You will want to have read the earlier parts of Lina’s story before reading this.
After a few minutes he rises, squats down beside her, reaches out to caress her cheek, softly, slowly;
Remember, pretty girl, what you’re here for. What use is a thing for fucking, if it isn’t being fucked, hm? Ask yourself that. The obvious conclusion, of course, is that it is worthless. And worthless things are thrown away, abandoned, disposed of, aren’t they?
So that, if it doesn’t want to be disposed of, the thing — for its own good— should probably be working hard, always, to get itself used— get itself fucked. No matter how sad it is, how shocked, how ashamed, how hurt, it should be able to see that being worthless would be worse, Hmm?
He abandons her then— immediately delivering on the implied threat— and goes back to the poolside table.
Soon enough, as expected, she appears at the french doors, walking with care, trying hard, hips and breasts swaying nicely— her head up but her eyes lowered, chest heaving; obviously in the grip of strong emotional cross-currents— and slowly makes her way to the low table, to once again arrange herself on it. It is clearly awkward for her to balance as she mounts herself, with her elbows still tightly tied behind her, but she is visibly working at being as elegant, as sexually interesting as she can manage to be, despite her evident emotional overwhelm.
Her face betrays her distress, but again, she is clearly doing all she can to maintain control, to present herself as ‘pretty’. All-in-all, he considers, she is doing remarkably well, considering how brutally she has been treated, how relentless has been his pace.
She is much more appealing to him now than she had been half an hour earlier. Even if the pose is approximately the same, her whole demeanour is subtly but delightfully different, her body expressing her neediness, her vulnerability, her shame, her fear; her thighs spread that little bit wider, her mouth softer, her belly quivering with emotion. He feels his cock stirring— excellent, considering how soon it was.
Really, quite a peach, for a chance encounter. He’d been wondering what he could find during this annoying enforced stay— neither long enough to bring a girl with him, nor short enough to borrow one. But perhaps this piece was going to be sufficiently entertaining. He felt his groin stir, and smiled at her— a simple, genuine smile of pleasure;
Excellent, pretty. It’s self-indulgent and silly to curl up around your pain and shame and fear. Remember, they make you more beautiful to me; you can show me them, and maybe get yourself fucked again, or used some other way. Save your self-pity and self-hatred for the middle of the night when you’re alone, that’s the way. Make use of them then, to condition yourself to be more interesting to me— if you can manage it.
He watches her take this on board, watches her shake as she controls her horror at being spoken to thus, watches her blush in shame at her own acceptance, watches her sag a little as another defeat imposed itself, before she once again takes herself in hand, attending with care to her posture; really most gratifying.
A few tens of seconds, and then he stands and steps forward to take a fistful of her hair, so that she yelps and flinches as he drags her off the table, forcing her to scramble or fall to the hard tile, hands flapping uselessly, then pulls her to the poolside; not particularly brutally, but at the same time without the slightest consideration for her dignity or her pain or her pathetic scrambles, then half throws, half shoves her into the water, her elbows still bound, before turning to go inside.
He doesn’t think she’ll drown, but it is important to her future with him that she understands how lightly he will take such risks with her, how little he cares, how much she must be prepared to accept, to manage herself through despair with no expectation of help, consideration, care or comfort.
He knows that his tolerance for his own brutality, his hardness of heart, has increased over time. That he diminishes himself as a human being each time he diminishes a girl this way. There is a cost, even if it is lower and less consequential for him than for the girl.
It’s a downward spiral, and he knows it, and he manages himself carefully.
Part of this management is to make himself, at junctures like this, consider his guilt. In the eyes of the world, of course, what he has done to this young woman in the last two hours is unconscionable— morally unacceptable on many counts to most people; even those who might themselves have a taste for such things routinely self-police, confine themselves to fantasy.
And yet, he has at no point forced her to participate— has at all times been prepared to free her from his control (save in the course of completing some action already begun, already consented to; that this would not hold up in a court is of no interest to him).
