She Asked for It...

"You ... you can't be serious."

"I mean ... I ... I went with you to that place -- yes, OK, The Castle. I did it for you! I went."

"And ... and yes it ... it was a turn on... That ... that blonde girl ... Yes. Yes I did ... like ... her. And yes ... yes I did, did watch her getting ... being hurt."

"Okay."

"OK, so yes; yes I did say it might be ... might be 'fun' to let you treat me like her -- a little bit. I'm sitting ... I'm sitting here naked, aren't I? Like you want? With ... with my pussy out, my ... my legs spread. I have my hands behind me. I had my pubes trimmed like hers, my hair done. I ... I let you s-spank me ..."

A long pause, a shuddering breath;

"I ... I let your ... your friends ... fuck me. All ... all of them ... twice. And ... and I went to that horrible man on my own, like you asked me to, and ... and let him ... let him do me; sucked his ... sucked his thing the way he wanted, even though ... even though he really hurt me and ... and made me crazy."

"I did! I did all these things! I did them-- did them for you! And ... and I ... I guess I'll do them again, or ... or maybe other things ... I guess. I guess. I don't know ..."

"But what! Go there -- that place -- OK. OK, sorry! I'll try and remember it has a proper name if it's so important -- The Castle. OK? Better? But -- go there for two weeks! Two whole weeks! Be ... used ... used like that girl? By ... by anyone -- just anyone? Fucking chains! Fucking WHIPS! No! No! ... NO!"

Silence. How can he be so calm? she thinks -- she's on the verge of tears herself, having to make extreme efforts not to get hysterical, to lose this important chance to take back a little control of this relationship for once. Just a tiny bit. Some ... some little bit of her own voice?

Why isn't he saying anything?

Why can't I control my breathing -- my chest is heaving -- he's -- just looking, right at my tits moving, and smiling to himself!

Shit -- I'm losing it, I'm losing it...

"No! No! Don't ... don't make me ... Please! Please, don't. Please?"

Christ you stupid, stupid girl! He'll think he's won now -- look at him now, the handsome bastard; all serious. He knows -- he knows it. He knows he's won.

"I'm not ... I won't ... No! Absolutely not. I just..."

"I just won't."

I'm not even convincing myself, now. Stop ... Just, stop. Maybe he'll forget it.

Ah, who are you trying to kid, anyway? Shit. Shit!

A long silence. Her breathing is irregular, and yes the movement of her nipples, the way they jiggle -- is fascinating. He's sure they will be even more interesting under the whip.

More silence, then;

"You are such a silly girl sometimes. Of course I won't make you go, pretty. It was just a suggestion -- a thought -- something to talk about."

"When have I ever forced you to do anything? You're really a lovely little thing, but you can be quite ridiculous -- paranoid, even. You'll go when you're ready, of course, and not before. That's how it will be. You'll tell me; ask. You'll ask if you can go. You'll look forward to it. If not, you won't go. Simple. I won't mention it again, if you don't want me to."

Tears.

No; no don't cry, stupid! Not now!

Why can't I stop them? Relief?

No. No, it's not relief. God damn him, he's won. He has! He fucking knows he has, as well!

'... When you're ready' the clever bastard, he's put it on me. All on me. Sometime, sometime -- either when he's done something really sweet like that lovely weekend away, or the opera -- or maybe sometime he's going away for weeks again -- who knows? Sometime; sometime I'll be weak, and needy, and wanting to please and I'll just say it.

Stop. Crying. You. Silly. BITCH!

That's better. OK, posture, girl, posture! Shoulders back. No, don't wipe your eyes. Turns out he likes runny mascara, remember? Sick bastard.

OK ... OK, he's looking at the pussy. Good. Good idea. Oh God, yes, what a good idea -- let's fuck. Oh come on please ... pleeease. That would be sooooo good! Fuck me! Come on! Fuck me now!

Raise the bum up, up onto my knees, really open the pussy -- offer it to him. Please! Please?

