The Story of S Pt19.

You will want to have read the earlier parts of this story first.

“It’s just … just that it’s so terribly, terribly cruel? So terribly, terribly hard to … to live with the idea; the reality that … that, if … if I decide to go through with this thing, that you … that you’ll all do … do such awful things to me … all … all the time. That that will be my whole life. Never … never anything else, ever again.”

“That … that the experience of those awful things— them being everything I experience, everything I can hope for will make it harder, all the time harder, for me to resist offering myself for more awful things; easier for you to get me to accept even worse things, until … until I’ll be … ruined. And then … and then you’ll throw me away.”

Her voice is quiet, controlled— desperately, ruthlessly controlled— but impassioned, nevertheless. A girl begging for her life, from the man with the power— fully acknowledged between them— to control her, absolutely. A man who wants her to give him her life. A man whom she is urgently desirous of pleasing, in any way she can, since she cannot imagine life without him to control her.

So that she knows she is doomed; that all that is going on, him having asked her to speak her mind, open up about how she felt, that really, it’s just him playing with her, watching her wriggle and writhe with the appalling reality of her certain fate, because it amuses him.

And feeling, inside her, a savage, self-destructive response to this; a cruel pleasure in ripping herself apart in front of him, for no other reason that it makes him feel good for a few minutes (she is under no illusions that she means anything deep to him at all; knows that she is disposable; he has already told her, in casual conversation, that he has found another girl since he last saw her; of the same general type, of course; young, knockout sexy, vulnerable, self-esteem issues, unsatisfied but urgent libido— all that; but this one is the step-daughter of an old friend; known her since she was 12; lovely child, just nineteen now, and he’s asked me to subvert her for him. Divorced the mother, wants revenge, have her daughter as an eager voluntary sex-toy; nasty business, really. But then, what we’re doing to you is a nasty business, isn’t it? Who am I to judge him? Especially when it’s going to be such fun!)

They are sitting, she and he, in the same cafe they had talked in, that first day; it seemed a particularly cruel choice to Essy when he’d proposed it, but then, with a weak, sad attempt at a wry smile to herself, she’d realised that that was exactly the point.

I am giving myself to cruelty; asking for cruelty, and they are ruthless sadists. What else should I expect?

She had been astonishingly happy to hear his voice on the ‘phone; stupidly, unreasonably happy, so that she had actually cried, unable to control herself; cried and sunk to her knees, right there in her workshop, with her assistant on the other side of the room.

“Essy, where are you?”

“Oh … thank … thank god it’s you, I’ve been …”

The words had burst from her, soft and weak, but urgent and needy too— it was no surprise to her that she should be so affected by getting the call she’d been on tenterhooks about for days, but its actual impact on her— so powerfully physical, could not have been imagined I am so much weaker, so much more desperate, than I allow myself to realise.

“Whatever you’ve been, it means nothing, pretty cunt. No-one cares. No-one will ever care again. Short, to-the-point answers to direct questions, immediate pretty compliance, is what is required. Nothing else.”

“Sorry … of … of course … yes.”

Silence, expectant, suddenly understood;

“Yes … Yes Sir,” would her assistant have heard?

It doesn’t really matter of course; Essy’s life is now just a shell (my old name, ‘Shell’— so accurate; trying to stake out a future by choosing Esperanza instead … what a pathetic failure; all I did was weaken my hold)— but still, the shame of her pathetic collapse, such a rapid collapse, too, was hard to bear with people who knew her as the apparently so together, so forthright, so confident Essy.

“And …?”

“Oh! Oh, sorry … Sir, at … at work, Sir.”

“Stop making yourself ridiculous, when you’re already pathetic. Try for two or three words, And avoid stammering. Now; is there anyone with you?”

“Yes, Sir;” the cost to Essy of delivering those two words astonishing to her, audible in her tone. She has crushed herself for him; all her emotions, the desperate struggle of the last days to hold onto herself while she worked through the cruel formalities of the Voluntary Commitments, the utterly weird business of drafting her own submission, all of that to be tossed aside; uninteresting, unacceptable.

No-one will ever care about me again. At best I will be tolerated on the basis of it being fun to be cruel to me, fun to rape me, to ruin me; to watch me ruin myself.

“Is there a private space where you can talk, close at hand?”

“Yes, Sir”

“Go there now. Do not speak to anyone. Report when you’re there, on your knees.”

Her heart was full of what only a month before, she would have sworn was swelling love; drowning in the reality of him; of him speaking to her, of it mattering to him where she was, how she spoke, even that he had called her ‘pretty cunt’; all of it was lovely, deeply and powerfully so; but he was right, she was pathetic; to feel so swooningly overwhelmed by weak and powerless gratitude in response to being spoken to in such carelessly domineering tones, to being bossed about so disrespectfully could only speak of her having lost any last vestige of self-respect, self-care.