She has indeed voluntarily complied with many outrageous suggestions, freely stripping, displaying herself, shaming herself, asking for degrading treatment. His liability lies, of course— and he stipulates it clearly to himself— in having judged her vulnerable and, rather than offer help or support or friendship, has instead chosen to exploit that vulnerability ruthlessly, to generate deeper vulnerability, and to exploit that, too, consciously working to trap her in a web of her own complicity.
A knife edge; always a knife edge. The Cabal that he is a senior member of keeps 7 girls, ; all live lives of simultaneous material luxury, emotional devastation, unfettered sexual and physical abuse. All have asked to be subjected to such treatment, without hope of release.
What makes this acceptable (to him, personally— again, he is uninterested in the opinion of others) is a balancing act on a knife edge. The knowledge that he is deliberately abusing vulnerable young women on the one hand, and the knowledge that his Cabal makes careful judgement— only taking girls deep into the process whom they judge to have exceptional inner strength; weakness in the emotions, in their psychological make-up, but with strength in both heart and gut; girls who have an excellent chance of not only surviving what the Cabal subjects them to, but of discovering— through the intensity of what they have no choice but to experience— just who they are, what their strength is. Ex-Cabal girls (very few are kept in bondage for more than 5 years before being offered financial and social support as they transition back into something more like ’normality’)— ex-Cabal girls typically are extraordinarily grounded and resilient. They do not tend to choose high-profile, exposed positions, but rather take on deep, careful work with much responsibility, which they carry lightly and with compassion. When assessed, many of these girls score highly for satisfaction with their lives, and for emotional and psychological stability. PTSD— surprisingly— is lower than in the general population (though statistics mean little, there being such a small sample size).
So he is not inwardly troubled by concerns at the desperate condition of a naked, recently beaten and ravaged young woman, her elbows tied tightly behind her back, thrown headfirst into a deep swimming pool. If anything, her predicament entertains him.
He is pleased though, to see her, back on the little table, hair matted and waterlogged, skin still wet, but again making best efforts to present herself. She is crying, softly, her mouth distorted by barely controlled despair, but when she notices him arriving (a quick flicker upward of her eyes, instantly looking down again), her whole body shifts and she tries to smile. Although she fails, he is pleased; she’s really trying for him, despite him having given her so little reason, so much shocking evidence of the cruelty of his desire.
You understand, now, a little more, perhaps. The pool is where you clean yourself. When you need to void yourself, you go down the path behind the shrubs, to where whoever maintains this garden has a large compost heap. Do your business there, wipe yourself carefully with leaves. If your hands have been made useless, straddle a leafy branch. Improvise. You are a toy here, not a full person.
His hand goes to her sex, gentle, but unabashedly direct, assessing her state. He teases the entrance to her slit, softly grips her clitoris.
Show me that you can become aroused, will you? Despite all this brutal treatment? Hm?
… and his fingers become clever. She knows that she could resist; let the horrors and shocks and cruelties of the last couple of hours fill her mind, reject him Less than two hours since he first spoke to me!
But then, if she rejects him, why has she put herself back onto this table, displayed herself, rather than escape through the garden gate, scream for help, find a neighbour to call the police, or a taxi at least?
For indeed, in the last few minutes, she has had to make enormous, consequential decisions, in the midst of physical and existential despair.
Lying on the floor after his rape of her throat, her nasal passages and her throat clagged with his thick glutinous come, choking and writhing, racked by coughs, she had, paradoxically— beyond all sanity, been filled with an almost savage feeling of joy; joy, at the intensity, the wildness of sex with him— pain and bad treatment all of a piece with the untrammelled freedom of desire— hers as well as his (though manifested very differently). That had been fucking, for real.
Not ‘having sex’, not ‘making love’, not ‘sexual relations’, not anything but fucking, and she had experienced it as an incredible, electric, fizzing explosion of sensation, everything: emotion, lust, pleasure, pain, shame, glory— all rolled up into what had seemed like a month’s worth of experiences, all wrapped up into a few short minutes.
