This story is an epilogue to ‘After your Initiation’. It is quite dark, though mostly psychological— distanced from the cruelty of the events and actions it describes.
Ellie/Lear did not have to ask to be altered. Berenice simply volunteered her for it— all of it, and more, too; asked on her behalf one afternoon, without any hint that it was on her mind beforehand, and it was perfect.
Perfectly unbearable, perfectly devastating, perfectly timed, perfectly cruel, perfectly judged, perfect for Ellie.
It was the next thing, and Ellie felt herself go another step deeper. There was always another step down, it seemed, no matter how deep you were.
My hands are to be made useless, my tits are to be shaped to become the tits Marcus likes, my labia sculpted to Marcus’ requirements too; my feet made incapable of walking except on tiptoes, or in heels, my ability to speak removed, permanent fixing points for restraints installed in my flesh, ribs removed so that my waist can be still further reduced, my jaw reset so that my teeth cannot close, my vision permanently degraded.
Then, when all this has been completed, when I have healed, been further tested, Marcus’ mark will be burned into my skin with a laser— into my buttock, above my pussy, on my cheekbone, ineradicable without cutting parts of me away.
The marks will allow Marcus to sell me without losing me; I will always be identifiable as his creation.
I am to be sold to the highest bidder, whoever that might be. Marcus will not be involved; the Castle will arrange it. I will never see him again, probably.
She had been on lunchtime duty in the Members’ lounge, that time of day when the younger members— arrogant and crude Wall St. guys, newly rich and full of their own superiority and entitlement, would turn up for a rapid, violent confirmation of their view of themselves and a release of pent-up tension through ruthless fucking of one or more of the helpless, eager inmates. These were generally considered the hardest duty sessions of the week (with the exception of the Saturday night ‘Dungeon Debauch’, which routinely got out-of-hand), and Marcus and Berenice had agreed that Ellie ought to be put on duty at that time as often as possible.
“I want her used to the maximum possible extent, relentlessly hammered by those greedy youngsters, driven to delirium”, Marcus had said, with Ellie kneeling naked close at his side, her head on his lap, her hands cruelly bound behind her.
Berenice was training her at that time to be able to achieve the ‘reverse prayer’ pose, which involved spending at least 12 hours a day with her wrists cuffed behind her, palm to palm, the cuffs in turn chained to her collar, that chain shortened every day until Ellie could not contain a scream (the scream earned her a fierce electric shock at her clitoris, so that she did her very, very best not to scream until it was forced from her).
The whole procedure was driving her to despair; but she would come through it, she knew she would; after her retraining, she knew that her capacity for enduring despair was limitless; it didn’t make the agony any easier to bear, though. It did make her, if possible, even more eager to be fucked, of course, because only in the throes of violent fucking could she forget herself, forget the awful tearing pain in her shoulders, the bite of the cuffs at her wrists, her appalling helplessness (during this period, she was fed with a spoon by other girls, incapable of doing the slightest thing for herself; afterward, Berenice declined to let her start looking after herself again; “It will be good for you to understand that you may not feed yourself, may not water yourself, may not clean yourself or void yourself; that you are a creature utterly contingent on your continued usefulness to your Master; if he forgets to have you fed, you will starve; if he forgets to have you voided, you will wallow in your own filth. You are to be reduced, Ellie, utterly diminished. You may not believe it, darling, but I am grateful to you; You can tell yourself that you are providing me with a more complete and lovely canvas for my art than any for the last six or seven years”).
She had been more viciously used at lunchtime even than usual on the day when Berenice brought up the subject of Ellie’s erasure; there were deep bite marks in her thighs and breasts, her makeup- was extensively ruined— many desperate, hysterical tears had been shed— her buttocks were newly and deeply grooved; blood had been thickly oozing from several of the deepest welts until Berenice had applied the terrible stinging crystal she used on such wounds to encourage clotting, which had made the girl squeal and writhe on Berenice’ other hand, buried deep, fisted, in Ellie’s womb, controlling the girl from inside her belly, a deeply disturbing and degrading experience, for which Ellie knew herself to be becoming shamefully eager.
Picture: Ellie, fisted, whip marks : Click here to reveal.
Marcus had looked on, approvingly, as Berenice had finished with Ellie’s wounds, and with the almost mechanical fisting, bringing the girl on but not satisfying her urgent need for an orgasm (evident through her near continuous, humiliatingly pathetic whining— very soft, sexy and unemphatic, helpless in her acknowledgement that the noises were shaped for entertainment of those who held her, and were most unlikely to result in release).
