Hooker
Picture: Hooking Click here to reveal.
Sometimes, they had her whore herself in public. Somehow she was able to do it, never lacking clients, and always bringing home surprising quantities of cash as proof of her ability to sell her body to strange men.
But she would spend two or three days weeping afterwards, tearing at her collar, her chains, struggling forcefully when she was taken (some members particularly enjoyed violating her while she was in this condition), screaming at those who whipped her if not gagged, until at last she was exhausted, and the mood blew itself out.
Once this had been achieved, as Anne-Marie pointed out, it was possible to see that she had become even more docile, even more eager to present herself just as required, even more devoted to the pleasure of those using and abusing her.
When asked, the girl (she had no name, her procurer having requested that she be denied even a slave-name) would softly agree that this was so— that the experience of being put out on the street had indeed permanently changed her. If permitted, she would beg ardently, urgently that she could be spared further ordeals of this kind, soft tears in her eyes, eagerly and shamelessly inviting attention to her mouth, her sex, her arse.
But when Anne-Marie, in a gentle, calm voice, asked her, in all honesty, to tell Anne-Marie if she thought that she ought to be made to do it again, she answered simply; “Of course, Madam.”
Training hobbles
Picture: Hobble chained Click here to reveal.
All night long, the cool, hard chain, moving against her sex, against her breasts, no single position bearable for long, always needing to move, each move doing it again; the collar, hard, unyielding, the ankle cuffs too. The sixth day, now. She can feel madness creeping up on her.
The next time he enters, she concentrates to manage everything just as she has been taught; the way she kneels, the way she presents her breasts, her thighs, her expression, the way she opens her mouth for him, the way she takes him deep when he wants to go deep, the way she worships him with her tongue and lips when she is allowed to, her intensity, her focus on his pleasure, on her servitude, the way she takes his come, even the achievement of having her sex wet for his rough fingerings.
“Not bad, whore, not bad… If you can do that twice more, maybe you’ll be moved on from here— that is if you want to be…”
She smiles as sweetly as she knows how, bobs her head, pushes her pussy towards him, thighs spread, doing everything perfectly, offering herself with perfect apparent eagerness.
Everything. She has to get away from these chains, even if it means losing her self respect, becoming just the whore these bastards want.
She is desperately eager to be the sort of whore they want, she realises. Pathetically, horribly eager.
Twice more, two more perfect blowjobs, two more loads of come from strangers.
She is in love with perfect blowjobs. She has taught herself to be, to avoid the madness.
Worship
Picture: Cock Worship Click here to reveal.
Clarissa had learned to take her time and savor the taste of his cock.
… and to give the impression of such devotion to the other men who used her. Over time, her sexual response to her lover and to these strangers had become hard to tell apart, to her deep shame.
To be brought to a moaning, panting, orgasm, laughing and sobbing deliriously, by one of these cruel abusers, was at the same time degrading and liberating.
When she was driven thus to the brink of sanity by an ugly and gross old man, while her lover watched, she cried uncontrollably until she was whipped hard, repeatedly across her full breasts. Her lover had her caress the man’s penis again, and tell him that she loved him.
Roughly tossed aside, after he’d jerked himself dry into her mouth, calling her terrible names, she lay as she had fallen, for once she has been used, a Castle girl generally learns to remain in the position in which she has been left until commanded otherwise.
It is generally considered presumptuous for a girl to decide anything for herself.
Picture: Abandoned after use Click here to reveal.
Of course, if she has sufficient experience of the man or men who have just used her, she may already know their preference— scamper off to clean herself ready for further usage in one case, prettily arrange herself— no matter how heavy her heart, how her belly trembles, the soft tears prickle— to receive a whipping between her legs in another , drape herself in a servile manner at the man’s feet or perhaps, with a sweet smile and a murmured ‘Thank you, Sir’, fetch brandy and warm towels.
But otherwise, it was safest to remain just as she has been abandoned after use, making only the minimal adjustments necessary to display herself attractively, in the hope of further usage, struggling to keep despair at bay.
Consensual Non-Consent
Picture: Rape Scenario Click here to reveal.
The members who wished for a ‘rape-like experience’ were accommodated, of course. The point of the club was to facilitate the wildest whimsies of the members, and unsurprisingly the network attracted rich and demanding people with dark desires and an absence of sentiment.
For the girls, though, these experiences were far from whimsical. It wasn’t really the roughness with which they were treated— while not exactly ‘used’ to such things (Anne-Marie managed things very carefully so as to keep de-sensitisation to a minimum. Girls who did become blasé were disposed of in one way or another), they knew enough not be totally shocked.
It was the mental experience that took its toll.
Strangely, while it was generally preferable to be used in private than in one of the public club-rooms, with these scenes, girls often wished that they were in the public rooms.
The intensity of the suppressed fury that came through was intensified by the smaller space— and when something like this happened in a girl’s habitual quarters, it underlined the fact that there was to be no such thing as sanctuary, for her anywhere, ever.
