You will want to have read the first part of Lina’s story before reading this.
Picture: Lina by the pool.
He stands;
Give me the cord, please, then turn away from me; it’s time to tie you, render you helpless.
She hesitates for only a second before handing it to him, her fingers brushing his— deliberately lingering; she looks into his eyes, telegraphing her strong desire for intimacy, intentionally exposing her vulnerability, her fear, wanting to be seen. She gets a grin in return. I do see you, girl, and I am going to take advantage of all of it is the message, and she flinches visibly, her eyes widening, her lips parting so she can take in a little gasp of air— her heart rate has spiked.
This is it! This is what has been haunting me! I am going to fall! I’m too weak for these people! Oh god I hope he’s a good one.
She hesitates for a second or two, and he is patient, interested— she feels it as kindness— and she is lost, gives herself. Her whole body participates in a kind of nod, a small movement, that is significant for both of them; it is a signal; she has surrendered her bodily integrity to him, has accepted that he will harm her, that she will be controlled by him, for his pleasure, that her own wellbeing is no longer the most important thing about her— that her utility to him is now to be paramount.
A huge step, an enormous concession, a threshold crossed, forever, on the basis of no more than a few seconds of emotion; no real thinking, just feeling; a giving up on herself, a retreat from full personhood; again, none of this in words, but a deep and powerful sensation in her chest as she makes the small but powerfully significant genuflection to him, gives him the smallest, the weakest, the most defeated of smiles, then turns, elegant and controlled despite the trembling, brings her arms behind her back, her shoulders tense but her spine straight. Her struggle with her desire to crane her neck around, in a futile attempt to see what he’s doing is cute, and makes him smile.
She’s expecting him to tie her wrists— the clichĂ© option, but he much prefers to tie them by the elbows— it constrains their shoulders more, and he does so love to see their pretty hands flippering uselessly.
His hand drops to her groin, softly but invasively exploring;
Tell me, is it better to be tied, or worse?
Her breath catches sharply as his fingers delve between her thighs— her hips jerk forward instinctively, seeking more.
Worse,
she gasps, though her body contradicts her words. The silk cord bites into the soft flesh of her elbows, pulling her shoulders taut.
I’m so frightened, now. I … I don’t even know your name, I don’t know where I am, and … you could … could murder me, now, if you wanted to.
Her voice is shaking— the fear is real. Her thighs press together around his hand, trapping his fingers there as if she can’t decide whether to grind against them or flee.
Then, as if dragged from her, her voice very quiet and soft— no less shaky;
It … it’s better, because … because I have no … no choice, anymore. I’m … I’m yours, now, until … until you choose to release me.
And indeed, along with the fear and the shame and the foreboding, there is a lightening of her burden. All his talk of her ‘perfection’— which, to her self-critical mind had seemed ridiculous (while still delightfully welcome)— now suddenly seems attainable. With him in control, perfection is infinitely less complex, less demanding. If she has been reduced to a thing for his use, then perfection is simply being as useful as possible.
And since it is clear that he wants to use her for nothing other than his pleasure— bluntly; to fuck her and hurt her, she has to make herself into a thing which he will enjoy fucking and hurting.
Its a simple enough thing to think, but an appalling prospect for a young woman who has been learning to hope that projecting her physical beauty in a certain way could earn her a place in the world, be rewarded with money and respect. That she is doing this is devastating and overwhelming to what she has imagined herself to be, but at the same time the effect on her body is undeniable and powerful sexual arousal. The feeling in her that she is now his to fuck and hurt is like a fire, building in the base of her belly, between her legs, inside her, reaching out into her whole body, and her mind, in turmoil, willingly surrenders to the flames. She quivers and flexes, overcome by desire and a need to be saved from all this turmoil by the raw feeling of being fucked and words come from her that she did not know she could say;
Oh christ, fuck me, fuck me now, please. Jesus I need it, pleeease? I’ll … I’ll be so good for you … anything … anything … just…
You’ll be fucked after you’ve been properly fucked up, little girl. Being beaten beyond your limit, on the basis of your own consent is what will change you, pretty. Change you forever— rewire you inside; turn you into cunt.