The New York Castle Madam then cleaned most of the come from Ellie’s face, breasts and buttocks, douched her puss, mouth and asshole in the elegant little washstand in the corner, (purpose made by an ingenious member), first with freezing, then with terribly hot water, then with freezing again, eliciting squeals and desperate cries of distress without causing the slightest actual harm. Indeed, the repeated hot/cold application in fact reduced the swelling attendant on even young, taut, well-trained and well attended-to holes like Ellie’s when they have recently been vigorously fucked by five strong and unrestrained young men over a period of less than thirty minutes.
Marcus took her then, still trembling and juddering, a fist in her hair, and first dragged her, then threw her bodily over the raised end of the leather chaise-longue, on her back, her head unsupported, so that it fell back, her arms screaming under her, her legs sprawling apart to offer her sex, as was now automatic for her.
It was a constant wonder to Ellie how much she loved being manhandled— especially by Marcus; the waves of helplessness and despair which took her as she scrabbled and writhed to minimise the pain, the risk of serious damage, were experienced as wonderfully, paradoxically comforting, affirming, her heart softening and warming, expanding, even as her mind filled with stress.
In the dead of night, when she could not sleep, Ellie/Lear sometimes thought about such things— for they were the stuff of her life, now; important, mysterious, astonishing— and, in this matter of being brutally manhandled, of finding herself grateful for the feelings it brought her, she had arrived at two thoughts; first, that such treatment evidenced some impatience on behalf of whoever was dragging and throwing her about— they were in a real hurry to fuck her (or beat her, or otherwise abuse her); this was of course an important validation for such as Ellie; she was still desirable, still capable of inflaming lust, even in those who had total power over her, who could take as much time as they wished, since she was their slave, forever (the retraining had cemented her enslavement in her psyche— it was the cornerstone of her self-image; that she was owned body and soul, so that even the body’s most intimate parts, its most intimate uses (indeed especially those) were not under her control, were subject to the whims and fancies and dark, cruel desires of strangers, and that this was now natural and proper for her). Secondly, she had realised that the powerful evidence of her weakness that being handled so roughly delivered helped make it obvious to her that she was in fact correctly enslaved— that she was weak and slutty and needy for cock (her hips would surge at those words, confirming to her, acknowledging it with a small, soft, sad smile);
‘I am! I am hungry for cock. I’d like one in me now; or two or three, invading me. Jesus I can feel the juices already … let me clench, do my kegels… … remember that little bald guy earlier, he was so nasty and he had the most surprisingly big cock and he was so fucking eager and so fucking cruel and … oh … oh what’s the use, I’ll never come off like this, with that chain so tight between my legs; it’s just too fucking sore…’
[Video reels of Castle girls writhing so helplessly in their cells at night were very popular in some quarters— the evidence that these girls had in fact embraced their degraded condition so thoroughly that even when alone, at night, they were gripped by the hyper-sexualisation that the Castle regime worked so assiduously— and so often successfully— to cultivate in its defeated young captives.]
It was obvious, wasn’t it, that she should be a natural target, a pre-ordained victim for the cruel and greedy desire of those stronger than herself; that this condition of complete and unrelenting sexual enslavement was appropriate for her, that she had always been going to be conquered, that her gratitude to Marcus, to Berenice, to the Castle, to all those who used her so selfishly, made perfect sense. For where else but The Castle would a girl of such profound weakness as her have been treated so well, cared for so completely, managed so perfectly, provided with such opportunities for self-realisation?
These thoughts were indeed shamefully comforting to a young girl, cruelly chained, with nothing but abuse to look forward to, naked, alone, hurting, in the dark, haunted by fading memories of what it had been like to make her own decisions, to control her own pussy, to (strange to imagine, now) have thoughts and interests beyond getting cocks rammed into her holes…
Marcus had fucked her throat long and hard, driving deep into her, careless of her convulsions, of her squeaks, of the urgent screams his cock so effectively suppressed, so that he felt them as vibrations, adding to his enjoyment, bruising her throat so badly that she was gruff for days afterward, while Berenice lazily flogged Ellie’s groin with a leather flogger— not hitting her hard, but not caressing her either, coaching the girl, with murmurs in her ear, watching Marcus’ face, so that she had Ellie begin to come just as Marcus did, the poor girl being immediately rewarded by Berenice standing up and bringing the flogger down between Ellie’s spread thighs with all her strength, arm fully extended, her whole body in the follow-through, several times, so that Ellie’s long-sought, desperately welcome, utterly degrading orgasm ended with agony and the awful business of nearly choking to death on thick hot come in front of an amused audience who did nothing at all to aid her (it was not just Berenice and Marcus, there was another Master there, a stranger to her, and two other girls, kneeling with obscenely splayed thighs on the small tables reserved as display stands.
