She Asked for It... Pt. 02

"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?"

During this little speech, she has raised her head to look him, full in the eye, and even though her voice is very soft, trembling, it is also very sincere. She means what she says when it comes like this, he knows.

Again, he's impressed, but doesn't show it. Instead he smiles -- a genuine, compassionate smile, slow, almost sad. She is struggling, he can see, to hold back a torrent of emotion. He, too, is suppressing strong feelings -- his dick is a painful bar in his pants; his smile turns rueful, then amused.

The callousness of this change nearly breaks her again -- compassion, she saw it -- but so fleeting, and now he's finding humour in the situation? Humour, when she has just given away her life?

Her mouth is full of a bitter, harsh tang. Her world has gone from happy excitement and tender feelings only a few short minutes ago to this bleakness. An inescapable future of sexual abuse. It's so hard to understand how this can be the choice she has made. So hard, but at the same time there is no question in her mind. That this is it -- this has been inevitable for weeks now, and fighting it, refusing even to accept that she is fighting it, has been eating at her more and more. Underneath the sadness, the storming emotional waves, there is, she knows, a deep, deep letting go of enormous buried tension.

And as she realises this, accepts it, the emotional intensity seems to just wash away. Is she sad? Yes, terribly. Is she frightened? Yes! Is she appalled at the lurking horror of having done to her what she saw done to the luscious blonde girl? At what must have been done to her for weeks, months before that to get her to the point where she would play her part so sweetly.

Yes, she is frightened, yes, she is sad -- so much so that she can't really bear to think of it. And so she is grateful for the calming distance that acceptance brings. It's all still there, just as raw, just as horrible, but it matters less. Because she has given in.

She has given herself to him. She is no longer responsible; it's going to happen, and she can't stop it -- so, what can she do about the fear and sadness but accept them, too?

All she can do is all she has ever really been able to do for him, she realises -- do her best to look pretty, look sexually inviting; it's so clear, in retrospect, that that's all it ever was to him -- that for him the fun was actually foreplay ('If I'm honest', she thinks; 'that's what it was for me, too..'). He watches her, as this thought sinks in, sees her take herself in hand, straighten her back, pull back her shoulders, spread her thighs a little, push out her chest, look meekly down at his hands, control her breathing, and his dick surges again, causing him to wince. This one is going to go down very well indeed!

Smiling -- a private smile now, he decides to be cruel to her, enjoy himself. Signalling the waiter, he asks for a brandy, and for an ice cream.

She'll be on tenterhooks, expecting him to phone someone, make arrangements, but there's no hurry -- The Castle is always open for new submissions.

He's going to enjoy this. He's never been cruel with her before. Sexually aggressive, yes, demanding, yes, but always he's worked on the basis of consent. Manipulated consent, perhaps, but she has always known that she has asked for everything, and he's never taunted her about it or abused her trust. He's never deliberately hurt her without it being some sort of game that she has agreed to play.

Now, though, things have changed. She's no longer really a person. Or soon won't be, once Anne-Marie has begun to work her magic (he freely admits, as do most Castle Members, that Anne-Marie's skill puts his own into the 'amateur' category). Soon to become; 'Tits, ass, three warm, wet holes, all wrapped up in a pretty package, presented with a scared little smile and a helpless desire to serve', as the cruder members like to put it.

It's time to have some fun with her, goad her, pressure her, begin to push her face into the harsh reality of her new existence. So he can watch as it sinks in for her, as she begins to understand just what it is she has done.

He still hasn't spoken since her request to be given over immediately; there is really no need -- everything changed at that point. But the entertaining part is that she won't understand this, has no idea at all, really, what has been going on for these ten months. For while he has never lied to her, he certainly has not told her the full truth.

And so she is sitting there, with nothing whatever to hold on to but her presentation of her body, everything else suddenly irrelevant, denied her, all claims null and void. But she is, she realises, waiting on something nevertheless -- some recognition from him, of her sacrifice, of her submission, of her gift of herself to him. Something.

But there's nothing. He says nothing, he stops looking at her even. She heard him order, hears the other diners' conversations -- so she hasn't gone deaf, despite the roaring of her own disordered pulse, all but random in her ears -- hasn't been too distracted by her inner turmoil to register -- easy as that would be to believe, so incessant is the whirlwind of wild thoughts in her head;

What about my pot-plants? How will they tell my work, so that I don't get registered as a missing person? They're going to whip me between the legs, like they did her, with people watching -- make me scream and howl like a mad thing. My pension! Will they steal my pension (as if its worth anything!)? His mark! I'll have his mark (he'd shown her how the blonde had a tattoo on her buttock that identified who had procured her for The Castle. The girl had two other marks -- she'd been bought and sold apparently; will he sell me?). Aunt Mary -- will she think I've forgotten her?/

It comes in waves, she discovers; waves of acceptance, when despite the terrible certainty of cruel abuse, of forced penetrations in front of laughing strangers that she has just offered herself up for, despite the many unanswered questions (questions she realises she probably never will be granted answers for) that relief of pressure -- of pressure that has been building for months -- is so welcome that she floats above it all.

