Read the previous episodes of “Slave by Degrees”.
He stood over her for a few moments, breathing a little hard, his “Hghghmm” of gruff satisfaction another pleasure for her, in her weakness, as the shame and fear rises in her;
What have I done? What is he going to do with me? Gods but I liked it so much! Why? Why has nothing like this ever been in my life until now? Why has nothing ever felt like this? God I want it again; now, if he would do me. Spanking and everything. I’ll beg him for it if he wants me to. God I must look so awful, he’s probably disgusted with me… he’s every right to be … What … What a slut… God I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know anything, anymore. What have I done?
Oh! O-oh! What’s he doing with me now?
He had interrupted her racing thoughts, her terrible insecurity by bending and untying her, releasing her leg, her neck, her hands; blessed relief, but also, a strange new experience— an almost immediate wish that he had left her, tied, in pain; fearful as it had been to be so hogtied;
… now … now I have to decide what to do, for myself, and … and I can’t! I … I can’t just lie here, on the arm of the chair, sticky stuff dripping down my thigh, in this slutty position, but … but I don’t dare move, either, in case … in case he wants me like this…
Nothing; nothing at all in her life had prepared her for knowing how to be herself in such circumstances…
This is not me! Or it’s some new me, that I have no idea how to be…
Her weakness, her stress caused her to give a pathetic, sobbing half sigh, and she heard how intimately it revealed her emotional vulnerability, and experienced another new sensation, an intense simultaneity of happiness— real happiness that he must know what he has done to her, and how deliciously weak she is for him at this moment— and at the same time intense, fearful humiliation, desperate shyness, with exactly the same root cause.
It made her literally tremble— she felt herself shaking in the grip of opposing feelings, both so powerful, unable to control herself, hearing herself whimpering— her shivery breath catching every second or so so that a wavery, high pitched little wail sounded in her throat,
He’s cracked me, and he can see it, hear it; he knows that I’m lost in what he’s just done to me; completely overwhelmed by it. I can’t … I can’t move, but I need to … need to move, can’t … can’t bear to be exposed like this, face down, no idea if he’s looking at me or not.
It was unbearable, but equally, she could not move, only tremble and sigh, feeling an agony of vulnerability that her legs were splayed so far apart, that he was standing over her, her sex wide open, sticky with the aftermath of his coming inside her, her own juices, knowing that her labia must be puffy and red, that her trembling was moving her hips, would be attracting his eyes to her wide-spread sex and she was once again overwhelmed by the twin sensations— there was nothing to be done, in any case, but to give in to them, let them take her, lose herself, lose control of herself…
If he wanted me some other way, he’d tell me, so … so he must … must want me like this, and that’s … oh wonderful, and … and if it fills me with shame and fear than … then that will just have to be, because … because I want this feeling— that I am weak for him, that he knows I am weak for him. I want it forever, honestly. If I could stay here, and never have to think about anything else ever again but him having just fucked me the best ever in my life and that he can see what he’s done to me and know that he can do that to me anytime, that there is no way I can resist him, that I don’t even want to resist him, not ever, if he can give me more of that by doing what he likes with me, then that’s …
“oooOH!! aAAaaahhhh!”
He had, very gently, but very purposefully, put his fingers to her labia— and she could feel how puffy they were, how tender, how sticky, as if all the nerve endings were raw, and her whole body had heaved in response, her initial instinct to pull away countermanded, brutally countermanded by her mind, so that her desire to let him, have him feel welcome to touch her turned into a surge toward him and he chuckled, softly;
“Weak little girl.”
She knew she mustn’t let him talk to her that way, but it was no good even having such thoughts, because he didn’t stop there, but advanced to her clitoris, still engorged, still doing its small but determined version of an erection, and she wailed all over again, her diaphragm catching, so that the sound stuttered heavily;
“Agh…Agh… Aayyaaaggh… Ah… ah. Ohh … ochh … uHh!”
“Please … please … it … it’s too sensitive …”
“Nonsense; you’re too frightened, is what it really is; frightened of really feeling. Did you ever have a come-off like that before?”
She couldn’t answer that— she just couldn’t … and yet she must, she could not deny him, was desperate not to deny him, even if the cost was …
“No, no, never … nothing … nothing even half … as a … a quarter as…”
“OoOhOoOhOaaaaaacck…gck…huuumh…”
He was working her sex, then— not vigorous, not forceful, but not gently either; rather, with assured intensity, and her hips rolled for him, helplessly, eagerly, opening herself up to him, to his hands, to her shame, to her pleasure, to her surrender, to him. In abject need, in desperate yearning, the idea that she might feel that again, no matter what the cost, too important to lose…
“Oh god oh God, Thank you! Thank you!”