Her entire body trembles— not just from fear now, but from the electric anticipation coiling low in her stomach in response to his brutal words. The cord bites deeper as she strains against it unconsciously, her hips rocking back toward him;
Then do it, pleeeaaase…
she whispers, ragged.
Before I— before I lose my shit…
A tear slips free, tracing the sharp line of her cheekbone.
Oh, you’re tougher than you think, little pretty; I wouldn’t have taken you if you weren’t.
He steps back, withdrawing his hand, then slaps her, really rather hard, across the buttock;
Off you go now, missy— back into the house; left in the hallway, then stop; There’s a mirror there— look at yourself. Look at your tits, look at your cunt; wriggle as you would wriggle for me— as sexy as you can. Do it again. Keep doing it, until I get there. Think about being something that gets used. Used for sex. Something which has only one purpose— to be useful for fucking.
She stumbles forward at the slap, gasping— more shocked than pained— but obeys without hesitation, her bare feet padding swiftly across the stone toward the house. At the hallway mirror, she stops as instructed, so grateful to have been instructed, not to have choices, not to be responsible for this— the enormity, the tsunami, this earthquake that she knows will devastate her. It’s on him; it’s all on him, now. I just have to let him take me, and see what that does to me, what I can be after he has finished with me. Her breath is coming in shallow, weak little sips as she stares at her own reflection: flushed skin, trembling lips, her nipples stiffening further under her own gaze.
Her hips sway experimentally at first, then with growing urgency— each roll of her pelvis more exaggerated than the last, her bound arms forcing her chest forward in helpless display. A whimper escapes her as she grinds against the air, her sex glistening under the hallway lights, her reflection blurring with unshed tears. Her lips work, but she cannot speak.
He keeps her waiting, fetching himself a long cool drink and an apple and some Pont L’Eveque, breaks off a chunk of baguette.
The minutes stretch as she writhes before the mirror, her movements growing increasingly desperate— hips jerking, thighs trembling. Sweat beads at her temples, her breath fogging the glass in uneven bursts. When she finally hears his footsteps approaching, she whips her head toward the sound, eyes wild, lips parted around silent pleas.
Her reflection shows the truth: her body betrays her, slick and needy, even as fear tightens her throat.
I— I tried,
she whispers hoarsely.
I did what you asked.
The cord digs cruelly into her elbows, but she doesn’t ask for release.
You should know this, pretty, about yourself; that fear, suffering, makes you more beautiful— to me at least. Just imagine how lovely you’ll be when your pretty tits bear witness to what this belt can do to soft skin.
He holds the glass out—
Do you want a sip?
… and grins at her as she suffers the switchback of the threat of such awful cruelty, followed so quickly by the solicitous offer.
It gets worse, because she realises that she is indeed extra thirsty, and would dearly love a sip.
Her lips twitch— wanting the water, refusing to ask. Her pride wars with the dryness in her throat until she jerks her chin toward the glass with a sharp, wordless nod. When he tilts it to her lips, she drinks greedily, water spilling down her neck to her collarbone. The belt still dangles from his other hand, its shadow crossing her body like a promise.
She shudders as he pulls the glass away, her tongue darting out to catch the last droplet.
He fishes in the glass for an ice-cube— pushes it into her mouth;
Hold it there, pretty— or be punished.
Then another one, showing her where it’s going— into her wet little pussy;
Hold this one too, or be double punished.
He opens the basement door; decides not to turn the lights on;
Down you go, pretty; slow and careful— these are stairs a girl with her hands tied behind her back could break her neck on— steep and winding.