Dungeon Time
Picture: In the Castle Dungeon Click here to reveal.
The dungeon at The Castle could get very intense for the pretties. Each of them was on duty there at least one night a week, no matter how they might plead and wheedle and manoeuvre.
It was undeniable, though, that for some girls, the combination of intense fear and the strange comfort afforded by the complete removal of choice held a powerful fascination.
For Anjelica (called ‘Jelly’ by some of the younger members, for the way her generous breasts rippled under the dog-whip) this fascination was a good thing, because Anne-Marie, having studied the girl’s reactions carefully, had decreed that she be used in chains three nights each week, and she might well be left restrained like this for hours before things became intense.
The knowledge that everything was recording in high definition video, from several camera angles, and live streamed to boot, was an added source of constant disturbance to her equilibrium. She couldn’t bear the thought of not looking desirable. Fuckable.
She had come back here two months after a ’taster’ long weekend. She had broken up with the lover who had tricked her into that, but had managed only a month of pretending that she had not been changed, irrevocably, by the experience before she began making enquiries.
It had proved extraordinarily difficult— for although ‘The Castle’ was something many people fancied they had heard of, and not a few falsely claimed to be members or patrons of, when it came down to actual facts, there seemed to be few— and those infuriatingly indirect.
At length, though, she had learned of the name of a pop-up hardcore lesbian club, which it was suggested the woman she had had recurring nightmares about (or were they wet-dreams? It was hard to be sure; certainly, she would wake, sweat-drenched, heart racing with a horribly irregular feel to it, while at the same time she would find one hand jammed, hard, into her crotch, her sex tremulous, slippery, hyper-sensitive, her voice hoarse from crying out in her sleep), Anne-Marie— might be likely to visit (the woman was also notorious).
And indeed, on the second night, Anne-Marie had approached Anjelica directly, appearing as if from nowhere;
“Someone can’t forget the intensity of a flogger on her opened cunt, it would seem,” were her opening words, and Anjelica had been on the back foot ever since.
She had been allowed no time for niceties. Within ten minutes she had agreed to visit Anne-Marie in her apartment at The Castle the next afternoon. After half an hour in the elegant Belle-Epoque styled salon, Anjelica was naked, kneeling, Anne-Marie’s elegant patent-leather clad toe wiggling lewdly in her spread sex, her breath rasping with shocked arousal, her hands submissively clasped behind her, her breasts jiggling, her cheeks red, her tongue hanging from her open lips as she moaned.
Anne-Marie had adjudged her unsuitable, at that point, for an immediate induction, but Anjelica was rather easily convinced to give up her weekends to attend some ‘sex parties’. By the time it had become clear that her role at these parties was essentially to be used, that to these men she was just a set of willing wet holes to come in, she was already in too deep— with no apparent better way of reinforcing her self-esteem other than improving herself as a provider of warm, willing, wet holes to come in, she found herself needier than ever.
Picture: In the Castle Dungeon Click here to reveal.
She wasn’t stupid— she knew that this couldn’t end well, and when Anne-Marie suggested to her, in a pretty outdoor cafe one sunday afternoon, after two nights and a day of shocking excess, utterly unable to see how she can process what has happened to her and return to her day job on Monday morning, telling the stunned girl that full-on slavery would make things easier— at least to the extent that she wouldn’t ever again have to pretend to herself that she could stop this— Anjelica had closed her eyes and wept only a little, before turning, as instructed, to the heavy-set man in the dark suit and saying;
“I … I … You are right. I can’t do this anymore. Please, take me to … wherever, and … do … " ;
she had stopped, then, as the silliness of this became apparent, and giggled, weakly, ashamed;
" Well … I don’t know, do I? I … I guess you … you’ll do whatever you want with me, of … of course.”
Later that evening, she had begun to have her doubts— apparently there were depths beyond depths which she had failed to imagine the possibility of. But by then it was, of course, far too late.
It didn’t make her hate Anne-Marie, though. Rather, to Anjelica, she had become even more goddess-like even than her legend had suggested; omnipotent, omniscient.
Within three days, she was being whipped in the main hall, then taking all comers in all holes as a deliberately aggressive ‘welcome back’ event.
That was nine months ago, and she had ceased thinking about leaving, even in the dreadful mornings after crude and sordid sessions with dumb first-timers.
It was Anne-Marie’s skill, of course, that lay behind this inability to imagine herself leaving. It wasn’t so much that girls were desperate to stay, as that they were encouraged in many ways to be sure that they could not handle leaving, no matter that The Castle was so openly dedicated to making their soft bodies and their vulnerable psyches available for selfish and cruel abuses.
Most girls, if asked whether they understood why they were abused, would calmly and sincerely say that, yes, they fully understood.
Typically, they understood more, even— that such a question was an overture to further cruelty, and would submissively kneel, open their legs, offer their breasts— whatever invitation seemed most appropriate, meekly accepting the knowing laughter that this occasioned, doing their pretty best not to cry until screams and abject, hopleless pleas for mercy were forced from them.