Here he comes -- oh God, oh god, here he comes ... Oh why do I like this so much, so fucking much?

OH, OK, shit -- he wants the mouth. OK -- OK mouth is good.

Christ, but he's so rough these days! Oooww! OK, OK, I'm open. Do it. Ram me, ram it into me. Oh ... Oh God... so ... so fucking ...

Ah!

Glub glub glub.

Hands behind back, Christ that hurts! Nipples! aaaaaaah!! Let him, let him; accept the pain -- you know it now, girl, you know how, it's just what he likes, let him, let the bastard hurt you ... take it... feel it ... ... Lean in ... lean in ... deeper, deeper. Open yourself ...

God my pussy feels good now; so hot ... so Ah! Ah! AAAh!

So ... fucking ... hot ...

Ack! Achhk! Achk Ack!

Oh god ... oh god, he's pulling out ... offer ... offer him the pussy. Yes! Yes, Spread! Wider! Push it at him, beg with it! Please!!

Head down, ass up, thighs wide, jerk, twitch those hips, girly, beg for it, show him, let him see just how much I need it, Jesus what a fucking slut but I don't care I don't care I don't care ...

Gimme, gimme gimme ... pleeease ...

Just ... just fucking fuck me, please?

Fuuuuuck!

Aaaah! Oh fuck that is so ... AAAaaahhh.

AAAAghAaagh! Yes. YesyesyesyesYeees!

Crying again. So grateful. Ohfuck, thank you, thank you, thank you, oh! oh I am going to make this so beautiful for you you beautiful bastard ...

Later, over dinner, in an elegant little restaurant of the type he knows so many of, she can't stop smiling, staring at him.

He's been so lovely all afternoon -- walk by the river in the bright winter sunshine, skating at the outdoor rink in the park, hours browsing in the second-hand bookshops, his hand up her skirt in the bookstacks, steamy kisses, helpless giggles, his fingers deep in her pantieless sex, glorious, risky, exciting, wet and so, so sexy.

Only he can make days like this.

While waiting for the dessert, he reaches out, takes her hands in his -- strong, but tender, too. He spreads them apart a little, until it is clear to both of them that he is looking at the effect this movement has on her breasts in the thin low cut dress.

She is happy and sad at the same time; her body again. Sex is so obviously what they have -- she is under no illusions that any of the other stuff, wholeheartedly as he chooses it, fun though it is, has any real depth.

Her body, though, the use of her body, control of her body...

But she likes this too, she knows.

Like it? I fucking glory in it! It makes my knees and belly tremble so much it's frightening!

And thus the happiness, the sadness, the shame and yes the fear. All mixed. All mixed so often that she cannot tease them apart -- no longer tries to. They are all part of this ... this weakness, this fascination. This neediness. This glory.

And so she smiles, in that soft, weak, questioning way that he enjoys so much -- the smile she makes when he pushes her sexual boundaries, when he reminds her that she is a sex-object, when she cannot resist feeling happy that he likes her as a sex object, at the same time as she understands that he is about to demand something of her -- outrageous, humiliating, harsh, degrading. Exciting.

He lowers her hands back onto the table.

"I forgot to say something important, earlier; my friend -- 'that horrible man' as you called him -- he wants you again, I'm afraid."

"Actually, I'm not at all 'afraid'; really, I'm pleased; pleased that he wants you again, pleased that you served him well for me, even though you so didn't want to do it; and pleased because -- well, because I like lending you to other men, knowing what it costs you, what it does to you; what it says about how you understand what I want from you. A week on Friday, for three nights. He'll have guests -- you'll service them all. You'll have to take time off work."

She's trying to maintain her smile, but it's broken -- a bleak memory of her lightness of mood only a few seconds before.

He holds her hands, still; not tightly, but just enough so that she doesn't try to pull away. He has her, and there is something comforting in being held -- even when she knows he is holding her to bind her to his will, to get her to accept this -- this outrage.

Because it is an outrage!