Her breath hitches audibly around the ice cube, her tongue pressing it tight to the roof of her mouth as she obeys. The second cube presses cold against her inner thigh before slipping inside— her hips jerk instinctively, a whimper muffled by the ice. She hesitates at the basement door, peering into the darkness, then takes the first step down with exaggerated care, her toes curling against each wooden edge.
She is slow but shows willing, although she is whimpering a little— the cold, he imagines, in her hot little sex.
When she’s near the bottom, he pulls the light cord, and she jerks in shock as the powerful lamps come on. Whoever installed those lights definitely didn’t like a dark basement— they’re like floodlights.
The sudden flood of light makes her gasp— the ice in her mouth slipping for a heartbeat before she clamps down on it again. Her thighs press together reflexively around the other cube, the cold shock of it sharpening every twitch of her muscles. The basement is sparse, an uneven floor of old bricks, low-ceilinged, a counter on some cupboards, exposed pipes, a single wooden chair set squarely in the center, its upholstered seat torn. Her breath comes faster, shallow, as she stares at it, a part of her seriously wondering whether she will die here.
She turns her head slightly toward him, her eyes wide— not pleading, but questioning, fearful. The cords at her elbows have made angry red marks, stark against her pale skin. A drop of water from the melted ice trails down her inner thigh, vanishing between her legs.
She’s crying again, soft helpless tears, welling up and coalescing into fat drops, gathering, then breaking free to run down her cheeks, but her expression is so mild and soft that it’s all he can do to keep from throwing her to the ground and ravaging her right then; she is more beautiful than she has any right to be. He marvels that he has her, so totally under his control; that it has been so easy.
Oh, pretty girl, this is hard for you, isn’t it; such a lovely creature, so used to the tribute beauty commands, to be treated with such cruel and casual disrespect.
He reach out and treats her with more disrespect, rummaging in her wet sex and her mouth simultaneously for the remains of the ice cubes.
Good girl, both safe and sound. But you’re running so hot, lovely! Not much left of either of them!
And he reaches behind her and, without ceremony, stuffs the two little icicles into her asshole.
The icy intrusion makes her cry out— a sharp, startled sound that echoes off the basement walls.
Why don’t you kneel, now, and give me some reasons I shouldn’t beat you till you scream. Let’s see if you can think of something.
She drops to her knees as commanded, the bricks unforgiving against her skin. Her breath comes in ragged bursts as she struggles to compose her thoughts, her voice wavering:
Because… because I want to please you without— without breaking.
Her lashes flutter, tears clinging to them.
Because I’m already yours. Isn’t that enough?
Even as she speaks, her body betrays her— hips shifting restlessly, her nipples stiffening further under the cool basement air. The cords bite deeper with each tremble, her bound arms emphasizing the delicate arch of her back.
All very poetic, pretty, but not good enough; try again; what could possibly distract me from hurting you?
Her breath catches— his blunt rejection cuts deeper than the ice ever could. She digs her nails into her own thighs, her voice dropping to a whisper, the hurt in her eyes showing that she has guessed what he expects from her, the shame of it, as she rearranges her position to achieve something as close as an innocent like her can get to whorish lewdness, leaning back, spreading her thighs painfully wide, rolling her shoulders, putting her tongue tip out, trembling, tears falling faster;
Wouldn’t you— please— like to … to fuck me, Sir. Please? I’m … I’m so hot and … and wet, for you…
She’s alsmost hyperventilating with the mix of shame and lust, and realisation that he knows just how to work her, that he’s going to beat her anyway, despite her having degraded herself so.
He walks into her, literally walks forwards until his groin hits her face, then keeps going, bending his knees, forcing her head back and down, her thighs split, panicky cries coming from her, until his weight is fully on her face, the back of her head on the cold brick floor, his weight transmitted through his groin, the bulge of his cock against her distorted mouth;
The thing is, girl, that I can fuck you anytime I want, and I’ll enjoy it more after I’ve had you in terrorised hysterics, dancing for the belt.