Then, without warning, waves of panic, when the heart-wrenching cries of the blonde, her abject humiliation, comes back to her in excruciating detail: the way it was required of the girl to demonstrate how completely her self-respect had been degraded, and she struggles to contain herself, prevent herself screaming at him, running from the restaurant, saving herself.

Because that would be all it would take, she knows. He has no real hold over her, other than that which she has so willingly ceded -- and offered him, too, she knows. If she stood up now, and simply walked to the bar, asked them to call a cab for her, threatened to scream if he tried to talk to her, if she could just do that, then it would all be over -- all be gone. It doesn't have to happen! ('Now! Right now! Do it: DO IT you stupid bitch!')

He can tell, watching her, what's going on with her -- reading her inner changes through her body language, at one point calming herself, accepting, and then, a minute later, tensing, pulse blipping at her throat, little jittery movements, eyelids fluttering. He too knows that nothing is sealed, as yet -- however final her words had sounded.

He is confident -- although he accepts, too, that there is no guarantee, no way that he could enforce his will on her if she should choose to back out now. And indeed, he would not wish to. The Castle is not in the business of abduction, of forced enslavement, but instead moves in a grey area between the limited, contractual consent of a prostitute, of a porn actress, where delivery of a promise is not, finally enforceable, and the utterly one-sided nature of true slavery.

Although in the laws of civilised countries, this grey area does not exist, the success of The Castle; its acceptability to the elite -- on the basis that it does not make itself too obvious, at least -- is based in the emotional reality of this gap. As Anne-Marie once pithily observed in a casual conversation after a particularly self-congratulatory meeting of the Big Table, the proposition could be stated quite simply in 'Goldilocks' terms; prostitutes are too independent, actual slaves are too dependent, girls that willingly indenture themselves are just right.

The revival of The Castle under Andrew and Anne-Marie's guidance over the past decades has been based in the refinement of this proposition -- on increasing sophistication in the management of girls like this one, on encouraging younger members to share and compete around their skills at suborning the right sort of girl, in getting them to the point where, incredibly, lovely young women become willing -- determined, even -- no matter how breathlessly, how shakily, how tearfully, to commit themselves to long periods of total submission, under the control of an institution which exists to allow sexual sadists to abuse them without restraint. To willingly sign the contract documents which commit them to such control, even though they have some idea, at least, of what this is likely to mean for them -- what abuse, what degradation, what damage.

In these conditions, it matters little that the contracts themselves are not enforceable -- would be thrown out of any sane courtroom -- would in fact provide grounds for civil counterclaims that would be easy to win, and likely to result in large compensation awards. Because the reality is that the girls whom Anne-Marie judges worthy are, in some deep, dark, unacknowledged corner of their beings, grateful for those contracts -- for the harshness of the terms of service they impose, to know that those terms will be inflexibly, even cruelly imposed upon them, through the vehicle of their indenture; grateful at some level for the treatment that they have skilfully been brought to believe they need, or deserve, or desire.

And, once a girl has been brought to sign her name to such an indenture, once her life can be managed with what the advanced management technique books might call a 'holistic regime', carefully encompassing and weaving together everything from their physical surroundings, through to their most intimate emotional frailties, by way of a juggernaut of a culture, complete exclusion of outside influences, careful mixtures of pleasure and pain, guilt, rewards, shame and of course constant fear, all overlaid with ruthless psychological manipulation -- once all this is in place, there is no release, except upon The Castle's terms; Anne-Marie's terms.

Nevertheless, he does nothing to speed things along -- to reduce the risk. If he takes her, he wants to take her completely. These moments, these minutes are special; these particular circumstances -- this knife edge between freedom and subjection for this lovely creature, trembling across the table from him -- these will never be possible again.

Her complicity in her own subjugation, her knowledge that she had had every chance to walk away, but did not do so -- this will resonate in her mind in the lonely, cold nights when she cannot sleep for the pains, for the cruel chains, for the despair, for the shame. They will eat into her self-image, render her suffering all the more entertaining, her eventual submission all the deeper. This Anne-Marie explained to him, years ago, and he understands it ever more clearly with each girl he brings to the transition.

But the real reason for his forbearance is that watching her now, like this, is fun; remarkable -- like savouring a rare vintage of a fine, complex white wine; clear and pure, yes, but with an intensity that is almost shocking, with the added knowledge that this is an unrepeatable experience.

Back and forth, back and forth, her mind goes through this cycle -- for what seems like ages, but which in fact is only a few minutes: so intensely is she experiencing things that time itself has changed its character.

Indeed for any girl who passes through this change, her experience of time, her relationship with time will change for good.

