Read the earlier parts of Sophia’s story before this.
In the taxi, the mythos of a wedding, of this being her journey as a bride to be, became needful, necessary, and she give herself over to it; it made all her jitters, the palpitations, the fleeting but intense flashes of near hysteria which shook her, the way the driver’s eyes kept following her curves in the rear-view mirror— made sense of all of it, and through it she was able to enter the best version of herself from these last days— the Sophia who was in love with the idea of herself as a being transformed by the treatment she was giving herself to, the Sophia who was eager to be removed from the humdrum nothingness of her life without Duncan, before the rape; the girl who, although easily able to access the feelings of terror, sadness and despair which were never far away, was nevertheless transported by the idea of becoming special, of being remade, of being forced to become something outside, beyond, an almost impossible creature of pure submission, pure sex, pure service, her body removed from her control, except in so far as she worked to render it desirable to those who owned it, who fucked and hurt it and abused it.
It was becoming easier and easier, each day, to live in this frame of mind, to feel all the presentiments of horror as purifying, as refining, as enhancing her chances of being selected, granted the opportunity to become special. In this mode, the true terror was of being rejected, was in having worked at herself so hard, suffered so much, only to be spurned, and this time, in the intensity of it, the nearness of the dream becoming reality, it was possible to sink deeper, the eagerness for the experience of being reduced, of becoming that special creature making it possible to shape that eagerness into acceptance, in her mind at least, acceptance of all the terrible, awful things which they would have to do to her to effect that transformation, to tell herself that she must find a way to welcome such treatment, to hold herself open for it, just as she had held herself open for Duncan as he had ruined her that momentous day, just as, standing in front of her mirror, hurting herself with the pins, she had held herself open to the pain, to the shame, to the harm.
None of this dampened the trembling— indeed it became ever more pronounced, so that she was aware of the expressions of concern in the eyes of those who welcomed her to the discreetly luxurious elegance of the hotel, as they had to lean forward to hear her give her name, since she found herself unable to speak in anything more than a whisper. She had blushed, deeply, but had not faltered as they deferentially, concerned, led her into the tea room, and over to the far corner, where sat a most refined lady of middle years, handsome rather than beautiful, her face angular, severely elegant, expensively and conservatively dressed, her hair in an immaculate French pleat, casual, relaxed, powerful and assured.
The woman had not looked up from her book until Sophia had been standing before her for some seconds, and she did so slowly and calmly, with an expression of only mild interest, no welcoming body language at all, and Sophia felt a bizarre but deep gratitude fill her, warm her, fill her with weakness and need, as everything became suddenly very serious indeed.
It’s real; it’s all real; this woman really is the person who must approve of me to be presented to Duncan’s gang of debauchers.
It’s really happening. Happening to me!
Picture: Sophia, inspected : Click here to reveal.
The woman was perfect in her calm disinterest, as she simply looked Sophia over, very slowly, without saying a word, for the longest time— a time out of time, during which Sophia felt herself losing herself, giving herself away willingly as she discovered, wonderingly, that all along it had not been Duncan particularly, so much as this radiated, settled strength of personality, of will, of fully owned and assumptive entitlement, a power that could sustain those who gave themselves to it, if they could pay the price which would be extracted. The power that Duncan had emanated, from the moment she met him, effortlessly embodied, and which she had known she wanted to be engulfed by— this woman had it too.
If I had met her then, would I have offered myself to her as I did myself to Duncan?
She had followed him around the party, not speaking, simply staying near him, smiling shyly, laughing at his jokes as he lazily fascinated the other guests at Aunt Margaret’s charity event, until at last, there had been just the two of them, and he had smiled at her, looking at her, complicit, and, after a long silence, during which she had tried to meet his gaze, faltered, looked at his shoes for the longest while, then forced herself to look up again, had surrendered to his unspoken challenge already, even before he had offered her the chance to give herself to him with the words; ‘Do you want to tell me about yourself?’ to which she had answered, simply; ‘Yes, please’, both of them knowing what was implied, both of them knowing that it was she who had something to prove, that it was she who was asking, not him.