To experience such a powerful rush of heat at her crotch spoke of another shameful truth, that she had almost immediately been overtaken by a tsunami of sexual arousal, to the extent that her legs were shaking, and she was glad to sink to her knees as soon as the store-room door closed behind her.

I deserve everything they want to do to me, no matter how dark.

“I’m here, Sir.”

“Knees open wider, even if they are already parted. Are you wearing any underwear?”

“Only a light bra, Sir. My … my nipples chafe, otherwise.”

“Not good enough. Remove it. Any bra must not cover the nipple. If you’re sore there, so much the better. You should find ways to keep them stiff. Maybe you can do it with your thoughts alone. You won’t use your hands, of course. We had a girl once who would shut her nipples in the door, one after the other. We don’t care; only that they are obviously stiff as often as practical; that you spend time thinking about keeping them stiff and visibly so, that you take care to walk so that your tits sway, your nipples obviously moving, so that people are encouraged to think about your availability for fucking, for use and abuse.”

It occurred to her that although she hadn’t made any Voluntary Commitments thus far, hadn’t been formally accepted as one of their girls, that he was acting as if she was already a slave, and this produced some very complex feelings, of which the first, shaming and at the same time delightful, was the lovely feeling she had missed so much; ‘He wants me, they want me— I’m not completely worthless, even if I am a dirty slut. The second feeling, a distant second, was a soft, sad despair at being spoken to so, and a weak, useless sense of injustice at being treated so before she had asked for it.

They told me though; he told me; the Mechanic— that the Commitments are of little interest to them— that they will do as they please with me, whatever I’ve asked for; it’s me that polices myself according to the Commitments. I could complain to him now … but I’m never going to, because I’m so stupidly, pathetically grateful that he wants to be mean to me, that he wants me learn to behave better, so he can be mean to me in the future, which means that I have a future— even of it is a future as a sex-toy to be constantly demeaned and degraded…

“Yes, Sir. Thank you Sir. I’m taking it off. My nipples are very stiff for you Sir.”

“And between your legs?”

“I … It’s wet for you, Sir”

It was true, and her hips were moving too, her heart bumping, pulse racing, mouth open to breath more air; trembling, too, all of it out of her control.

“I take it, then, that you have been working on your Commitments?”

“Yes, yes, Sir”

“Good girl.” The patronising compliment brought tears of weak happiness to her eyes, even as she sneered at herself for her foolishness.

“Thank you. Thank you Sir.”

“The cafe where we first talked, at 3:30. On the dot.”

“Yes … yes Sir, only … only I’m in my work clo…”

“You really must remember, pretty cunt; no-one cares. Just obey. Soon, even such small failures on your part will risk enormous, devastating retribution; cruelty which will have you shaking for days.”

And the line went dead.

It was indescribable, how much him talking to her had meant to her. She was forced to see how tightly strung she had become, existing in limbo, unsure of anything but her own desperate neediness, her powerlessness, the bleakness of everything, even the brightest hope one of total degradation.

It had taken her almost immediately, still in the hotel, trailing after Luly; the hollowness, the terrible fear of being left alone with her new reality, not controlled; somehow having to go through the motions of being Essy, even though that girl was over.

She’d been momentarily distracted by Luly, who had taken advantage of Madam walking ahead of them to whisper, urgently into Essy’s ear;

“I’ll as Madam to tell The Mechanic he should have us both at the same time. I want to watch him sewing you up, then raping you; he’ll like it too, I think, seeing how terrified I get. Maybe he’ll get me to sew your pussy shut; maybe I’ll get him hard for you with my mouth. Then, the next day, it will be my turn and you can sew me up, watch me get ruined. Because I don’t think I’ll last long after another session with him, and I want someone to remember me.”

The horror of what had been done to Luly’s young mind had stunned her, so that she was all but totally numb in the limousine, while Luly and Madam improbably chatted about arrangements, Luly clearly acting as some sort of PA for Madam.

When the car stopped, close to Cafe Otto, Essy had to be shaken by Luly, brought back to the world, made to understand that she must get out, reclaim her bag.

Luly handed her a piece of paper with some printed web addresses— references for the Voluntary Commitments, she was told by Madam;

“You should study these, and prepare a set of Commitments for us— your first— keep them simple, and don’t go too far. We’ll contact you when we choose— it will be at least a few days, probably longer. The Mechanic has decided he does want a go with you, so you have that to look forward to.”