She didn’t mind the choking, not even the thought in her head; I could die of this, if I don’t figure out how to breathe without getting even more if into my lungs and choking it up agin— it was all an intrinsic part of feeling more powerfully and purposefully alive than she could ever remember feeling.
It wasn’t that it was good, or bad, or happy, or sad— it was just that it was living, and if she hadn’t been choking, she’d have been laughing as well as crying the tears which filled her eyes.
And all the time she was aware that she was naked, writhing on the floor, arms tied by this man she did not know, who had just beaten her and fucked her, and was some sort of madman, without morals or compassion, and whose opinion of her had become terribly, desperately important— since she had no idea how to feel like this outside of his orbit.
So that when he had calmly walked off, left her there, snorting and wheezing and sobbing and blinking and shaking with it all, she had indeed felt the fear of abandonment, of being worthless— for if he did not value her, than what was she— some stupid slut who had allowed a stranger to whore her to a taxi driver and then rape her?
No! The had to be— must be— something more to this than casual sexual abuse.
He had an intensity, a calm, certain intensity about him which meant something, she was sure— something that could include her, she needed that to be so, or she would have to crawl into a hole and pull the earth in on top of her and complete that suffocation which had been building in her for years, at the pointlessness, the venality, the tawdriness of everything— no-one really living— certainly not her, in any case.
So that she had had to make herself stand, on wobbly legs, had swung her head so that her hair was on her shoulder and tried to wipe her fade in it, one side, then the other, gulping hard to quell the heaves in her chest, trying to smile to herself, feeling the fear in her— fear at what he might do to her next, fear at the thought of him having done with her, that he would ask her to leave, having become disgusted with her (how could he not be disgusted with a girl who would permit a stranger to do all that to her?).
Make herself walk like a model, naked, out onto the terrace, where he sat, at ease, fully dressed, working in a businesslike manner at his phone, trembling at how weak and helpless she felt, how unworthy. She had allowed him to abuse her terribly— asked for it. She was naked in his house, she had let a taxi driver fucker her … she could hardly even stand, so little oxygen did she have, since she had forgotten how to breathe properly, her chest all tight and stiff with the business of just staying upright, not collapsing onto the floor again, all her energy going into presenting herself well— walking well, shoulders back, emphasising her breasts, letting her gait make them sway for him. Walking like a model. Walking like a whore.
Gods but I am so needy, so hungry for his approval. He can do anything with me and I’ll be grateful— just that he wants to. Jesus he’s going to make me fuck strangers, and display myself to them, and … and I’m going to get wet between the legs and they’ll know I’m a slut and I … I want them to, because … well, because he wants them to…
And there was nothing else to do but put herself back on that table, display herself like a slavegirl in some adolescent fantasy, spread her thighs so wide, feeling her pussy lips peel apart, opening herself for him, breathless, needy, so nervous, not daring to look at him, drowning in embarrassment, feeling her shyness like a physical pain — understanding suddenly that that cliche phrase ‘painfully shy’ had a real physical meaning, since it was hurting her to be so exposed to him, to have deliberately exposed herself to him.
And then he had said those terrible things to her, even worse than calling her a thing, told her that she should destroy herself with her pain and shame to condition herself as a whore for him and the cost, the cost of being with him had become even clearer— not just to be fucked like a whore, beaten, but to be expected to degrade herself, weaken herself for him, so that he would find her more entertainingly , more obviously degraded…
All the intensity had drained from her, then, and she was lost, drowning— broken— everything she had ever been rendered grey and dull by comparison with the electrical intensity of the time with him, now told in the most brutal, heartless of terms that the cost of that intensity, that living, would be to become something pathetic, to have that neediness eat her up, to have to work to degrade herself, internalise her hurt so that it became her, so that she could be more interesting to him.
It was too much, and she felt despair rising in her, drowning her, only to be pulled sharply back into the reality of physical pain and fear as he had dragged her to the pool and simply thrown her, face first, into the deepest part of it.
