling herself get weaker. She fought against it, worked at it, but nothing did work; she would end up on her own, slumped in a corner, trembling, furious with herself for letting it get to her, knowing that her own fury was making it worse, unable to stop herself, in a doom-loop.
And Trent never came. Jack wasn’t going to arrange an evening with him, it seemed— he’d said some mean things about Trent, so maybe they’d fallen out over her— she had no idea.
He hadn’t come to save her, though.
Perhaps — just perhaps— she would have saved herself— worked herself through it— but she never had the chance to find out; the world moved, and she was carried along with it.
Jack announced that his boss’ boss was having a party— barbecue in the afternoon for the whole team, a smaller group staying on for dinner.
“Wren, you have to be there. We’re invited to the dinner, too. It’s taken as a really bad sign if the wives and girlfriends aren’t on side— you know how they think.”
Jack had been trying really hard for weeks, being apparently supportive, doing more than his share of the cleaning, even, trying not to say stupid things. It just made him more creepy to Wren; nothing he did seemed to be able to shake that for her; deep down, she knew it was over with Jack— it was just that she had no idea what else to do— all the options seemed awful, crazy, impossible…
“Jonny … Jonny specially asked if you were going to be there.”
Jonny Trevithick was the boss’ boss, and he was almost famous. Former successful club rugby player, named as an up-and-coming star in the city pages occasionally, even though he was only 37; already a multi-multi millionaire, Jack said. Big villa in Marbella, several supercars, skiing at Klosters, ex-model wife, weekends at the Cannes Film Festival for his team, that sort of madness.
Looking at Jack’s face, she suddenly knew. Trent was proved right; Jack had blabbed, and Jonny wanted her for … for that.
She wanted to scream at Jack, but she was too exhausted. It came to her that she should just do it, then. Like Trent said. Let it decide for her, letting them do this awful thing; see what she would become, after that. At least Jonny is seriously rich, and actually quite a charmer, too, when I met him. Not a fool like Jack; he really is a finance type, ruthless about it, but very straightforward. Not a weirdo sex maniac like Trent. Just a regular swine.
Nothing made sense anyway.
“OK Jack. I’ll be there. I’ll make an effort, don’t worry.”
No point even talking to Jack about it. He wasn’t in charge— she could tell from the weak, sick smile that her agreement brought to his lips. He was lost as well.
Serve him right, the twerp.
She made an effort, too; much more seriously than she had intended. Something had gripped her, in the ten days before the party, and she had become almost obsessed. Did fashion research, made a pinterest page with dresses, lingerie, shoes, told Jack she needed his credit card, booked herself two spa days, then arranged for a make-over on the morning of the event.
She’d sort of given up on college, it seemed. She hadn’t even made a decision, just stopped going, mostly. The loss was there, somewhere, she supposed, but honestly, she didn’t care enough to care. She tried to make herself take it seriously;
If I’ve no qualification, I won’t be able to get a decent job. I’ll be weaker there, too— dependent on Jack for money forever.
It made no difference. What she kept coming back to, no matter what she told herself she should be thinking about, was who would be putting their hands on her, who would be fucking her, under what circumstances.
Jack, missionary position, twice a week. Jonny and other suited jackasses, at parties. Trent, in his grotty shed, ramming me with that big cock, hurting me, giving me to strangers.
Then;
Christ, it had better be someone, soon.
She hadn’t let Jack touch her for weeks. Hadn’t been touched by a man, really, since Trent’s visit.
She hadn’t thought she had much of a sex-drive— been almost relieved about it, since it made the prospect of being with Jack for life more reasonable— but since that terrible evening; even more so since Trent had held her, since she had felt his cock harden against her inner thigh— since then, she had been thinking about sex, one way or another, all the time, it seemed. And almost none of the ways were about nice sex, loving sex, normal sex.
And that had changed her too; she wanted it. Wanted to know, at least, whether things which sounded awful, things which frightened her, wanted to know …
She tried to shut her thoughts down again.
She called Trent, too, after agonising about it for days, half dialling, cancelling, again and again. She had cancelled this one, too, but not until it had started ringing. He’d have a missed call. That was all she could do.
He called back that evening, quite early; she was surprised. Trent didn’t do phone etiquette; he had his own rules. But he must have called as soon as he had left work.
“Wrenny,” was all he said; friendly enough, genuine, but that was all.
Silence. She couldn’t speak.
He left the silence until she was about to panic, then took control, effortlessly,
“Tell me about it, then, Wrenny,” and she felt gratitude flow immediately; this was Trent; he was strong. She just had to do what he told her and it would be OK.
Pathetic! So pathetic! she scolded herself, but it made no difference.
“Jack … Jack’s boss … Oh, it’s just what you said, I think, and now … now he’s having a team party and I have to go and Jonny— the boss— Jonny wants to talk to me and I know its … it will be about that weekend, abut them … them doing …”
“About them violently gang-raping you, Wrenny. That’s what it will be. Only with you knowing that’s what it will be in advance, so you won’t be able to complain.”
She was stilled. Of course, she knew that’s what it would be, of course she did. But Trent saying it made it real, and it hit her hard.