Oh! Oh how can he do this to me? Here? After ... after such... Oh...

Oh but what did you expect you silly bitch -- just this morning he was telling you you're expected to go to that castle place for two weeks -- so why exactly are you even here with him? And how can you act surprised at this? You've done it before remember -- this is just more of the same. More of being a sex-toy for his mates.

She seems to have lost the knack of breathing. Suddenly it's cold; she's trembling.

I can't even imagine saying the word 'no' out loud. Can't even see how I could even try. Pathetic. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus what ... what happens now?

Oh my God. I... I just can't believe this. It's crazy! It can't be! I can't! I just can't! No! I won't, I won't!

But ... that's just what I thought last time, and ... and I was a lot angrier, a lot more upset that time, and I still went, in the end, didn't I?

Still let that nasty man do horrible things to me, such horrible, awful things -- and so cruel ... I still did all those degrading things for him -- without even arguing. Knelt down and ... and... and ...

I made it good for him, too. Shamed myself ...

And I now can never not be the girl who did that. Never not know that about myself. That a vile beast like that can ... can have me come for him, helplessly ...

A fucking massive, crying, begging, jerking, twitching, unmistakeably glorious come off. For a nasty grey old man in a musty old suit in a creepy old house that hasn't been properly clean in years.

And thanked him for it, even though he was laughing at me.

Right then, unlooked for, something strong comes over her, unstoppable; she looks up, and hears herself speak;

"I ... could ... Could I? Could I go ... go to The Castle -- instead? I mean ... that ... that's what you want, isn't it? For me to go there?"

Then she stops, realising what she's said, frozen. Hearing the words repeat in her head, replaying, in her mind, the motions her mouth made as she said those words. Unbelieving. Horrified. Appalled.

Her heart is stone. She knows, deep inside her, that she must, right now, immediately, take it back, deny it, revoke it, pull back. Run from the restaurant, if need be. Never see him again, if that is what it cost. She must do this. Right. Now.

That she has to.

Go! Go now! Get out of here you stupid cow!

But in reality, she stays just as she is, waiting, eyes looking down at the table, unable to meet his gaze, incapable (soon, she will learn -- through disproportionate and impersonal cruelty, never to meet a man's gaze unless instructed to, and she will find this demeaning, disempowering and degrading, as it is of course intended to be, and at the same time all too easy to comply with; welcome, fitting even).

There is silence. A long, long silence. Her words echo, repeat in her head -- an infernal loop, driving her toward hysteria; terror on a feedback loop that she cannot break out of.

Her whole body wants to turn in on itself, hide itself, fold itself out of existence, hide from the unbearably intensity of what this means.

But something stronger grips her; she won't -- cannot -- let herself look ugly in front of him. Ridiculous, of course --he's seen her all ways, now -- pressed between two of his friends, being humped, fucked from back and front, sweating and moaning and crying -- all ways ... But still, while she can control herself, she will not let her face crumple, will not let the tearing despair and sadness take her over, won't take the risk of looking ugly.

And so she manages herself, biting her lips, savagely suppressing the hysteria, repressing the urge to flee, to scream, to rage at him. Wanting -- needing -- to look pretty for him. Fuckable, really -- for that's what it comes down to. She knows it is for sex that he keeps coming back, and she is very certain that she wants him to keep coming back -- and for her, too, she has to admit, it's largely about the sex; the sort of sex she has never had, that has opened up a world of wild experience she had never even dreamed was possible, for which she is now needy -- deeply needy. Sometimes she even uses the word 'addicted'; turning it over in her mind -- is she, can she be, actually addicted to the rough and increasingly abusive sex she has with him? That he has with her, to be more accurate. That she lets him impose upon her. That she accepts with troubling but undeniably deep, sweet gratitude.

Feeling like a specimen on a pin, she tries to look her best for her interested but -- she has had to realise -- uncaring 'lover'. Waits. Holds herself. Suffers, fighting her own strong voices of self preservation, of sanity, of justifiable fear. Repressing them too; knowing she is condemning herself, and doing it anyway.