The pressure against her face steals her breath— her nostrils flare as she fights for air, her bound arms flailing uselessly against his thighs. A garbled moan escapes her, half-panic, half-submission, her tears smearing against the fabric of his pants. When he finally eases back, she gasps like a drowning woman breaking surface, her chest heaving as she stares up at him with wide, wet eyes.
She is speechless, transfixed, the reality of how intense his dominion over her might be beginning to dawn on her, trembling like a leaf. Her thighs fall open wider in desperate invitation, her body trembling with the duality of terror and want. The cords have left angry furrows in her skin, but she doesn’t try to escape them— only grinds her hips against the air, unable to bear the tension of knowing what comes next, not knowing how she will be able to bear it.
He drags her upright by her hair, the other hand crudely using her pussy as a handle, her breathing rapidly panicky, shocked little shrieks bursting from her as she scrambles up, eager to reduce the pain at her scalp. There’s a canvas shopping tote on the worktop; improvising, he pulls it over her head, drags it right down, wraps the cord of an extension lead round her neck to hold it; several coils, tight, and loops the cord over a sturdy looking hook in a celing beam. He pulls her up until she is taking all her weight on the balls of her feet, scrabbling for traction on the cold, damp brick of the floor.
He starts in on her straight away with the belt, wordless, without warning, putting his weight into it, into the first intentional sexual cruelty she has experienced in her life, a truly vicious swipe.
It lands with a crack which echoes off the basement walls— her scream muffled by the canvas bag, her body jerking wildly against the restraint. Tears soak through the fabric as she kicks out blindly, her toes scraping against the brick in frantic search of purchase. The second strike follows before she can catch her breath, painting a fiery stripe across her thighs— her back arches, her pussy clenches around nothing, her cries dissolving into wet, hiccupping sobs.
She sags against the cord, her weight too much for her trembling legs, the noose biting into her throat. A garbled plea escapes her— an agonised plea for mercy, the words slurred by fabric and spit and despair. Her skin blooms crimson under the belt’s kiss, each welt a testament to her surrender.
He had promised to take her beyond her limits, and he does, as fast as possible— not wanting to hurt her badly, but imposing the crucial psychological impact of a first beating with cold efficiency. Only that first blow had been full-strength; everything afterward was for pain and horror, the impact not physical but mental.
When she becomes unable to contain her panic, when she twirls and gyrates in such a frenzy that it is certain that she will strangle herself …
… he stops, with as little warning as he had started, drops the belt and picks her up, bodily, cradling her like a baby, holding her tight— paradoxically safe, while she shudders and cries and sobs— big, wracking sobs, all in his now caring, supportive embrace, her head still wrapped in the heavy cotton canvas of the bag— hot and airless, her elbows still tied, and as she begins to calm a little, he tells her she is beautiful, and that he’s going to fuck her now, that she needs to help him, make it extra good for him, unless she wants another round with the belt.
Her sobs shudder into hiccups as his arms tighten around her— her body limp, pliant, the fight drained out of her along with the tears soaking through the bag.
Her thighs part weakly, her hips tilting up in a desperate offering even as her breath comes in shallow, panicked bursts interspersed with desperate, broken sobs.
But still, she manages to cooperate with him as he open his trousers, brings her round so that his freed cock can nuzzle at her pussy— still hot and wet despite the ordeal, which has in truth only lasted a few short minutes, though it will always live in her mind as an experience that lasted a lifetime; sometimes recalled as horror, sometimes as fairy tale; sometimes as an erotic dream, other times in a frenzy of pointless, fruitless rage and shame.
The experience of a lifetime indeed. The turning point she had felt might come, so much more impactful and decisive than she could have ever had imagined it could be; and now part of her life, an inescapable brutal truth about her, which changed everything, which tightly limits what she can ever hope to become.
You do the work, pretty; you fuck for me, give yourself to me, give your pussy to me, knowing what I can do to you instead; make it good for me. Go as slow as you like, I want to watch you bring yourself off for me, let me see how an orgasm takes you when you are like this, and make it good for me, too. Like this, when your beauty means nothing; when you’re just a hot wet, desperate hole with big jiggly tits.