Ellie had been a spectator herself, seen both these two and many other girls undergo cruel games, found herself encouraging the abusers in her mind, wanting to see another girl degraded, knowing, deep in her belly that her urge to see the other brought low was twisted, was some form of displacement, but not caring, really, just wanted to see their faces distort, their eyes overflow with despair and horror, see their bodies wracked with pleasure that they wished they were strong enough not to seek.
Now they were watching her.
There were some lazy speculations as to whether Ellie would in fact pass out, would have to be revived by another slave if she needed CPR So many cocks been in that mouth today, so many assholes licked— no matter that you douched her— not me!
In the end, though, Ellie had managed to control her panic sufficiently to do what she needed to, no matter how humiliating it was to perform like this in front of others who cared so little for her life, even, that they took her struggles for an entertainment, tears streaming down her face, shame and despair burning into her.
She had realised that she would never get used to it, never become cynical as some other girls seemed to. Each day was a new round of intense shyness, intense humiliation, intense shame, and had to be savoured as such; the shame, the fear welcomed, opened up to; it must be, so that it could eat her, so that she could be purified by it, destroyed by it, made servile by it, all over again, each day.
Each astonishing, unbelievable day. Her heart broken anew each day, her soul wrenched, her small remaining dignities crushed once again, the cold regime of the Castle, so cruel, so harsh, so glorious in its intensity, in its unstoppability, in its ruthlessness, its power, so that she once again realised that she was lucky, exalted, astonished to have been granted such experiences, so far beyond what most people could ever hope to achieve, so that she would find herself, in the evenings, writhing, uncontrollably lascivious, chained to the rail by the bar, naked but for adornments— a swingeingly tight corselette impeding her breathing, a tight heavy collar the same, crippling high heels, wrists tightly cuffed behind her back, often toothed spring clamps at her nipples, her labia, her clitoris, her tongue, her septum, her rectum, even sometimes her eyelids, tugged away from her eye then clipped together; an excruciating variant of a blindfold— her body marked with the excesses of the lunchtime and afternoon, her nipples stiff with genuine arousal, her pussy slick, her body sensitive in the extreme to the feeling that she was being looked over; responding helplessly, eagerly to it, having— along with many Castle girls, not permitted to look another human being in the face without explicit order— developed a sort of sixth sense, an understanding of the body language of feet, hands, thighs, which gave clues as to the interest of a stranger in using the naked, chained pretty thing writhing so shamelessly for their entertainment. Wanting to be fucked, to be used; happy to ask out loud for it, if given the chance;
“Rape me please; rape me hard, hurt me, please. Be cruel, no mercy, make me scream for you, please. Take me, Master, take me and destroy me.”
Hearing them laugh at her, comment among themselves about how far gone she was, knowing that they were right, having to own that too, let it be true, let it be her, let it be her reason for offering herself up for more, always more; deeper, harder, more degrading, crueler, more overwhelming, more dehumanising, begging for it with her whole body…
Left in her mess, this time, not ordered back to her table but instead having the sling, lowered from the ceiling on its chain, hooked under one knee, the remote operated engine whining as her left leg was lifted, high, higher, until she had only the toe of her right foot able to gain purchase on the rug, and that not all the time— constantly having to work for what tiny comfort her toe could afford to her knee, dreading toppling over— not only for the risk of injury but because the punishment for failing Berenice in this way was what she had heard the other girls call ‘mediaeval’.
Whipped again— not hard, but just to hear her yip and yelp and gasp, Berenice had interrupted to say her piece, calmly suggesting to Marcus that Ellie was now ready to be erased completely, the litany of extreme modifications; their finality, their irreversibility, the end game of branding her, then selling her at auction, all slowly laid out, with reasoning, Berenice hands on her, using her body to demonstrate to changes proposed for it.
And Marcus had not said a word, but had stood, come over to Ellie, had Berenice lower her knee, had taken her by the hand, and walked her out of Berenice’s apartments, their strangely austere luxury, not speaking, had walked her down the main stair, she in a dream of appalled horror and sublime, intense happiness, all at the same time (she never felt so naked— so deliciously and burningly naked— as she did when naked by Marcus’ side, him fully dressed, as impeccably and conservatively as always; heavy three-piece suit, heavy leather shoes, thick brushed cotton shirt, silk cravat, pocket watch on a chain, as if it were the 1940s; her nakedness pole-axed her at those times, even if she had not just been told that her life was over); it was all she could do to walk elegantly without shaking too obviously, to hold back the terrible tears, the whining, desperate to be sexy and sweet for Marcus, this one last time, wondering if, by some miracle, he could be enticed to rape her ass - not for her pleasure, but for his.