She had panicked, struggled desperately, wrenching her shoulders frantically, uselessly, trying to twist her arms enough to free them from the cruel knot at her elbows, and then, inevitably, she had wrenched so hard that she breathed in a little water, and the choking was back and she was convinced, then, that she must die, and it dawned on her that she didn’t care— that it could be a release from the impossibility of the life choice he was imposing on her, and she relaxed— and realised that that was all she had needed to do, to live.
for as soon as she had stopped struggling to live, she had begin to float, and her body had been able to do what it had learned to do for years— to float, to work with the water, not against it— and she remembered that she could swim, and at that moment, she felt the tie at her elbows loosen— the simple knot, absolved of tension, had simply floated apart, so that she was able, stupidly easily, in a few very natural strokes, to be at the shallow end of the pol, to stand, naked, free, blessed by life and freedom, and suddenly she was laughing to herself— laughing softly, but really, actually laughing;
It’s all for me!
His cruelty! It’s all a gift! A hard gift, a hurting gift, but it’s this— this seeing clearly, feeling free, learning myself— being forced to learn myself; pushed to places I would never dare go, so that I meet myself.
*Yes, he’s going to fuck me and hurt me and shame me and I’m going to feel it, feel it hard and cruel and deep, but it’;s for me! for Me! so that I can feel like this, just sometimes.
and she laughed, and the laughing turned to crying, and back to laughing, in the space of just a few seconds, as she trembled in fear at how hard it was going to be., being his.
And she walked, very beautifully, very slowly and carefully, naked, on tiptoes, even though he was not there, walked as beautifully as she ever had on a catwalk, back to the table, carefully and deliberately holding her arms as if she were still tied, and arranged herself, set herself, displayed herself, as shamefully as she could, in the hope that he would come back to her, that he would want her, that he would abuse her, that she could live.
In the hope that he would be merciless with her, would not let her off, not one tiny bit of what he had to give her, to impose upon her, to demand of her. So that she could be reborn.
Reborn as a sex toy perhaps, but reborn as something alive, Something that experienced life, that fully lived it. Even life as a whore.
She was so frightened of herself, then, and when he had reappeared it was like a blessing, and she had tried to hold herself for him, to open like a flower when the sun rises, show him how she should give herself to him. But she was so shy, so nervous, so unsure… She felt certain that she had failed him, desperately certain that he must reject her.
I am going to feel like this always, with him, always on a knife-edge of failure, of rejection, of despair.
Gods but I am lucky he that chose me.
She looks up, then, in great emotional need, even as she finds that there is that in her, strong in her, which wants to respond to his manipulations, wants eagerly to have the excuse of sexual desire to justify her weakness, and she urgently needs to know something, the words bursting from her without thought, as if she were a child, her voice soft, wondering, lovely, even as her hips begin to move for him, to encourage his hand to make free with her, to do as it wished to her most intimate secrets, to give herself to him;
Does it matter what I want, whether I want to show you?
No, not at all; the idea that a toy wants something is clearly silly, and even if it did, no-one would care. Here, while you are with me, only what I want matters. However, should you not want to be here with me, that might matter.
She stares at him, unable immediately to understand what he means, her brain fogged, clouded with all that has happened, with the way her hips want to move fore him, with the Oh!ohooo-o-h of the possibility of pleasure, and her face is transformed— the despair overwritten by sensation, and then the meaning hits, and she flushes as it makes sense of her; the most humiliating kind of sense; I want this. Thats why I’m here. Because somehow I need this. I knew it before but it doesn’t stick, because it is impossible! How can I want this; this cruel, formal destruction of my self-respect, this constant delivery of diminishment, of violation? Why am I grinding my hips for him, so that he can turn me into a moaning, needy slut, make myself easy to manipulate, ever more vulnerable, less and less able to resit him?
He sees it in her eyes, enough to understand what is going on in her head, and she knows that she has given herself away, and she dips her head in confusion and shame and fear before a rising joy in her has her look up at him again, wanting him to see that she accepts, even though the cost is so high;
I do. I do want … to be here. With you. And I do Ohaaahoh! … I do want to show you how hot I can get for you, how … OH!O-O-ohaaaaaahh… Yes, yes please. Every … everything…