To live in a world in which someone could say such a thing to her; worse, for it to be in some sense a compliment, a sign of success…

As soon as she entered the cafe, after causing a minor sensation walking down the road in her indecent rags, the manager hurried from the back, first barring her progress, then stepping forward, so that Essy had to retreat. In a tense, angry undertone, the woman told her she must leave.

Essy, blushing, feeling tears rising, could hardly bring herself to speak— only the need for her house keys compelling her;

“… but I left my bag; it has my keys— please?”

“Round the back, please, miss— I’ll send the kitchen boy with whatever we picked up. Never come here again, you … filthy slut!”

The kitchen ‘boy’ had in fact been a large man about 35, both tall and heavily fleshy, with huge hands, the fingers like fat sausages, his skin more grey than pink, shiny with sweat and grime. He was not at all interested in sending Essy away. Instead, he kept her bag behind him, and pretended that she had to prove her identity to him before he’d give it to her, all the while he was grinning and leering at her, and she had no strength to put him to rights, none, and found herself simply begging;

“Please, please, mister, I’m … I just need my bag back, need to get home— all my …” and she had to swallow a sob, lest tears fully overtake her, “… all my ID is in the bag.”

As soon as he understood her weary, defeated weakness, though, he became more direct;

“Show me your tits, then, whore; show me your pussy. I bet you have no panties on under there, slut.”

Something crystallised in Essy’s head at that moment, and it actually made her laugh, though it sounded just the same as the sob; just as weak and pitiful;

I’m being ridiculous, trying to defend my dignity with this horrible man. I don’t have any! He should just fuck me, rape me; it would save us both some trouble. I wouldn’t resist him. How could I?

But he doesn’t know that, and I can’t tell him. I’m not supposed to speak, anyway. I’m supposed to incite rape, not ask for it.

And then, quite simply, almost welcoming it, she set about inciting him to rape her, her hands at the last buttons of her blouse, then shuffling the skirt off her hips, sinking to her knees, spreading her thighs as she went down, hands at her back, trembling with fear, heart pounding, unable to deny the flame that had kindled in her belly at the reality of this.

This is what it will be like, all the time now; sex being the only thing anyone thinks about when they see me; sex being the only thing I have to offer, the easiest thing to do to spread my legs and ask for it that way, and wanting it, god help me; As excited as I am disgusted, horrified and frightened.

Her voice was soft, husky, intimate; she had no idea that she could talk like that, like a 50s starlet, about to be violated, aping Marilyn Monroe but suddenly knew she would be sounding like this all the time for them, now; it was just so right— provocative and advertising sexual weakness at the same time;

“Please … please, sir… anything. Anything, just, just I need my bag back, please, when … when you’re done with me.”

She felt rather than saw his shock— she was looking at his groin, as seemed appropriate; he clearly had not expected her to give in, and drew back a little— she sensed him suddenly nervous, wondering if this were some sort of trap, a hidden camera, perhaps— but then his resolve stiffened; she smelt it— he had reacted to his fear with anger, and it was going to be directed at her; she felt certain he was going to hit her as he lunged forward, wanted to defend herself, instead found herself clutching her elbows tight behind her, preventing herself from using her hands, though her body flinched and twisted, pathetically— she could feel her self respect being eaten away, as if with acid. This was becoming a public whore, weak and slutty beyond imagining, and yet it was all she could do.

And the underlying sick knowledge that it felt right; everything about it— the pain of the gravel under her knees, the searing self-disgust, the hot wetness between her legs, the way her hips were wanting to move I should let them, just let go, let him see— what do I have to hide?— and she did - simply let them move, just let her body do as it wished, showing him that a part of her, at least, was eager to be raped, even as the tears ran down her cheeks yet again.

But he didn’t hit her. Didn’t fuck her either, just tugged the elasticated waistband of his kitchen whites down, freeing his flabby, balloon-stretched belly, as sweaty and slick and grey as the rest of him, and, beneath it his small but very stiff, very ugly cock, and she…

I opened my mouth for him, and made it easy for his hand to push my head into his groin and…

“Ggleyergchh, glkk, glaerggh, gaaah!”

He tasted foul— all sweat and bitterness, and she nearly retched in her despair and distress, as his hands found and roughly mauled her breasts, as she made herself give her mouth to him.

Physically, he was easy— neither long enough to really enter her throat, nor thick enough to stretch her jaw, and it was all over very quickly, too, his cries high and nervous as he twitched his thin sour come into her mouth— but mentally, it was devastating, experiencing the way she gave her whole self to him— she felt it; the surrender— complete surrender to someone who was using her as nothing more than a masturbation aid, giving herself willingly, totally, no matter that it drowned her in despair that she was doing it, feeling the desperateness, the urgency of her need for him to enjoy himself using her, for him to come, knowing that she would be doing this forever, now.