He had taken her to dinner then, and she had told him things she had never told anyone and then he had taken her to the swanky apartment he kept in the city where he had slowly stripped her naked, in total command of her from the start, and that had been it, and she had told him, soon after he had fucked her, that he should consider her as his servant, only half joking about it, and he had answered, not joking at all; ‘I shall be honoured to own you’, so that she had blushed and giggled, but also looked up at him, needing to know, and seen in his eyes that he was serious, and it had overwhelmed her, so that she had leaned back and opened herself; opened her body to him, shocking herself, very shy but also totally serious, and asked him, please, to take her again, to take her whenever he chose, and he had, and it had been wonderful.
“Pretty enough, I suppose. Can you go over to the Maitre D’, and ask for tea for two and the cake trolley, please. Walk slowly for me, will you?”
The small smile was genuine, with pleasure in it, but no empathy at all; in fact the opposite; the pleasure was at Sophia’s evident vulnerability, enjoyment of the power imbalance.
It was all so soft, so casual, expressed in tones which were overtly kind— caressing, even— and yet which now were powerful intimations of— honestly— open contempt; complete disrespect, the full expression of which, it was already acknowledged between them, by the very fact of Sophia having delivered herself— the expression of which was to be extreme, impersonal cruelty and sexual abuse, deliberate personal and psychological degradation.
Those simple words, that mild look, was all it took.
It was so soft, and at the same time, like violent heartbreak for Sophia, all the more so since it brought back to her an intense recall of how it had been, in the early hours and days with Duncan.
She had experienced that immediate command over her, then, too— that casual taking of control— had experienced it as kind, as holding, as enabling, had welcomed it. Now, though, in hindsight, the undercurrents of domination, of manipulation, of cruelty, even, were easily discernible— the fact that she had experienced those undercurrents too as welcome, as valuable, as aspects of her relationship with Duncan which made it special, now serving as irrefutable evidence that she deserves this contempt, that this promised cruel disrespect, this assumed certainty that Sophia was to be a willing participant in her transformation into a degraded sex toy is fitting, justified, correct, already set in stone. That her ‘potential’ had been there, in plain sight, all along. That they were right to treat her like this; with easy, lazy, casual contempt.
I’ve always been a slut, a weak and pathetic submissive, but I just didn’t know it. I deserve all this cruelty, this shame, this hurt, this disrespect. It’s why I’m so stupidly grateful to be treated like this; because these are the only people who will let me be what I am. Who insist on me being what I am.
Oh God it’s going to hurt so much, though.
It seemed to have lasted forever, that moment, seemed to be an eternal moment; Sophia, standing there in her skimpy dress, the high heeled sandals, which spoke so obviously of sexual availability; her weakness, her trembling, her inability to meet the woman’s eyes, while making such efforts to present herself well in the face of the woman’s obvious casualness, her complete lack of concern.
This is it; this is what whoring myself to strangers will be like; walking for her, knowing that she will be assessing me for sexual usage; nothing more, nothing less; sexual usage which she knows she can command; that my availability, my complicity, my acceptance of outrageous treatment is already assured.
Just to do this simple thing, at her command, walk across a public room, a room full of decent, normal, well-heeled, respectable people, to order a cup of tea, will be taken, by me as well as by this woman, whose name I do not know, though I know with all too much certainty what she will be to me, will be taken as sure confirmation that I am a natural underling. That I am lowly, weak and unworthy; that I have acknowledged this to her. That my relationship to her is the opposite of hers to me; she disrespects me deeply and forever, while I must respect her to excess; to my own diminishment. I have presented myself to her as a supplicant for the role of sex slave, she has effortlessly established herself as having complete and intimate control over me, as of right. And that is all there will ever be between us.
