Read the earlier parts of Sophia’s story before this.
The car slows,turns, stops, waits, engine idling; the music is turned off (bizarrely, her crude rapists have been playing opera, rather loud), there are muffled voices, then they are moving again, but slowly; a couple more sharp turns, all at slow speed, and they stop, the engine is killed, doors slam, footsteps recede. Silence.
It lasts a long time; she hears the car making small noises as the engine cools, she desperately needs to shift; discomfort is rapidly becoming acute pain, and the shock of having suffered so many rough and degrading sexual firsts in a brutal ten minutes has begun to wear off, leaving Sophia with nothing but shame and despair and self-disgust.
Was this what it was? This ’exalted’ condition of sex slavery? Crude rapes by ugly men in rough surroundings? Shameful, destructive humiliation? Pain and bitter self-loathing?
Yes
Yes this is what it is.
It’s not as if it’s a surprise, is it? I’ve been making myself think of it like that for weeks.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid girl. Letting yourself play act your way into being raped and ruined. ‘Like my wedding day’? Fucking moron. Helpless fucking slut…
Oh god oh God I don’t want this, I don’t, not … not like this, and … and now I’m locked in a car trunk, naked, raped, probably bleeding from my poor ass, no idea where I am, all my stuff taken from me, and I’m so weak, so weak and I huuuurt! These pins are getting worse and worse and they’re infected I think and I’m so dumb I deserve to be enslaved and treated worse than an animal and raped every day by vile monsters who don’t even know me, let alone care about me because I’ll be nothing but holes to them, nothing but dirty, slutty, frightened cunt, desperate to please; to do anything, no matter how low, just to avoid the whip.
Jesus God how could I have let him do this to me, how could I have gone along with it? I’m going to die knowing I did this to myself. Going to have to live with it, and I caaaaant.
Slowly, softly, but inexorably, then, Sophia descended into agonised hysteria, crying first, weak and frightened, then sobbing, then crying out, loudly wailing her despair, then finally thrashing and wrenching herself in an uncontrollable fury of self-loathing and pain, shame and regret, flinging her head back and up until it smashes into the metal, again and again, trying to destroy herself until, exhausted, she goes limp, unable to sustain the energy to do it any more, too weak to kill herself, even…
One among many self-disgusted thoughts— a question— surfaced itself in her despair, demanded attention;
Why am I not angry with Duncan, why do I hate myself by not him? Why am I not angry with Wilhelmina? Not even angry with those two swine who just raped me?
And she tried, then, tried, for a long time, gave herself all the lines, everything about how the world treats women, how systematically and historically unfair it has been, how the very culture has prepared her for this stupid, appalling idea that becoming an abused sex slave might be some sort of liberation.
That it’s all a vile and disgusting setup, and Duncan, these people, are preying on her. They are the disgusting ones, the filth, the dirt, for being prepared to use her like this— Duncan, playing her along for so long, knowing what he wanted to do to her, to lure her into, so that he and his friends could play their sick fantasies out on her.
I fucking hate him.
She said it again and again— not just in her head, but out loud; screamed it even, until her throat was sore.
But she never once believed it. Nothing she could do by way of play acting hatred, whipping herself up inside at the multiple injustices and immoralities of his behaviour could generate even a shred of anything like real anger, still less hatred. Not for him, not for the woman, Wilhelmina, not even for the two who had raped her, disgusting slime that they were; the words in her mind simply had no real purchase on her feelings.
She had no doubt about the immorality, the cruelty, the heartless nature of the way she had been treated— would be treated, if she asked them to subjugate her. And she hated those, hated the idea of being whipped, hated that she had allowed herself to be raped, made almost no effort to fightthem off, to escape, hated that she had been so weak as to allow them— work with them indeed, so that they could capture her orgasm on their phone cameras— she hated and feared and cringed away from a future of such treatment. But she didn’t hate them. It was as simple as that.
I can’t get angry with him. I don’t hate him, even though I should, I ought to, any sane girl would.
