You will want to have read the previous parts.

Into my despair, then, came the leader of the gang which had raped me. The cocky young man, who I could not encounter without reliving the beginning of that gang-rape, the way he had grinned into my horrified face, on all fours in the cold, filthy puddle, having just had my ankles brutally kicked out from under me; grinning, letting me see just how much he was enjoying my shock and fear before grabbing a handful of my hair and pushing my face down into the water, to terrify me more, to make me weak, to conquer me, as he had successfully done, again and again since— his the first cock to be forced into my throat, his the control over me as I prostituted myself to them in the yard, he the one who had overseen my week of ’training'.

I had grovelled before him, tried to be perfect sex avatar for him in Delicious mode in the mornings, desperately trying to delay the inevitable whipping, had let him tie me down, knowing he was about to thrash me until I could not contain my hysteria, then, even more weakly compliant after the devastation of the beating, done my best again to be Delicious for him. His appearance beside me, very casual, grinning a little to himself, looking me over as a man looks at a whore, without regard for the person inside the body, me drowning in confusion and despair, had a tumultuous and shocking impact.

His simple arrival somehow triggered a set of realisations, realisations like earthquakes. Realisations is a word about something that goes on inside your head, but these were far more than simply thoughts; they were like steel barriers slamming into place, permanent changes to what I could ever hope for, and they did something to me that has never been healed; like an earthquake, they destroyed any remains of a firm footing for me. I became unmoored, at that moment, unmoored from normal life, from myself, from all morality, all society.

And to be unmoored is to be forever uncertain, forever seeking, never safe, never sure, forever frightened, weak, needy, without shelter or home, without comfort save in fleeting moments. It is a terrible and wonderful existence. Obviously terrible, less so the wonderful; but until you have been unmoored, you can never experience anything fully; everything must be filtered through the certainties you have, because those certainties are your moorings, and you are certain you need them.

I had not asked to be unmoored, had struggled, under relentless pressure from R., to retain what I could of mine, despite his continually showing me, proving to me that there was that in me which could not be satisfied without the certainties being violated.

But still, even in the face of the week of insane, violent, determined attempt to get me to erase myself which my submission to D. had unleashed upon me, intended to destroy me, to make me give up on everything, I had resisted. And this resistance, of course, was what had caused D. to reject me.

But it had not failed; had indeed, it turned out, been designed for this moment, when my fragility was at its maximum, when my reality would reveal itself to me.

The trigger was so simple; just him appearing next to me, a total surprise to me, coming as it did as a flood of relief; gratitude, joy, even, and it was that flood which had triggered the transformation.

I had been near suicidal; despairing, helpless, hopeless, filled with self disgust. Those feelings didn’t go away, but they were revealed as small, silly, distractions by his presence. What replaced them should obviously have been hatred, revulsion, anger, fear— any or all of those would have made sense; but instead there was this deep, powerful, instant and comforting feeling of gratitude.

I knew it was wrong, but I also know that not only could I not reject it, but that I didn’t want to, that his appearance had saved me, that all I wanted to do— what I must do, immediately— was go down to my knees and kiss his feet.

So I did, without thought, spreading my knees wide as I had been taught that week that I must, for fear of cruel punishment, in the privacy of my apartment; now, right there in the public street I was lifting my ass, letting the wind, gusting a little, flip my skirt up, so that I was displaying my whip-welted buttocks to the world; I knew that this was a terrible, shaming thing to be doing, but also felt proud of myself— deeply, humbly proud that I was being so good.

And that’s when the realisations hit.

I’m not just doing this, I’ve become this.

I’m going to be nothing, nothing but a whore, forever.

My life is over, apart from this. It’s not some thing that goes alongside my life— lawyer by profession, sex slave in her free time. It’s real and I’m lost in it. Everything’s gone, apart from this.

So many things disappeared from me in those moments. Most of my life had been spent on working hard, trying to become someone, socially and professionally, and now, immediately, all of that was to be erased, superseded, because none of it was compatible with being a cunt, with being the eager, needy and willing, slavish sex-toy of a cruel and powerful man. The sex toy whose best feeling all day had been to be collected by her owner’s slave trainer in chief, the man whose shiny black boots she was tenderly kissing in the public street, her skirts flipped up, showing her pussy to the world, who could feel her breasts popping out of the top of the skimpy dress and who was moving to make sure they did, so that she could feel good about herself.

Family, job, friends, learning, skills, choices, agency, status, name even— all were to be denied her, given up; already gone, though I had not known it until that moment.

Oh the words had been said, had rattled around in my head, had been pondered, explored, the implications understood at some abstract level; but until that moment it had been just that— words— ideas, thoughts, projections.

Now, everything was real and it shattered me, left me trembling, empty, tears wanting to spill from my eyes. The gratitude was gone, everything was gone, replaced with a terrible emptiness, which I somehow knew would never be filled.

A hole where Chloe had been. It is all still there in my head, of course; Chloe— I can still access her if I choose to, even today— but I rarely do— everything there is washed-out now, insignificant, a pallid sketch of an imaginary person cannot fill the hole.