It was ridiculous, but it needed to be said, for she was, truly, full of gratitude and urgently needed him to know just what he had done for her, was doing for her, so that there was no chance he could miss how much he had her, just how open she wanted to make herself to him, if only … if only there could be …
“Aaaghff! OOooghff! UUuuuuurrrgh!”
Such a deep, husky sound, dragged from her as three bunched fingers slowly, but inexorably entered her and did terrible, lovely things to her inside, so that she almost chirruped with the sensation of it;
“Hai! Hai! Haiiia! Aiioo! Oh! Fuck Oh Fuck Oh Fuck…”
She had never been noisy during sex before, but then, perhaps she had never really done more than simply ‘have sex’ before. Never been properly fucked, properly used, properly handled…
Oh God I want to be handled; to be just taken there, not asked. Jesus why haven’t I known this?
It was, quite simply, overwhelming— nothing else she had ever experienced had done this to her, and she was truly frightened of it, at the same time as she found herself pushing her knees further apart, her buttocks upward, straining herself almost more than the cord had, to welcome his invasion of her, to make it easy for him, to welcome his invasion of her, to surrender herself to him, in the most intimate way possible.
For a few tens of seconds, then, it was glorious; she was outside herself, lost in herself, thoughts stilled in favour of pure sensation, pure submission to his fingers, his hands on her, lost to the yearning in her chest for intensity, and she moved as she could not ever remember having moved before, in pure freedom, in pure submission to the dictates of the need inside her, which demanded she give herself over to him, so that he could give her maximum sensation.
Until, without warning, he stopped, stepped away— she sensed it even though her eyes were half closed, glazed over, unfocused. Without choosing it, she wailed her need, soft, so soft and hoarse and thick in her throat, wordless but eloquent, completely clear in her expression of her distress, her earnest entreaty that he continue, that he come back to her, that he control her body again. But she was too weak, too shame-filled to do more than let her hips and her moaning do the talking; remained head down, thighs splayed wide, wrists loose, flopped at her side, chest softly heaving, mouth slack, belly quivering. She wanted so much but dared not do more.
“Up, up now, pretty. If you want it, you must do it yourself. I will show you how.”
His hand was in her hair, hurting, and she scrambled with limbs like cooked noodles to stand up, hands flapping weakly, knowing how pathetic she was, how shaming it was to let herself be treated so, with no idea what else to do but accept, leaned helplessly back against something (the bureau? she neither knew nor cared, her mind fuzzy, watching him. Him, the only thing which made any sense).
He had overturned the chair so that it lay on its side, then turned it so that the underside faced her, with stubby feet, large squares for the back, the front ones turned wooden legs, about three inches long, maybe an inch and a half in diameter, tapered, varnished.
His hand in her hair again, propelling her forward, her knees buckling as he let her down; down, so that her pussy landed on the tapered leg, her weight mashing her sex onto the wood, his foot hooking her ankles, to pull her feet back and out so that her legs could not support her, and she cried out with the pressure at her tenderised, sensitised sex and he chuckled again;
“Good. Good, you’re feeling it. Now, move— push your clit against the leather, move for me, show me you pleasuring yourself. Hands behind your back; they must be kept out of the way when I use you like this, no use to you. You’re in my hands, yours are nothing. Move now, Leesha, show me you can come for me like this.”
She wanted to, she really did, but the fear and the shame and the hurt of it rose up in her and she whimpered and wailed;
“Please … please, I … I … I want to, but … but I don’t think I can…”
“There’s another thing you’ll need to learn— no words, none; just sexy noises. Anything you need to communicate, you do like an animal, with noises, and with your naked body. Here, I’ll help you.”
And he stood in, close at her side, fist in her hair, pulled her head back, and pushed a finger into the back of her mouth, so that she gagged and writhed, feebly.
“Control yourself, lovely girl— you had my cock all the way in there just now; control yourself, take it; accept the heaves, don’t fight them— let them take you; make sure you breathe when you can, and accept that your throat is mine, not yours. See, no way you can make words now, is there?”