Actually, the best thing that could happen to me now would be for him to open the trunk and …
And what? Tell me that it has all been a joke? A test, a test of my love for him, that it had got out of hand, that he loves me, that he’s sorry, that he wants to marry me, make it up to me, take me on a luxury holiday, look after me forever…
… she stopped, appalled, a sick feeling in her, as she felt the truth in her, demanding to be seen, to be accepted. Felt it in her. The fantasy just wasn’t honest; she didn’t want that. Duncan turning out to have meant well wouldn’t be a fairy-tale ending to all this. Not because it was unrealistic, that wasn’t the point; she had been making up a fantasy about Duncan, trying to make herself feel better; a fantasy didn’t have to be real … No, it was her that was not being real, because … because …
… because I don’t actually want that; I don’t want it to be a joke; I want it to be real. If he did say it had been a joke I think I would be angry; I know I would. I’d be furious, in fact— I would hate him, I would, if that were true.
She can feel it, inside her, the anger that would surge in her if he had indeed told her lies, tricked her. The boiling violence it would unleash.
Because he didn’t lie to me. Not once. He didn’t tell me the whole truth, but then who ever does? I certainly didn’t, not really, not at all; never told him that I knew I could never be enough for him, that I didn’t really love him, just … just needed him, hung onto him like a leech because he … because he calmed me, made it possible to be happy.
We both knew, I guess, both knew that the other was not 100% what we were play-acting. He let me know when we met— the way he spoke— It was fun and romantic, and it was sweet and lovely and sexy and … and it was! It was real, in the moment, then, in those lovely moments. Just … just not real as a ‘relationship’. And … and he was honest, at the right time, with … with the book… And. And … oh fuck the book got into my pussy, got into my head, too, like nothing ever did and … and I wanted to know what it would be like if he … if he did me … did me like that and … and I still … oh help me I still do …
Duncan had freely admitted that he was a monster. And she had not run away, but opened herself up to him.
I wanted it. I’m fascinated by it, to the point where I’m here. Still, even though. Deep down. I want it, I need to know how it will be to be … this. To be dirtied cunt.
So the real best he could do now, for real, would be to open the trunk and have two or three other guys with him and they do the beginning of the book and they rape me and bugger me and whip me until I’m broken and I don’t have to pretend I am a real person ever again.
And the despair rose, and the keening to herself, and the tears, but soft, now, so soft; frightened, weak; there was no energy to thrash anymore and when the two young women opened the trunk they found her like that, tears wetting her cheeks in a steady, unchecked flow, softly sighing to herself, lost in self pity and shame and helplessness and fear of her her future.
They lifted her out— Sophia limp and compliant, not really looking at them; too ashamed, too lost in despair— and put a cape around her, short, but warming, made of heavy, luxurious silk, and, when they found she couldn’t really walk, they had put her in a wheelchair, like the ones they have in hospitals, and they took her to a pretty sunlit little sitting room, cheerful in pale yellow and soft rose and cream, afternoon sun streaming, perfumed by the large bouquet of lilies on the sideboard.
They were kind and gentle, these two girls, but they didn’t speak, didn’t interact, didn’t treat her like a person at all. They parked the chair, held a glass of water to her lips until she drank, suddenly aware of a terrible thirst, a raging headache, and then, silently, they had left.
Alone, looking around her hazily, not really registering anything but her despair and exhaustion and weakness, she had let herself slide off the chair, to land, crumpled, on the floor, head lolling, defeated.
And that was how she was when Wilhelmina came to her and— remarkable in hindsight, for Wilhelmina never did such things, always remembered as a special, exalted (yes ’exalted’) time— Wilhelmina had sat down on the floor beside her, lithe as a cat, and caressed her, softly, gently, stroking her hair, her flanks; slow and soft, but just firm enough to be somehow perfect.
Quite soon, Sophia had found herself with her head in Wilhelmina’s lap, being hypnotically stroked, feeling herself relax, give in to inevitability, though the sadness remained all consuming.
“Oh pretty, it is so awful for you, isn’t it? But I have to tell you that sobbing, you know, is not permitted of our girls. It is violently and ruthlessly made clear to them that such self-absorbed behaviour, such self-indulgence is unacceptable in our presence.”