Presented in words, in order, these neat sentences misrepresent Sophia’s experience utterly, for although the moment seemed to last an eternity— and was indeed etched into Sophia’s memory as if it had been some epic occurrence, filled with drama and turbulence— it was over in a second, every thought, every feeling experienced simultaneously, as a single, crashing revelation, crystallising in an instant everything which had been in the air since she had met Duncan, which then had been understood only slowly, through fog, a little at a time, the different aspects of it not seen in relationship to each other, but as particulars, small insights.
In that moment in the hotel, though, standing nervously, everything became one, the one thing which would be the heart-breaking, cold-as-iron, central fact of Sophia’s existence from that moment on— although the details, the particulars would unfold only in time, and without any diminishment of each as an experience, no matter that all were obviously implications of this central reality— the reality that she was worthless, would always be worthless;
I’m nothing. If I ever was anything, I just lost it. If I am ever again to be anything, now, it will be by grace of this woman; of her and her kind. I am nothing, deserve nothing but contempt and cruelty for being so weak and stupid, so vulnerable and needy. I must and will do anything, submit to anything, to earn her attention, her interest in me, or I am lost, forever.
It was crushing, devastating, and Sophia felt herself stagger, felt her eyes lose focus, fill with mist, almost felt as if she must faint with the weight of it; the terror, the appalling depth of what had just hit her, which could not be borne, which at the same time made sense of everything, which solved her, which required of her that she not fall, that she do as she had just understood she must always do, do everything possible to earn this woman’s attention, to be valued for something; if nothing else, then at the very least for her quality of submission, her weak willingness to accept appalling treatment, to offer herself up for it.
And without thought, Sophia found herself making a public acknowledgement of her new understanding, her new certainty, as she made an attempt at a curtsy, a weak, poorly coordinated, desperately earnest bob of submission, of deference, of respect, her herself say;
“Of course, Ma’am,” as if she were some servant from one of those aristocratic house TV shows, a trampled slavey, to be used and abused by one and all, without recourse.
By contrast, the next half an hour went by in no time at all— a dream, of which no detail survived in Sophia’s disordered memory; on her return, a small but confident motion of the woman’s had had made it clear that Sophia was to sit on something she had assumed was a footstool, perfectly in keeping with the antique elegance of the place, but not as something to seat herself on until she was, in fact kneeling on the floor, her buttocks on the stool, the skirts of her dress so short that they fell down around the upholstered top of it like a fringe, the prickly velvet fabric making it impossible for Sophia to forget that she wore no underwear, her heart thumping at random in her chest, her mind filled with pointless, helpless impulses, some part of her still desperately seeking ways out from the reality which had just concretised inside her, devastating all hope, offering only certainty in recompense; certainty of eternal cruel and abusive disrespect. An obviously terrible bargain, whose only justification was the way it had so perfectly resolved every troubled, confused moment of her thought and feeling since reading Duncan’s. A bargain it seemed she would have no strength to reject, in any case.
Picture: Sophia, interrogated on the footstool : Click here to reveal.
She would remember, in outline at least, that she had been asked a series of questions— outrageous questions, concerning her earliest sexual imaginings, dreams, nightmares, her first masturbation, her earliest sexual encounters, her responsiveness to Duncan’s treatment of her— all the interest in her inner world rather than the physical manifestations, sharp psychological probing, any vagueness skewered, complete honesty and disclosure required of her, until she felt utterly exposed, desperately vulnerable, her worthlessness confirmed, her sluttiness teased out and mapped in detail. When it had finished she had sat there, tears in her eyes, unable to face the woman, her lips and fingers trembling, throat tight, chest heaving. The woman had had tea, two cups, and demolished with great precision a cream and apricot cake; Sophia had not even sipped at her glass of water.
There was a long pause, during which Sophia, possessed of certainty as to her worthlessness, her obvious undesirability for any consideration whatsoever, certain that she should not speak out of turn, nevertheless had to bite her lip to prevent herself making a desperate little speech about how important it was to her not to let Duncan down, how deeply she wanted to be invited to give herself.