She was spasming with it, her whole body jerking and she could feel her clit, mashing into the base of the chair, the leather at the corner folded over itself, heavy brass nail heads, and suddenly she knew that she wanted that pressure, that§ it could get her there, that he had indeed shown her something about herself, if she could only, only manage to do what he said, accept, accept his finger…
“I asked you a question, girl. Answer! Can you speak now?”
“Gngngoh!”
Was all she could manage, accompanied by a sideways waggle of her head, which again gave her a pressure at her sex that made her quiver, and somehow, without it having been anything she did, she realised that she was living, somehow, with the horrid presence of his finger in the top of her throat, the constant surges in her neck, and yet feeling what her sex wanted from her, to build the sensation, to— maybe, maybe …
But I don’t want to come like this! It’s too much, too painful, too shameful, too degrading!
It was impossible, though, to stop her hips grinding, to stop herself allowing the gagging surges in her throat become the sexy surges in her hips, so that the awfulness at the back of her mouth and the pulses of pleasure from her clit began to merge and that was both terrible and glorious as she knew she would never forget the shame of responding like that, or how incredible it felt to be doing it for a man she had met only a couple of hours previously, how much she wanted him to know that she was a girl who would do that for him, feel that for him, and it began to take her and then he did something wild, kneeling down beside her, his face looking down onto hers, upturned, watching, a twisted smile of enjoyment on his lips, his other hand behind her, low down and …
“OOOAAgckgckgckkkkCK!”
“That’s my fountain pen, girly, in your tight little ass. Where my cock will be at home, soon enough, though I fear you’ll find it quite painful since you are so, Very. Very. Tight.”
He had shoved the intruder a little deeper with each of the last three words and the sensation overwhelmed her and she was gone and she doubled the pace of the surges at her hips, feeling her breasts jiggling wildly, two fingers in her throat now, harder to breathe, her desperate writhings only making everything hotter, the sensation from her ass like nothing ever before and she knew she was going to come for him, have yet another unprecedented orgasm, different again from the other, because she was actually crying, then, crying tears of shame and urgent gratitude both, even as she shouted her climax to him, past the awful obstruction in her throat, spasming wildly.
It wasn’t pleasure, it was just intensity, and it took her and she let it take her, needed it to take her and she was lost for some moments, than, felt herself, abandoned by him as he stood away from her, watching her in her disarray, in her helplessness as she jerked and cried out, slumped into an ungainly heap on the floor, quivering, hiccupping suddenly, uncontrollably, pathetic, feeling utterly worthless, utterly beyond shame, utterly defeated.
This time, as she slowly surfaced, it was not an afterglow of pleasure, but an aftertaste of shame, a growing certainty that no man could want this … this dirty thing. That he had showed her, just what she was, that she had failed the test, that he would leave her now, must leave her, degraded slut that she was.
Or perhaps, disgusted, he would beat her, punish her for her depravity. She almost wanted that— to be hurt, taken out of the shame, transported by pain and fear.
But instead he was at her head with a cool damp washcloth, like a blessing, though he was simply wiping her cheeks, her spittle smeared mouth, her neck, and suddenly she felt her nakedness like never before, and with urgency softened by her almost total weakness, made herself fall backward, straighten herself, unclamp her thighs, (she had curled in on herself as she slumped), offer herself to him, open herself up, try to look at least womanly, if she could manage nothing else, and was reward by a small, satisfied upturn of his lips, and a soft;
“Good girl. Always make an effort for me, feel my eyes on you, invite me to enjoy you. Good girl.”
And it was like being brought back from hell.
He isn’t disgusted— he … he is still interested in me.
She knew, she knew of course, from countless analyses of novels, of discourses, just exactly what he was doing to her, using her own learned responses to her own sexual drive, her learned shame, to cement his position of superiority, she felt all the arguments, coiling themselves in her mind. But honestly, she didn’t care. She was his, if only he would do this to her, again and again, and without letting her get in the way of herself experiencing it to the full and when his hand went to her sex she lifted herself to take the cool flannel, let every lovely sensation manifest itself to him as she quivered and writhed and sighed for him, and without even thinking about it she rolled her head toward him and sought his groin with her lips, wanting to offer herself again, wanting to pleasure him in return, if she could, making him laugh;
“No, little sex fiend, I’ve somewhere to be, no matter that it is tempting. But I am the one in control here, I am the one who has reduced you to this animal state, and so I must take responsibility.”