“But you’re not one of our girls, are you? Not just yet. And so … and so we can sit, just this once, sit like this, and have a little time together, with your despair…”
And they had indeed just remained like that, until Sophia felt herself shudder, violently, and then gave out what seemed the longest, saddest sound in the world, as she voiced her despair for Wilhelmina, knowing, as she did so, that she was being manipulated, that there was no genuine care in the woman for her. Knowing it, and accepting it anyway; accepting defeat, the fear rising, but without any energy being produced, now; just something that had to be accepted;
I will live in fear of my future, now; always. Because my future is in the hands of these cruel, clever people, and … and I am theirs. Theirs to play with; they are my reality, whatever thoughts and feelings might go round in my head are all but meaningless. No matter how urgent they might seem to me, they will never again have much purchase on the world, on what happens to me, on what I choose to do, even.
“Tell me— you must tell me now, what is in your head, lovely girl, sad girl, pretty little cunt.”
It took patience, but eventually, Sophia found herself wanting to speak. It was very different than in the hotel, where Wilhelmina had asked question after pointed question. Now she was empathetic, only encouraging Sophia to say what she needed to communicate.
And again, Sophia knew that this was not kindness, but clever, purposeful entrapment; and yet, the trap was lovely, and the stroking was lovely, and the idea that Wilhelmina would even pretend to care about her feelings was stupidly welcome, and her voice— though little stronger than a whisper— surprised Sophia by sounding calm and steady, sure of what was true;
“It … it’s just that … It’s so haaaard, really, really hard to … to … to let this be me … to … to let it happen to me. No; more … to ask— like Duncan told me you will want me to— to actually, ask for this … this … terrible thing to be … to be done to me…”
Sophia felt it then; the stupidity of telling this cruel woman so honestly, what it had done to her, that rape, that she was giving the woman all sorts of advantages, all sorts of material she could use on Sophia.
I’m telling her everything she needs to manipulate me, to use against me, to push and pull me into betraying myself completely, and I know she’s doing it and … and I am going to help her, because … Oh, because I want her to win. I can’t … I can’t resist the idea of being broken, the release it will be, even though it terrifies me, and it will hurt so much; bury me in shame and self-disgust. That in the end it will be the shame and self-hatred which break me oh my god I can’t be doing this…
“It … it’s wrong; it’s a wrong thing to do, to do this; to … to ask for this to be done to me, and … and … it’s so frightening, and … and sad, and … and it hu-uuurts, and … and… and I’m going to lose … lose everything ……”
“I … I just can’t believe that I can … that I can ask and … and that , that it will be simple to say “Yes”, but then what happens will be … will be inescapable and … and unbearable, and … and I’ll have no choice, anymore, no … no way back.”
“… they … they raped me. The … the men, just now, in … in the car park. An appalling, terrible thing, for a girl, and … and they both … they both … did … did it to me. At … At the same time … and … and I didn’t really even try to stop them and … And then they made me … made me come, and … and it … it was me, really, because they couldn’t really make me, and so I … I’m worse … worse, even , than … worse than them… They filmed it too, both of them.”
“I … I can’t … I can’t … I can’t …”
I can’t stop my body remembering how it felt, to come like that, in such circumstances; how overwhelming it was, how terrible, how … how fucking liberating… how I couldn’t live knowing I could never feel like that again.
Wilhelmina speaks, then, and her voice is energised, interested, less casual than before;
“You’re telling me that the delivery boys raped you— double-teamed you? And did you fight them, did you scream? Or did you let them? And you orgasmed for them, on camera?”
Sophia nods, wanting to die of shame, uneasily aware of her reaction to Wilhelmina’s interest, of the pathetic way she is grateful for the older woman’s increased attention, no matter that is clear that Wilhelmina is hardly shocked at all, and that in point of fact she is hugely amused. Nevertheless, for Sophia, that her horror was amusing to Wilhelmina produced no anger, no outrage, no push-back at all, but rather a soft and tender little unfolding of pleasure and hope inside her, madness though it was to feel such things, in such circumstances, with so much at stake.
But it’s true! I’m eager to please her, to have her find me amusing, entertaining, even though it cost me so much. No matter how stupid, how foolish it is to feel this way, I want it! I need it!