Eventually, the woman spoke;
“I should warn you, pretty girl. You are terribly vulnerable. I concur with Duncan’s judgement; you are a girl who will find it impossible to resist our methods. If you let us, we will have you degrade yourself absolutely. I am certain that you will find yourself, surprisingly soon, at the point of no return, humbly begging to be destroyed. And we will almost certainly grant your wish. So that this is no light juncture in your life.”
“I will leave shortly. You should, too. If you stay here, two men, strangers to you, will arrive and invite you to accompany them. If you are still here, you will probably find it impossible to refuse them— though they will offer you no persuasion or inducements. If you do go with them, you will enter a new world, one which I doubt you will ever escape— not until we are bored with you, at least.”
“I don’t doubt I will see you shortly, when you have delivered yourself to me, delivered yourself into our greedy, merciless hands, but it is important that you try; try hard to convince yourself to leave; for if I do see you again, things will have become very real indeed, and I, we, will use the vulnerabilities you have just exposed to me to further entrap you, to condemn you to a future of violent abuse; deliberate and manipulative degradation, cruel treatments concentrated at your softest, most intimately sensitive parts.”
Sophia finds it necessary to look up, then, to meet the woman’s eyes as she has mostly been unable to do, needing to read seriousness there, and not being disappointed, though disappointment would have been infinitely less frightening.
Oh God it’s for real; they are really serious.
And, all unlooked for, a soft explosion of the warmest, most heartfelt gratitude bloomed in her chest, and this time the words burst from her; even though she dared not, her body insisted;
“Oh, thank you. Thank you. I … I hope I can … … can please … you.”
The woman’s lips twisted into a cruel smile; “My dear, you will have no other choice; when you are permitted to please, that is.”
And then, just for a few seconds, her face softened, her hand came out to caress, very lightly, Sophia’s cheek;
“Seriously, pretty girl; this is the time for you to be a coward, for your inner strength to fail you. No matter how the promise we offer you may seem to meet a need in you, no matter that you naturally want to please Duncan, no matter that your belly tightens with desire, even, saying ‘yes’ to us now will be a terribly bad thing for you. Unbearably bad.”
And she leans forward, then, Sophia helplessly leaning to meet her, to accept the soft, fleeting kiss on her lips, to hear the woman’s whisper;
“Oh you pretty little slut, it is going to be so easy to ruin you, so much fun to use you, to use you up, to take everything from you. Every. Little. Thing— while you scream in pain and feel you must die from the fear and the humiliation.”
And then she is up, relaxed and elegant as she has been throughout, unhurried, ignoring Sophia completely as she gathers her bag and leaves, paying her account on the way out, as if nothing of interest had happened.
As if she had not turned Sophia upside down, twice, in the course of a few seconds, left her breathless, in turmoil, biting her lip now to control the tears, the shaking, the terrible impossibility of the choices she has been presented with; neither of which is bearable, in prospect.
Less than an hour, in public, still fully dressed, she had almost not been touched, almost nothing had happened, and yet she had been thoroughly ravaged, wrecked, humiliated and degraded, badly frightened and exalted, and permanently weakened. The woman had left her distraught, on the verge of hysteria.
It was true, Sophia realised; they were going to find it extremely easy to suborn her. It was terribly, terribly hard not to give way to the sobbing that she knew she had to control, but she could not stop the tears.
The idea of leaving had been planted in her head by the woman, and thus must be considered; nothing that woman said would ever be taken lightly, Sophia saw; not by her, at least; if the woman so much as expressed a preference for apricots, that must be huge in Sophia’s world, since that world would be so small, and its sun would not be Duncan, Sophia realised, but the woman. Duncan had the same force of personality, that magnetic sense of assurance and unshakeable self-possession, certainty of will, confidence in projecting it, but he was simply not as demanding, not as micro-controlling, not as subtle, not as directly personal about it.
Every word the woman had spoken, every little smile, had been like a pair of viciously pointed, super sharp scissors, sometimes slashing, sometimes slicing but mostly just snipping away, again and again at Sophia’s already fragile and damaged sense of who she was, her self-respect, her self-belief, her confidence.