And still he did not speak, as he walked her to the old stone bench in the centre of the small, pretty courtyard, with its lush trees in huge pots. It was sunny, but chill, and the bench was very cold on her naked flesh, but she sat exactly as Marcus wished her to, her thighs flattened onto the bench, splayed out to either side, knees bent, feet even wider, her pussy too, pressed into the cold, rough stone, while Marcus propped himself against the wooden table, which he had pulled away from the bench, so that he could survey her— his conquered slave, his utter dependent (they had discussed his life-and-death power over her, and she had readily assented to the reality of the condition, her eyes soft and round, intensely sincere; Of course; of course my life is in your hands; it would make no sense for it to be any other way.), displaying herself so softly, so determinedly, for all she was worth attempting to be everything which got him hard, which could perhaps inflame him beyond restraint, get her a fucking from him one last time.
The silence stretched, though; he was past fucking her as he contemplated her, her gaze focused on his groin, thinking about his cock, stuffing her throat so recently, doing everything she could (without disobeying his order to remain still) to encourage him to fuck her again; nothing else really mattered. The appalling things would be done to her, she would become those things, much more than she had ever been Lear, and she would be fucked and hurt, and shamed; all that was inevitable. What mattered was pleasing him, the man in front of her, pleasing him, right now.
Eventually, though, he shifted, had come to some conclusion, and he stood, as her throat filled with ashes and her heart shrivelled inside her, turned and walked off, before turning briefly, a tiny but cruel reprieve of a pause, and then the knife in her guts, his words rending and tearing at her, even though spoken almost meditatively;
“Do you know I can never be quite sure that it was worth it, destroying you; you did make beauty, such beauty; and you were beauty, too. Perhaps I should have divorced Rosemary and married you. Useless to speculate, now; you’re done with, ruined, and that’s the end of it. Berenice will do as she thinks best with you.”
Another pause; a slight, twisted smile, then;
“Perhaps it may help you— or perhaps hurt you; I can’t tell, but you are very lovely, very perfect, Lear, in your ruination.”
And he was gone. He never said goodbye.
It was a couple of hours before anyone came to collect her. She had run out of tears. Her legs had set in the extreme position; she had to be helped to stand, then could not walk.
For some reason her pathetic tottering, her helplessness, her emotional exhaustion excited the servitor, and he laid her on her face on the table and buggered her violently, then cleaned himself in her mouth. She had done everything she could to have him enjoy himself with her. No matter that her soul had been killed, that was not what mattered; she was a sex slave, and she must be a good fuck, or be nothing.
When he was finished with her she thanked him in a voice so hoarse and dead that it seemed to her that someone else had spoken for her, whereupon he picked her up like a sack of potatoes, draped her over his shoulder, and took her to a solitary confinement cell deep in the basement, freezing and damp, where he chained her harshly and left her in black darkness to whimper.
Two weeks later she was delivered to the courtyard again, after having been starved for three days, denied water for a day. There was a large, long aluminium flight case with a padded interior, restraints. No-one important was there, just a couple of servitors and two uniformed service workers.
All of them fucked her, chatting and joking about what they had heard was to be done to her in graphic and horrible detail— the service workers rather over-excited, initially unsure of themselves, but finally, after she had been commanded to bring herself to a climax, rubbing her sex on the cold metal arm of a chair, begging to have her nipples twisted, her face slapped, her abject quivering and spasming as she came for their entertainment proclaiming her whore nature so obviously, they felt liberated and became horribly brutal, so that the servitors felt it necessary to caution them, jovially; “She’s to arrive in one piece, you know!”.
She had served each of them as beautifully, as sweetly, as completely as she knew how; it had been that way with her ever since Marcus had said goodbye. Her own desire had ceased to matter; she had become consumed by the business of serving the pleasure of others.
When the servitors had wiped her down, she stepped into the case with elegance, without demur, and cooperated softly as the restraints were fitted, then as they had her out again after almost dislocating her shoulders, screaming into the throat gag, softly biddable, though, as they argued about the correct sequence of holds, the exact position they were to put her in, then got in again with gentle docility when she was asked to; meekly allowing herself to be manhandled until finally, immobilised, face down, gagged, ears plugged, sex and anus speared by plastic dildos, they had pushed a sharp syringe into her buttock, then closed the lid on her, plunging her into perfect darkness, hearing the locks and seals fixed as the heavy drugs took her down.
What returned from Brazil was not called Ellie. It had no name— its new owner might give it one if s/he chose. It was referred to, mostly, as ’the body’; even though the bill of health which accompanied the lading papers pronounced it very much alive, everyone knew that the life was over, although its sweet responsiveness to the demands placed upon it were remarked upon by all as something they had never experienced.
For those who partake, here is an AI video version of the still in the body of the post. You don’t have to look!