Waits, feeling his eyes upon her, on her breasts as they move with her uneven, jerky breathing -- the visible evidence of her inner turmoil at the proposal she has just made, at her own inability to retract it, to save herself.

It's most interesting and entertaining, and he lets it play out, savouring the moment, watching closely. There is only one moment like this for each girl -- and although he is getting better at it, eight months is his record; this one has taken ten. They are rare and precious, these moments.

At last;

"The Castle ... Huh. Well, maybe that could work. He could visit you there, take his guests, too, if he wished. But you'd have to have been there for a little while, first -- there are certain protocols -- standards to uphold ..."

He sounds as if he is discussing a work event.

"Hmmm ... well ..."

Another long pause; her anguish stretched until she is sure she must die from it, her chest rising and falling, neck twisting; to one side then, almost savagely, to the other, as she seeks to ward off the torment, the torrent of her feelings. Why is she so warm, so eager, so filled with yearning? This is all wrong. They will destroy her, crush her, rape her, whip her, degrade her. Like ... like that poor, glorious, incandescent blonde ...

At last;

"Very well; OK. It's a little sooner than I had imagined, but it might be acceptable. I could take you there next Sunday."

He sounds as if he's talking to himself, seeing whether he can see a way to fit in with a slightly awkward request -- as if it is her who is causing this difficulty, rather than his outrageous demands of her!

He takes out his 'phone. She is just waiting, a puppet with no controller, except that she is trembling, tinily, and there are tears in her eyes. It's not even going to save her from the horrible man, this Castle thing.

But then again, nothing is going to, is it?

The tears are an unstoppable response to the strange, deep knowledge that has appeared in her mind. That this is it. That her life, as it has been, is over; finished. Just like that -- gone. Career, family, hopes and dreams, friends, interests, fashion, shopping, holidays, conversations, having a point of view ... That she has a week to say goodbye to the world. That she will never again be free -- not in the normal way, never.

It is such an odd feeling, as he scrolls through his appointments, to realise that she is perfect for this. That she will be utterly unable to resist. That she will be as lost as that lovely blonde girl. That she is going to be whipped, and chained, and fucked, and abused, and degraded, forever. And that a big part of her is eager, eager to be relieved of all the responsibility of maintaining herself as a person, of striving to be interesting, to be moral, to matter, to be someone ... That a big part of her is thinking this is a good bargain; her life, in return for wild and abusive sex and the burden of choice being lifted from her.

Abruptly, she looks up.

"What about tonight?"

"I mean, what if you took me there now, right now? After all, if I'm any good, I'll still be there in a fortnight, won't I? They're never going to let me leave, are they? Not really; not until they're tired of me, anyway. And I suppose I will just have to work hard to make sure they don't get tired of me, like that blonde girl. She was so, so helplessly ... willing. It was the most remarkable thing about her."

"Will ... will they help me become ... be like that?"

He looked at her, steadily, impressed in spite of himself, but damned if he'll show it, and the question offers him a way in;

"You won't have any choice in the matter, silly. You will become just what Anne-Marie decides she wants of you. She'll decide what she wants you to be -- and you'll be made into that."

This hits her hard, and she has to work hard not to jump up and start screaming abuse at him -- it streams through her mind, like molten iron, searing. It is over swiftly though -- the tantrum is suppressed -- as she will have to suppress so much, for ever, now, and at the last she manages a funny, desperate, little smile; trying so, so hard not to become pathetic, not in her last few hours.

"Well, that's settled, then. I'll ... I'll go when ... when you take me. I ... I don't think I want to have any choices about anything at all, now. Not any more. Is that OK? Will ... will you control me, now, please?"

Of course, that isn't it -- game over -- just like that. Breaking a girl in to create a Castle Toy is a steady, slow and painstaking process, different each time, requiring great skill and judgement, borne of long experience and deep attention. But the gears are in motion, now. She is trapped; has trapped herself. She is over.