Sophia had no choice but to think about leaving.
Except that, very quickly, it was clear that this was another deliberate slash, a powerful undermining, stowed like a time bomb in Sophia’s mind, to go off after the woman had left, when only a little reflection sufficed for Sophia to realise that, even if she wanted to, even if she was capable of forming the resolve to escape, that she would not try. That she was too frightened of the woman, too hungry for another smile, another caress, another whisper (no matter that smiles, caresses, whisper would all be careful, deliberate destroyers);
I must see her again. I want her to see me, more, unpick me, undo me, more. I want her to destroy me.
When the two middle-aged men came (one thin and rangy, the other tall and broad-shouldered, neither of them at all charismatic)— she could not say how much later it was— she was meek, and mild, and grateful to be helped up (in the most respectful and careful way, spoken to softly and politely, allowed to take her time, smiled at, encouraged), and whispered; ‘of course’, and ‘please, do’, and ’thank you’ as they took her into the underground car-park, the air chilly on her exposed skin, her legs so terribly, terribly weak and shaky.
And when they announced, in the same calm, gentle way that they were going to rape her, the two of them at once, one in her ass and one in her pussy, she had dutifully but feebly protested (they wanted to rape her, she must say no, went a little voice in her head, in order for them to have what they wanted from her), but without any strength in her protests, already defeated. There was little she could muster in any case as the strong one went behind her, bent a little to hook a meaty hand under each of her knees and simply lifted her, splitting her at the crotch as he did so, the other man’s hands ripping at the skimpy dress (so beautiful, so expensive, so casually ruined), his hands greedy and forceful at her sex and her breasts.
“Jesus, look at these; stuck like a fucking pin-cushion, the sick fucking cunt.”
His hands had gone to her then, to her breasts and her sex, grabbing, clenching, working the pins in her flesh, making her yelp and squeal, helpless, looking at her face (though she was too ashamed and horrified to let him see her eyes, she could feel him watching, that he was enjoying the expressions of horror and shame which she could not control, the spasming of her jaw as he slowed down, dragged her flesh sideways, twisting the pins inside her, the inflamed wounds screaming).
Even her cries had been feeble, as each took responsibility for one leg, each took out his phone and engaged the camera, so that she was being filmed from both sides;
“No surveillance in the corner, but you see Wilhelmina wants it recorded, wants to see how you take it, so everyone can enjoy your first real rape, hmm?”
The tall one in front of her first, then the broad one behind, their cocks seemingly in proportion with their body types, after lining themselves up, penetrated her roughly, deeply with their first thrusts, one after the other, causing her to mew and cry out in pain; in humiliation and fear and despair and defeat, tears pouring from her eyes at the awful, grimy, shameful horror of it, the sordid surroundings, their ugly faces, their age, their heavy clothes, their rough words (once they had her stripped their voices had changed, and they used gutter language, commented on her body, on her helpless responses, crude and degrading).
I don’t know their names, saw them for the first time ten minutes ago, and they knew they could do this to me, and I know it too, that there is nothing I can do, nothing I will do, to stop this.
But there was worse, infinitely worse to come, as the thin one, pausing his deep, vigorous thrusting, leaned back, grabbed at her breast, squeezing hard, kneading at her hard, seeking to maximise hurt from the pins, succeeding, forcing cries of anguish from her, as he said;
“You’re to show her how you come, even like this; she wants to see it. They all do.”
The words burned her, cut into her mind, spreading horror as they went, as her whole being rebelled at the idea, at the shame of it, what it would do to her, even as a part of her knew that it was not impossible, that those parts of her; the hungry, disgusting, dirty parts wanted to do it, work with the rape, work with the pain and the humiliation and …
“Oo-ohoh, I … I can’t, please AAgghkk! no! no, please don’t, please don’t make me… OH!”