She felt the shame burn and let it, didn’t stop until he did take responsibility, pulled her head away, the feel of his hand in her pair, hurting, controlling her, something else she was grateful for;
God I like it I really like being controlled like this, spoken to like that, feeeling small and weak and irresponsible and letting him see me like this, know that he has made me like this, being naked for him, him dressed, I really do, even though its frightening to lrt him do it to me, I want it. I want it more I do.
“Rouse yourself, now, there is one more requirement. You need to make notes.”
And she made herself sit up, try to think properly again, resentful, pouty, but obedient. Liking being obedient. Liking remembering; Always make an effort for me, feel my eyes on you, invite me to enjoy you, kneeling up for him, spreading her thighs, setting her shoulders, blushing, determined, shy, happy.
He had her bag, then— so strange to look at it, so professional; reliable amber leather, neat zips, sturdy handles, the bag of a self-respecting academic professional, not that of a wilful sexual submissive, sexual pervert. She almost laughed, so ridiculous was it, as he pulled out her notebook, her pen.
He had her kneel, naked, at the bedside table, knees far apart, sitting in the chair behind her, off at an angle;
“Show me your cunt pretty slut, show me how those lush tits sway.”
And she had done her best for him, blushing, amazed at herself obeying such a crude command, doubling down on her display, admonishing herself for even thinking about herself, feeling her chest flutter with the emotion of it all. How could this be her? How could she make sure she became this, could have this again? Could she entice him to fuck her again? She moved, as best she could, with that thought in her head, and he laughed out loud at her, shaming her, feeling her blush rise, but not letting herself stop, for the shame was part of it, she understood it all too clearly.
It would never be easy, always heart-stoppingly transgressive, this travesty of everything she had thought she was.
But I don’t care, I want him. Want him to want me. That’s it. Whatever it takes.
What it would take, he explained to her, was to pass two more tests.
One— “You are to write me a paper, a short one, five thousand words or so, on female sexuality under patriarchy, and how damaging it has been for women. How damaging it has been for men. Have regard to chapters four, seven twelve of my book; find some new sources, if you can. Sketch out a thesis, from a feminist position— you will skim the surface only, but lay something out, the outlines of a possible argument.”
Two— “Write this on a page at the back of your book— not as a request, but as something you are writing for yourself. You want to make a video for me, of yourself, strip yourself naked. You want to tell me of your hopes that I can control you, sexually, that you need me to do so, to enable you to enjoy sex. That you are making the video of your own free will, for my use, in case anyone ever accuses me of misusing you. You expressly ask me to share the video with anyone I wish, as I will.”
“Think now, before you write; you understand, of course, what I want. I want you to give me an artefact, as if conceived entirely freely by you, so that I can defend myself, if anyone — perhaps even you— should seek to damage my reputation in future.”
“Tell me you understand.”
She looks at thim then, naked, displaying herself, overwhelmed. To be trapped. Trapped so beautifully… her face is soft, weak, sad, questioning, but he will not help her, just his hard smile, his twisted grin, and she feels the nakedness powerfully again, and feels again how good it is to be naked for him, nods, solemnly, sees his hard smile, no kindness, just satisfaction.
It hurts, it frightens her. It is right, though, she feels it, and she bends her head to her task, thinking, slow and careful and sweet, how best to trap herself for him.
When she looks up a few minutes later, he says “Show me,” and she wordlessly passes him the book.
“That is lovely, Leesha, but it will be the video, delivered on a thumb drive in an anonymous envelope, which completes the requirement. Send the paper first.”
And with that, he is gone, leaving her, utterly unmade, with the thought in her head, round and round;
How will I live, now? How can I?
She realised that this, in fact, was the last requirement— the toughest— that she prove to him that she could find a way to live, with this new self, with her old self rendered ridiculous, embarrassing,
A lie.
A big fat self-deception, despite all the hundreds, maybe thousands of long hours of careful bold investigation of what it meant to be a woman, she had never even discovered herself.
He expected her to do this work, too, while he went off on his book tour.
And, an hour or two later, a time of confusion, of abrupt decisions, almost immediately reversed, of veering backwards and forwards in her head, the old Leesha continually trying to reassert itself, and repeatedly faltering, as it found that it was, of course, the Leesha that had been working for something like this all along, until she realised that she had no option other than to try, and this impulse remained, deeply troubled, deeply troubling, but persistent.
With the prize a lurking flicker inside her, the prize being to have a chance of being fucked like that again. Whatever the cost.