And there was a little performance now, in Sophia’s voice— she heard it herself, and hated herself, but could not stop, wanting to give Wilhelmina what would entertain her more;
“Yes; yes they did, one … one in my pussy, the other one in … in my … in my backside, and … and … and I didn’t fight them, really. Not at all, even … even though they … it hurt me. And then … then they told me I must come for them— that they wanted it on camera, and, and I didn’t think I could and … well, they, they grabbed my pussy and … and I … I felt it, suddenly and … and I knew that I could, if … if I let myself, and … and then I was doing it, moving myself, so … so as to make myself come, and … and I talked to them and encouraged them and … and it made me hotter and …”
It was appalling to hear the words out loud, to know that they were the truth about her, about Sophia, the most important thing about her in the world. That she had allowed two men to rape her, and to make her come for them, that she had made herself come for rapists. She doesn’t know why her heart keeps beating, so deep is her despair, so deep is the loss; loss of everything that matters.
Wilhelmina laughs, and the laughter both burns and enlivens Sophia;
“Oh my dear, that— well, that is just perfect— not for you of course— but, do you know, they were not permitted? Not in their contract— I will have their boss reprimand them— but for you, for your story here, that you let them, that you came— did you really? We will have to get that camera footage.”
“But you— so lovely, so weak— you made it good for them. Such a lost little cunt, such a helpless slut-girl. You poor dear thing— no wonder you are distraught; such a big thing to happen to you— for you to let it happen, so early, so easily, to respond so beautifully; such a good sign. You must let me see you now— let’s open this cape, shall we? You’ve warmed up anyway, you don’t mind me seeing you naked, do you?”
And somehow, it was obvious to Sophia that, not only did she not mind, that she wanted Wilhelmina to look at her, to see her naked, to accept that she should be naked while Wilhelmina remained fully dressed in street clothes, that the woman’s cruel amusement at Sophia’s expense was desperately, shamefully welcome, and that offering her body to Wilhelmina was the only thing she could think of to prolong that feeling, even though she knew just what was happening, that this was the slippery slope, that this was the way to sex slavery, that all her certainties that she could not, would not be able to stand it were being bypassed by this weak, pathetic need for approval from the cruellest person she had ever met, and none of it made any difference at all and it was good; good that Wilhelmina did not wait for permission, but simply did what she had always been going to do and deftly undid the ornate gold clasp at the cape’s neck and twitched it back off Sophia’s shoulders, so that she was naked but for the high heeled sandals, the ankle straps of which meant had kept them in place through everything, and she was supine, limp as a rag doll, laid bare for Wilhelmina’s gaze, and she was nothing, and, without feeling good about it at all, only that it was necessary, she arranged herself, limp as she was— just a little— opening her thighs, adjusting the set of her shoulders to present her breasts, feeling her throat catch as she displayed herself in her defeat for this powerful cruel stranger, hating and loving how such stupid behaviour, such sluttish moves made her feel.
I am nothing but cunt, really, if I go this way. Nothing.
Nothing at all, but a vessel awaiting the older woman’s next move. All that there was of Sophia was what she was in Wilhelmina’s eyes; there was nothing else but need; need to have the woman approve of her. Approve of her as something to be used.
The pins … Sophia had been dreading— dreading and anticipating and wanting the discovery of the pins, devastated by what they say about her, pathetically hoping that she will be approved of, appalled at the lurking fear that they are badly infected… hopelessly conflicted, in truth. Being stripped will bring it all to a head, and indeed Wilhelmina’s reaction has a powerful impact on Sophia;
“Oh, but what are these, little cunt? Did you hurt yourself? Ah— no, I see, Duncan did this to you, but … you … you have kept them— not all of them, I guess, Duncan never does things by halves— but you have kept them. For yourself.”
“Well aren’t you the interesting one, pretty; full of surprises, hm?
“Naughty girl; you are not permitted, don’t you know, to do things for yourself— for your own reasons. Will not be permitted, anyway, once you are ours. This is very naughty indeed, and you’ve no-one at all to blame but yourself when I take you up on the invitation to hurt you with these pretty things. I’m going to enjoy myself a little now; don’t you dare pull away.”
Wilhelmina’s strong fingers are subtle, not crude as Duncan’s had been, but she is every bit as cruel, and clever with it, carefully observing Sophia’s face for what really hurts, doubling down when she finds a tender spot, pinching and pressing and squeezing.