His phone was at her sex then, jammed roughly against her clitoris, vibrating powerfully;
“Do it, pretty whore, you little bitch, you dirty fucking slut, don’t you dare fucking pretend you cunt. You’re a fucking helpless nympho slut girl, like all the rest, and you’ll find a way, coz it’s there in you; even I can feel you moving for it you little whore.”
And it was true, and she was stupidly affected by his nasty words and they helped her and she just let go of her hips and that was all it took; her treacherous, hungry body did the rest and her arms went around his neck and her back arched and the tears streamed and her voice was cracked and horrified but the words she said were encouraging, needy, pleading and they increased in tone and volume and urgency until she could not help herself and she wriggled and bumped and jerked herself on their invading cocks, hurting herself badly but out of control, until she forgot the cameras and eventually was taken, taken somewhere else, somewhere terrible, somewhere her soul would be burned forever, somewhere beyond anything, hiccupping and wrenching herself as she felt their come spurting onto her, knowing she was lost now, lost to decency forever, lost to herself, any normal life now impossible from her.
They put her in the trunk of the car, face down, pulled her thighs apart, mauled her pussy one last time, laughing at her squeals as the pins bit into her, then threw her ruined dress on top of her and slammed the lid shut without ceremony or explanation.
The car was moving almost immediately, the rear bouncing and switching from side to side as they drove fast through the carpark, throwing her around. Some memory in her stirred, some film where a girl in such circumstances had counted seconds and turns, and figured out where she ended up so that she could be rescued, and she knew she was not that girl, that they would take her where they wished, and she would know nothing, and they would do what they wished to her and she would work with them, even as they wrecked her, and she despaired, the despair impossible to distinguish from the aftershocks of the ripping, ruinous orgasm, the ashes taste in her throat, the deep, shamefully welcome, almost delicious lassitude in her limp body, the slow burning pains at her ass, her sex, her breasts, her neck where the man behind had bitten her so hard he had drawn blood.
I’m cunt, now. Just cunt. I won’t be rescued, won’t even try to escape. They have me.
And, truly, it was not terrible to say those words. It was easier now to accept that she was already cunt than it had been to know that she was offering herself up to be made into cunt. There was less to think about. Because there was no longer any point in thinking. A cunt’s thoughts were irrelevant. Only the cunt’s body mattered; the uses to which it could be put; whether it would parade itself for its controllers, whether it had to be forced open or would open itself; whether it would orgasm for its rapists or stubbornly refuse. Whether it would smile and shimmy and work to offer itself for rape, or not.
Only my body will matter; the uses to which it will be put. The extent to which I offer it. And … and I think I will … will find that— that I want to offer it. Even … even to ugly, disgusting cruel old strangers. Maybe … maybe even more, somehow, to those …
All these words had been in her head at some point in the last days, but now; now they were real, and it burned.
The old Sophia would be burned away, leaving nothing but helpless, eager cunt.
That was it. There was nothing else, now. Might as well work with it, if she was to live at all.
Everything else was now over, inaccessible, another universe, where normal girls walked about without thinking about being raped, not ever; certainly not all the time.
And a sort of terrified, despair-soaked calm settled onto her, and it was almost pleasant, to have been so thoroughly, emphatically defeated.
To have accepted that there was no hope, only destruction and humiliation and pain.
That in the midst of that, her only escape would be in being fucked, in being hurt, in having destructive orgasms; that she would find herself eagerly, shamefully needy for those, that her eagerness and need would be used against her, that she would know it, and would be unable to help herself from working with them, working to destroy herself for the entertainment of strangers who cared nothing for her, cared for nothing but their own cruel and savage lusts.
And it was fascinating how those dire thoughts, these certain futures, were calming to her, as she was jounced and thrown about, naked but for the extreme heels strapped to her ankles, hurting and sticky with strangers come and her own secretions— tears, sex juices, sweat, drool and blood, face down in a smelly old blanket, laid on top of the spare wheel, angular tools hurting her, holding her thighs spread, as she had been positioned, keeping her hands limp.
Submitting.
At peace.
It was over.
I am over.