Her breath hitches as she guides herself onto him— slow, trembling, the canvas bag still clinging to her sweat-damp skin. Every inch is a struggle, her muscles quivering from exhaustion and residual terror, but she takes him deliberately, her hips rolling in hesitant circles once he’s fully inside her. A broken moan escapes the fabric— part relief, part shame— as she grinds down, her cunt fluttering around his cock in involuntary pulses.
She moves like a marionette with half-cut strings— jerky, uncoordinated, but desperate to please. The cords at her elbows pull taut with each shallow thrust, her hands flapping uselessly at her sides. Tears drip steadily from beneath the bag, her breath fogging the fabric in ragged bursts as she chases her own climax, her body betraying her with each wet, slick slide.
After a while he lets her head fall back, so that the cord tightens around her neck again, turns her body a bit so that he can go deeper, so that her weight forces him into her, and starts to fuck her back, slow and strong, taking enough of her weight that she won’t choke, but not enough so that she won’t feel the threat of it.
The cord bites into her throat with each thrust— her breath coming only with effort, her body arching desperately as he fucks her deeper. Her climax builds with awesome, portentous inevitability, her cunt clenching around him in helpless spasms, and, needy, she wraps her legs around his wait, locking herself to him, using them to pull him into her, her muffled cries vibrating through the canvas as she comes apart. And when the orgasm finally crashes over her, it’s with the raw, broken intensity of total surrender— her body going slack against him, her sobs dissolving into wet, shuddering gasps.
She doesn’t plead for mercy or release— only grinds weakly against him, her hips still twitching with aftershocks, her skin flushed and feverish beneath the bag. Every ragged breath she takes is a silent plea for more, for less, for whatever he’ll give her now that she’s been so completely defeated, the evidence of her own inability to make good choices incontrovertible.
When he recovers himself from a frankly overwhelming come-off of his own, his own knees weak, his back shouting with pain, he frees her neck from the cord, gentle and careful now, squats down and lifts her over his shoulder in a classic fireman’s lift, and takes her back up into the house.
He sits himself on the big leather couch, and again cradles her in his arms.
Eventually, as her trembling subsides, her breathing becomes more normal, when she has relaxed into him a little, he pulls the bag from her head; slow, careful, intimate, taking obvious pains not to hurt her, letting her feel his cock growing hard again under her.
The sudden light stings her swollen eyes— her vision blurry with tears, her lips parted around shallow, hiccupping breaths. She doesn’t struggle as he cradles her, her body limp with exhaustion, her skin still fever-hot where the belt kissed it. A weak shudder runs through her as she curls against his chest, her thighs pressing together reflexively around the dull ache between them, a long, slow, shuddering breath announcing a sea-change; acceptance that she has survived, dawning realisation that she has no option but to live with herself with having offered herself up for the thing which has broken her.
At length, her head lifts, and she searches for his eyes with hers, face full of need and shame, unbearable shyness burning into her, unable to maintain eye contact for more than a second, once she has ascertained that it is still him, the man she hardly recognises, honestly. She has known him for such a short time, this man whose name and business she still does not know. The man who has destroyed her, and on whose power she is now reliant if she is to be remade, to find a way to live with herself after what she has been through, with what she has been shown about herself.
Her gaze goes off into the middle distance, her shoulders shake, deep, slow, devastated.
You’ll give me your throat, now, pretty; slow and careful and completely. I’ll show you that you can take it deep; if for no other reason than that you cannot resist my desire for it.
Get on your knees, little whore, little cunt, little slut, and service me as you know you must. Spread your legs, show me that pretty cunt, let your lovely titties sway for me.