Only being used helps. Being used by someone who knows how to use me; and that is all I am now— a creature which offers itself for use; carefully, softly, because the sucking void that is the hole inside me is not attractive, not interesting, not worthy of anything; it is disgusting and shameful and ugly; so I am Delicious, now, as sexy and fuckable and coyly slutty as she can be, until she can become Whore, which is what she lives for.

And when he put a hand in my hair and pulled me upright, something else happened, something astonishing and terrifying and glorious, something which flowed directly from that empty hole, that tearing need, that terror of having to live with what was left of me, the nothingness, the waste, the shame, as I found myself reacting to him as I had only really reacted to one man ever in my life (though in the Hotel with Sir D, I had been sure it would transfer to him, there had been no hint of it, earlier, in the park cafe)— I was rapidly suffused with weak, soft, hot desire.

It wasn’t just the need to be fucked to distract me from the hole inside me, it was the eagerness of my body to be fucked, as it had come to be with R.— a feeling I had early on thought was love, then later understood to be submissive desire— and it took me, so that I faltered and my breath stopped, then came back with a rush and I felt myself blushing, my pulse racing, my pussy flooded with moist heat, my nipples stiffening, my jaw going loose, my throat tight, tears filling my eyes, though I urgently blinked them away.

I was too well-schooled by then to dare to look him in the face, or speak, but I was desperate to do both, to tell him, to beg him, to let him see just how ready I was, how needy, how soft and eager I was to have him use me, use me greedily and selfishly, to crush me with his lust, and I did everything I could within the tight rules of behaviour which had been beaten into me by him and his gang of thugs, to make my condition obvious to him, horribly shy and ashamed, but not letting that stop me in my attempt to have him see how needy I was.

And it worked, as he said— the first ever time I had heard anything but relaxed confidence in his voice;

“Something’s changed with you, darlin’, has it?”

And he twisted the hand in my hair, hurting me, to lift my head up, so that I was forced to face him, and I let him see my eyelids fluttering, licked my dry lips, did nothing to control the trembling, tucking my hands behind my back submissively, pulling my shoulders back to push my breasts forward, one nipple exposed from my efforts down there on my knees, and whimpered my lust for him, as I had only ever done before for R., hearing myself exactly the same— only this time not for a delightful and long-term lover, but for a man who was almost a stranger to me, a brutal rapist.

My body demanded it and I managed to speak, though my voice was not much more than a husky whisper, full of the tears that I was holding back, as well as the sexual need that was pulsing in my belly;

“You … you … rape …me … please, Sir?”

I felt my whole body working to radiate sincerity and urgent need alongside those words, and he laughed at me and put his other hand up between my legs, very direct, no attempt to make it discreet, even though we were in the street; and I, too, was very direct and open about my body’s delirious response to his touch, the lust rising to a new level, my hips surging, one foot lifting off the pavement immediately, in order to open myself to him, leaning in toward him so that my own weight pressed him more deeply into me, giving myself to him without reserve, welcoming him, asking for more with my body, hips thrusting for him, and he laughed again, burning my cheeks with shame, although there was nothing the shame could do to deter my body for begging him for what it wanted; God but I had missed this, having had so little of it with R. recently, as his interest and time had been transferred to the new girl, and the gratitude came back, stronger, and my whole body yearned for this cruel, sneering, arrogant young man to throw me down and take me.

“Well blow me down, the Guv’nor was right then! I couldn’t see it being so quick, but he had you nailed, darlin!”

He had three fingers right inside me then, hurting me and shaming me and it was unspeakably welcome and I couldn’t stop my hips pumping for him or my mouth from thanking him, sighing deeply as he plundered me, even as tears finally escaped me and softly wet my cheeks; the intensity of it all— the loss, the heat, the shame, the fear, the need, my helpless vulnerability so raw and desperate and he could have done anything with me then; he was my God at that moment.

That experience, of feeling that a stranger— an abusive, greedy, aggressively selfish abuser — is my new God, is now almost familiar (though just as shocking each time, to have it revealed to me); the hole that is me is so empty that it takes very little to become my God, to own me completely, to have me helplessly dedicated to the service of this new abuser, even as they make we weep and wail with hurt and shame, and pant and moan my urgent sexual neediness for them, hiding nothing, giving them everything, so that they may take me as deeply, as thoroughly, as violently as possible. So that I may experience what it is to mean something for a few fleeting minutes.

“Tell me, then girly, how do you want it?”

The answer was known— the same scene had passed before for me with R., but it didn’t make it easier to say;

“Any … any way that pleases you, Sir”

And it was true; that was how I wanted it. I couldn’t have told him how I wanted him to use me; I needed him only to want to use me for it to be my whole concern to serve that want, however it manifested.

And so it was, that I became broken; not that it was a singular moment; I was to learn that one can be broken again and again. But that was the first time, the most momentous minutes of my short life. Not minutes where anything violent or extreme was being imposed upon me, not a moment of intensity, not a moment with anyone special. Just when an insignificant cunt realised that it was nothing else, that it had ceased to mean anything that was not implied by the word ‘cunt’. A meaningless moment. My deletion made fact. I suppose I should feel something about it— but there is no point having feelings, apart from the unavoidable one, the one that possesses a cunt in every waking minute— the feel of the need to be fucked; urgent, insistent, quickly desperate.