“Oh Trent I can’t… I just can’t face it, but I can’t not do it because … because I’m weak— and I’m worried Jack is right, that you’re right and that I’ll … That I will lose myself and … and I’ll be ruined and … "
And then it came to her;
“I need you, Trent. I need you to to do it to me; than I’ll be safe.”
And she knew it was right, then, knew it in her gut, in her groin, in her bones. Trent was going to own her and hurt her and fuck her and whore her and it would be alright. Better than alright.
“I’m yours. I’m yours already, Trent. please? Pleeeease?? Just. Just take me? Please? I can’t. I can’t do this. It … it’s too haaard!”
“Wrenny, stop talking now. Honestly, that’s the last time you should ever talk to me, unless you know I want you to speak. Understood?”
The words sank into her disordered mind like a slab of stone; heavy, unarguable, permanent.
He can’t mean that! It’s unacceptable! Wrong! All the obvious thoughts announced themselves. All to evaporate like mist in sunshine, while Trent’s words remained, carved into the stone. A rule to live by. A rule which would calm her, slow her down, simplify.
“I’m waiting.”
What? ? Oh— he asked me a question; it’s not silence, it’s only speaking when he wants me to.
I can’t! I can’t just … just accept that! It’s crazy! I can’t just let him give me rules!
And her voice just said it;
“Yes. Yes, I do understand.”
Somehow it was clear, implicit, unarguable, obvious, that responses had to be to the point, respectful, quiet.
Gods. I’ll never raise my voice to him. Never. Not if I accept this. How can he do this to me?
“And do you accept it? Will you obey? Tell me. Be very clear.”
Again; Crazy! He can’t … he can’t say things like that to me! I can’t ‘obey’ him! We got rid of that from our wedding vows, me and Jack. It’s mediaeval! Patriarchy! Wrong!
“Yes. Yes, of course I will. Obey.”
Her emotion on the word obey almost overwhelmed her. Oh, but it felt good to say that to him.
He has to look after me now. Keep me safe. Put his hands on me. Fuck me.
She was shaking. Literally shaking; had to hold on tight to the phone or it would have slipped through her fingers. She sank to her knees, then, because she felt her knees buckling anyway.
I’m on my knees to him, and he doesn’t even know it. It made her feel safe.
“Good. Now listen.”
“I took you that night I came round. You are mine, Wrenny, even if I haven’t taken possession yet, and now it will always be too hard for you, I promise you.”
“You are going to do this terrible thing; because I tell you to. You will let these city boys rape you and humble you and then I will own you. That is how it will go.”
“It will be very hard, to do this thing. Terrible, agonising, destructive, degrading, dehumanising. Your body will be hurt, but more importantly, your sense of self-worth will be violently degraded. You will have been damaged in your deepest self, reduced, diminished. You will know that you are weak, that you have been made into a slut, by men that are low-grade people themselves.”
“You will know from then on that you are vulnerable— will always be vulnerable— to casual, greedy sexual abuse. Helpless to resist it. More— that over time you will find yourself needy for it, eager for it, find yourself making an effort, making yourself obvious; inviting degrading abuse.”
“This will change you; change you deeply. Men— and some women, too— will exploit you, will degrade you further. This will be what your life is about; crudely, being fucked by abusers.”
“You won’t achieve anything. You won’t become anyone. Indeed the degree to which you are someone will be crushed, on purpose, so that you will increasingly doubt your own value as a human being, a person— as anything but a vehicle for the sexual entertainment of others. This will make being fucked the only validation you can find. You will become abjectly, desperately, helplessly eager to be fucked. This is what I am going to do to you Wrenny.”
“The funny thing is, that you will experience all this as very hard, of course; there will be endless bitter tears of self-pity in the small hours. But it will also be true that you feel released, absolved, freed from the trap you have been in your whole adult life, the trap which stopped you offering yourself to be fucked to any strong person who would take you. The tight clothes of conformity, of expectation, of received morality which prevented you experiencing what you were made for will have been forcibly removed, leaving you naked; a willing, eager whore, desperate to be fucked.”
“You will be grateful to me— even to Jack, certainly to this Jonny, for doing this to you, for freeing you from a life of greyness.”
“Grateful, as you were to me just now for giving you the freedom not to speak. Absolving you of any requirement to have a point of view, to have any views, to be interesting.”
Wren was shell-shocked, stunned, immobilised by this speech. At the same time, it was as if she already knew each word, off by heart, already had been down all the pathways of that reality.
Trent had just put into forceful, hard-as-nails words what her mind had been circling for weeks.
The reality of what she was about to do.
After a silence which lasted for an eternity, she broke the rule she had only just accepted, her voice thin, soft, weak, wondering, husky;
“I … I can’t. It’s too … I … I’m sorry, Trent, I … You are kind… kind to help me, but … I’m too weak…”
His voice, by contrast, was casually confident; firm, warm, friendly, certain;
“I know, pretty Wren. I know. Don’t you worry about that. You’re mine now. You have no rights, no freedoms, no choices— none that matter, anyway. I will be with you, all the way, so that you’ll do your pretty, weak best for me. You’ll do what I want you to, and it will be hard, but also, you’ll know that you must, and that will make it easy. Easy to say yes, at least, and then it will be too late, and you’ll find it lovely to be forced to do the things you can’t make yourself do. It sounds crazy, but you will find it welcome to have no choices.”