“They hurt badly, don’t they, pretty? So cute, and yet so mean. That Duncan— I never knew he was so inventive!”
Sophia, knowing she must, makes efforts to accept the sharp hurts which Wilhelmina inflicts upon her, at her nipples and at her pussy, and the tears roll down her cheeks as the dreamlike state is torn and shredded, and she whimpers and soon enough gives out a plangent little shriek of pain and distress;
“There! That’s it. Lovely to hear your pain, and your shame; that’s right, now; let me hear it, but not loud; small, weak, despairing noises of pain are appropriate for a meaningless little cunt— she has no real right to self-expression at all; her meaning is entertainment, and it does entertain me greatly to hear the pain and shame; but don’t you dare make a big noise now, or I’ll really make it hurt. It can always hurt more, don’t you see? Because we own you, there is no limit, no limit at all, to how much it can hurt, how appalling it can be to be you, in our clutches. Remember, then, for your own good, always to work at being entertaining, at entertaining me.”
There is no softness, no tentativeness then to Wilhelmina’s manipulations then— she becomes direct and forceful, unabashedly cruel, letting Sophia know that she is being tested, making her writhe and bleat, cry out and arch her back with the sear of it.
“Good girl, good little pain slut. But you see there’s another problem here. Although we are utterly uninterested in your wellbeing, as they seem to call it these days— everything we will do to you will harm you, in one way or another— that’s what we want you for— to harm you.”
“And at the same time, you are not expected do anything for yourself— excepting in one important area— care of our property. Since we don’t look after you, it is important that you take care of maintenance— so that you present well for use— do you see? And, well, these pins that you have selfishly kept, that you have been using to give yourself pleasure with— Oh yes, pleasure, little pain slut; I know your type; standing in front of the mirror luxuriating in tweaking and poking them, teasing yourself with the pain, telling yourself what a good little slave girl you are.”
" TTssk, now, no-one is fooled, slut.”
For, Sophia’s head had jerked up, she almost spoke, wanting to deny what Wilhelmina is saying, wanting to say she was doing it all for Duncan, but Wilhelmina’s eyes and mouth had dared her to open her mouth, and she had buckled, dropped her eyes, looked away, chest heaving.
“Whatever cover story you have, little one, you are a liar. I know that pattern you see— you only know yourself. We are going to enjoy you— you are not like ‘O’ in the book, you see; she hated and feared pain, only endured it because she had to.
“Girls like you, though, pretty Sophia, have a much more complex relationship with being hurt, a much more interesting one. It isn’t anything as simple or silly as ‘I like pain’; for how could that be? Pain is a bodily alarm call, it is fundamentally distressing. No, pain still hurts girls like you; it’s not that you don’t feel it— you may even feel it more strongly than most. But what’s interesting is your fascination for the experience of deliberately inflicted pain. It’s a psychological condition, and you, my poor dear, are somewhere in that zone, and, whether you accept the diagnosis or not, we are going to exploit it for our enjoyment.”
“Which brings me back to the immediate: we have to deal with your failure to take care of these lovely tits, that pretty pussy. These pins are as painful as they are because they are inflamed— they have become seriously infected.”
“Treatment is required immediately if serious damage is not to be done. This can be done in a hospital, without much pain— drugs mostly— and will take a week or two. You will be asked about how they come to be in these places, why you didn’t take them out, and there may be a psychological diagnosis. In my hospital days, i would certainly have insisted on one in such a case. Self-harm is often evidence of high-risk conditions.”
“Or— and you are lucky, for we have minor surgery facilities here— I can deal with the problem much more directly and rapidly. You see you are in the private suite of my rather exclusive beauty treatment centre, with a cosmetic surgery clinic on the upper floor. I am a cosmetic surgeon.
The treatment I prescribe will of course be very painful, using heated acupuncture needles to cauterise the wounds, and you will not be offered anaesthesia. The infections at your labia are really quite bad— indeed you are lucky not to have developed sepsis, foolish girl. The labia will need larger needles, and the holes will become permanent— too large to heal, even over time. We will take advantage of these to insert grommets in your labia, useful for decorative and control purposes later.”
“It is up to you, pretty. either I will arrange for a taxi to take you to hospital right now, or you will commit yourself to my care.”