He pulled out rapidly, took a couple of deep, ragged breaths, turned her head up to his with a hand in her hair, hurting her, and spat in her face; “Slut,” before shambling off, leaving her bag at the top of the steps, the same steps where, a couple of hours previously Madam had forced her fist into Essy’s stretched and hurting pussy, where, only a few minutes later, she had masturbated herself to orgasm for Luly’s phone camera.

The incident had, strangely, comforted her in the following days, as she had to hold herself together, struggling with it, working so that there would be something left for them to enslave, when they finally got around to it.

For being alone, without Mark, or Madam, or even the terrifying Mechanic, even Charles, being alone with what she had now to accept about herself, that she had lost everything except that part of her which could only deserve a generic term; ‘slut’ or ‘cunt’ or ‘whore’, while at the same time there was no-one to use her in that way, no-one to make it real, while she had still to go to work, still to feed herself, somehow not run screaming mad, or throw herself in front of a bus, or take enough pills to let her forget that she had ever existed, forget for all time.

Somehow continue.

And it was that brief, shaming grubby little blow-job, a blow-job for a weak, low-status bully which worked.

He was real, he knew nothing of the perverted sadists who had suborned her, nothing of her own weakness, depravity, dirtiness; he’d just needed to come, and she given him what he needed.

I deserved that spit. I’d never have looked twice at him a couple of months ago; would have destroyed him with words if he’d so much as suggested anything between us; when all along I was this slut, this weak and needy nymphomaniac, who makes no sense unless men like that can fuck her.

It wasn’t exactly a sustaining or healthy train of thought, but it was what she could hold on to; because frankly, thinking about what Mark, Madam, the Mechanic, Charles and whoever else was in the group who use that Voluntary Commitments document, with the terrifying enforcements scale and the grim phraseology, what those people would do to her made her knees turn to jelly and gave her the shakes.

And yet I still want it.

Do I?

Or is it that there is nothing else, now, for me. Nothing?

The sad truth was that it didn’t really matter. That she knew she was going to let them have her because it was the next thing to do, and she had no other purpose.

She would strive for some tattered remnant feeling of the lovely she had repeatedly experienced with Mark, without success, so that in the end she had ceased to believe it had ever happened— just some weird Stockholm Syndrome effect.

Reading the Voluntary Commitments pages, scanning her own tawdry, pissant but terrifying little list made her cry every time.

But every time she read them, they became more obvious, less contestable, more solid and real, until in the last few days it was them that she turned to; not for comfort, not at all— but for certainty.

And she began, dimly to see what the Mechanic had said; that her Commitments would become talismanic for her, even if no-one else knew that her throat was not her own, that she had asked the world to enforce that commitment with violence, up to and including whipping which left marks on her body, which drew blood (I wrote those words, typed them into my laptop, printed them out and carry them in my purse. I did.)

This is what I am now; what those Commitments say I am. There is nothing else. Nothing that matters at least.

And the soft tears and the weary self-hatred would take her, and she would go with it, when it told her that the only good use of her time now was to do the ‘yoga for sluts’ exercises some youtube channel had, or obsess over the trimming and plucking of her pubic hair, practise walking in the punishing heels Madam had bought her, going through her wardrobe with the big scissors she had brought home from her studio, cutting big swathes of fabric away, making slut outfits she would never dare wear unless ordered to.

It was both hard and easy not to masturbate. Hard, because the distraction of an orgasm would have helped, and because her body seemed continually primed for sex now; always hungry, always sending little rushes of hormones or whatever into her system at random moments, so that she would feel herself flush, feel the urge, the need for pressure between her legs; even the remembered pressure of Mark’s belt, Madam’s bunched fingers, even her hard fist, the crop she had disguised as a purse strap…

Even the imagined sharp push of a thick piercing needle, pulling a fishing line behind it …

Easy, because she knew she was forbidden. That sex was not hers any more. Sex belonged to other people. They chose when she would be fucked, and how, and how painfully, shamefully, disgracefully, destructively.

Their choice, not mine. I can only entice, advertise myself for use.

And Mark, sitting across from her in the pretty cafe, so very normal looking, just like all the others at their little tables, Mark just smiled at her, calmly, a little upturn at one corner the validating, excruciating sign that he was enjoying her begging; that he would not let her down; that he would not let her go; that he was indeed having her entertain him by opening up her innermost feelings of despair and fear at the thought of what he and the others would certainly do to her, and worse, even, she was sure, although she could not imagine it.

“Quite so, pretty thing; quite so.”

“And now it is time to get you out of those work clothes, and into something rape-worthy, before you throw yourself to the sharks.”

You can read the original Voluntary Commitments document— these will add detail to what you understand from this episode.