Her knees hit the floorboards with a dull thud— no hesitation now, only quivery obedience. Her bound arms force her chest forward as she leans in, her lips brushing his shaft with trembling reverence. A tear drips onto his thigh as she opens her mouth, her tongue flattening in submission before even being commanded. The salt of her own skin lingers when she pulls back to breathe, her nostrils flaring with each shallow gasp.
She doesn’t wait for permission this time— just presses forward again, deeper, until her throat convulses around his cock, which stiffens in response. Her gag reflex kicks violently, but she holds still, her lashes fluttering shut as if praying for the strength to endure.
No need to rush, pretty, I can hold on now for a long time. Train yourself, push yourself. If I have to force you, I will; you know that now, but I know you’ll do it. Just remember, when it gets difficult, you swallow, hard, and push down at the same time; before you know it, I’ll own your throat, just the way I own your cunt and your tits, and you’ll be flipping like a landed fish. You’ll just have to learn to live with it, however dreadful it feels, because you’re just cunt, now, and this is how you will be taken, most often.
Because you are not Lina Ekström any more. You’re nameless cunt, until you’ve made me come in your lovely mouth, at least. We’ll find out if Lina has survived, later, when we go shopping for some pretty ornaments for my new toy.
Her throat works around him with desperate, gagging swallows— each one a ragged betrayal of any dignity she has left. Tears streak down her cheeks, dripping onto his thighs as she bobs deeper, her nose touching his skin with every laboured breath. The cords at her elbows dig fresh furrows as she struggles to stay with him, her body trembling between obedience and instinctive recoil. A wet, broken moan vibrates against him when she finally takes him fully, her lungs heaving for air she can’t afford to steal, her ass switching from side to side— the only part of her that can really move, trying to absorb the energy inside her, the energy which should be bing used to save her from this thing in her throat choking her to death, but which she is denying its proper release, in favour of proving herself a good thing to fuck.
Good girl, good little girl. Now, you learn to keep going, to go longer, until you can tell I’m about to nut, when you’ll back off and hold me in your mouth while I try and drown you.
Her throat convulses violently around him— her body jerking with the instinct to retreat, her bound elbows a screaming torment, harsh evidence of her powerlessness, a tie she had voluntarily accepted, with her whole body. Tears pool on his belly as she forces herself to swallow again, her nostrils flaring wide with the effort to breathe through the violation. The bitterness of her own despair coats her tongue when she finally pulls back just enough to gasp, her lips slick and swollen around his shaft.
She doesn’t wait to be pulled at before forcing herself back down, her submission now coldly self-imposed, the appalling feeling of degrading herself justly deserved, inescapable, perversely comforting— a promise, perhaps, of being calm through something like this in the future, of learning to be good at it. A guttural whine is forced from her when he fists her hair to guide her pace, her cunt clenching around nothing at the sheer dominance of it; everything, anything, everything, must be accepted now, now matter how degrading, or painful, or unbearable.
Her jaw aches from the strain, saliva dripping down her chin in thick strands as she struggles to maintain rhythm. The taste of salt and sweat floods her mouth when he suddenly grips the back of her head, holding her still while his hips jerk forward— forcing her to take every inch deeper, until her nose crushes against his wiry pubic hair. Her vision blurs with tears, her throat spasming wildly, her mind drowning in despair, but she doesn’t fight; only whimpers around him, her useless hands flexing helplessly at her waist.
She pulls her head back, knowing he’s about to come, and her tongue and mouth do what they can to pleasure him, but the truth is he is uninterested in her at that moment except as a receptacle to jerk himself into, and it is almost with surprise that he focuses on her again, a minute or so later, collapsed on the floor, having fallen sideways, knees splayed, breasts sagging sideways— she’s crying again, so, so softly, her mouth a big, soft O of shame and new, hard knowledge.
If he could get it up again, he would rape her ass, now, hard, just to seal the deal, but he’s not going to be able to, and indeed, he wants to take the time to simply sit and watch, lazily replay it all in his mind, watch her as she tries to find a way to put herself back together, lovely entertainment.