Her days will be made up of hour upon hour of enforced nothingness -- chained, helpless, vulnerable, usually naked, without stimulus or opportunity, alone with her circling, cycling thoughts, un-enlivened by news from the outside world or by novelty of any but the most banal kind, these hours broken up only by periods of quivering apprehension, during which she will expend enormous energy on seeking to guess and enact from moment to moment just what kind of servility and submission is required of her (this striving driven by the knowledge that failure to please will bring pain and humiliation), striving in constant uncertainty, as even the most predictable of Masters may suddenly require something different without warning or explanation, and certainly without mercy should these desires not be immediately understood and gratified.

The only relief from such agonies of apprehension, of course, will be the realisation of those fears -- and often, worse -- in shorter, sharper periods of extreme and frantic intensity -- unbearable intensity, indeed, except for the harsh fact of her having no choice but to live through them -- live through the pain, the shameful pleasure, both conditions often cruelly, deliberately interwoven.

And so time will cease to be about days, about weeks, about months. It will pass both incredibly slowly, as an experience -- seem endless, and incredibly fast in retrospect -- a whole month's worth of life compressed into a few hours of intense experiences, the rest just background.

Nevertheless, there are rare moments of reprieve, and one breaks on her then, coming, strangely enough, just as she is replaying the most harrowing moments of the blonde's agony in a deliberate attempt to break herself out of this trance, to somehow find the energy to stand up, to leave, to reclaim her life.

That gorgeous girl, so fragile looking, so heartbreakingly vulnerable, so sweetly giving of herself even in the face of intentionally hurtful disrespect, having been whipped harshly on her inner thighs, across her buttocks and breasts, and at the last, with calm and horrible accuracy allied to brutish force, directly into the crease of her opened sex, was at last released from all her bonds save a chain from the ceiling to her collar, shortened to force her onto tiptoes, sobbing helplessly, then surrounded by four men with electric shock prods, who proceeded to drive her into a hysterical temporary insanity by means of a methodical, relentlessly increasing pace of shocks at random points on her sweat shiny, whip-striped body, until she had become utterly, desperately wild, flinging herself about, flailing arms and legs, begging brokenly in between hoarse but full-throated screams, animalistic squeals.

"They're going to do that to me," she is telling herself; "not once, but whenever they like -- and other things just as bad. That's going to be my life."

And then she realises why she can't stop thinking about her -- the blonde girl. And it isn't any of this horror-show stuff. It's the girl -- the girl herself who is fascinating. She's special.

Special: unlike any woman most men will ever see, unavailable to any but a select group of men, a girl who can be put through that, at a moment's notice -- on a whim, for a few minutes entertainment. Who can be put through it again an hour later, a day later, if they desire -- a girl who will smile just as sweetly at her abusers before as afterwards, eagerly worship their cocks, encourage them to fuck her any way they like. It is this unbelievable, pretty acceptance of such terrible treatment that is endlessly fascinating, seems somehow glorious, enviable, desirable ...

'I'm going to be Special. Like she is.'

And, from out of nowhere, she feels exalted. All the horror, the terror, the inner shrinking from the enormity of this are still there, not lessened in intensity one iota; but transmuted by something akin to worship of what the blonde had become, what she herself might be made to become -- some sort of avatar of sexual intensity. Her heart thumps as if it must escape from her chest, her thighs clamp and relax, her belly twists in upon itself -- she has to ruthlessly suppress her emotions, the impulse to thrash about, to maintain some vestige of the decorum required in a restaurant full of strangers.

It lasts only a few seconds; the wave breaks, leaving her panting, sweating, nipples stiff ...

"I must be mad!" she thinks to herself as she calms -- but is strangely accepting of this thought, acknowledging to herself; "Yes, that's it, they're going to drive me mad, make me into that incredible thing. I have no choices any more, and I'm going to be remarkable."

A tear wells in each eye, a single, fat one. First one, then the other, spills from its eyelid and rolls down her cheek, to splash onto the thin material of her blouse. But she is not shaking, or jittery. The calm is better, this time, and it lasts for quite a while, and she knows, with finality, that she is not going to get up, not going to scream, not going to leave. That these dreadful things are going to be enacted upon her soft, vulnerable body.

And that somehow, this truth is wonderful.

As she feels this, accepts it, the peace grows stronger still, and she feels it between her legs, too -- sexually energised for the first time since he had told her she must see the old man again, remembering, now, the frenzied gang fucking of the blonde that had ended her hysteria -- ended it, not by calming her, but simply by callously disregarding it, invading her, stifling her panic, overwhelming her with the manipulation of strong hands, with greedy cocks, with collars, cuffs and chains; the men, too, had been overtaken by wildness -- ramming her, choking her, throwing her around as they used her -- gloriously abandoned, violently unrestrained in their lust, until at last they tossed her aside like a rag doll; bruised, marked, sticky, gasping for breath, sobbing, hoarse, hair matted, bleeding in places, marked by teeth, softly moaning, occasionally jerking with the aftershocks of the last of several improbable but undeniably powerful orgasms which had clearly devastated her.

And now she is trembling again -- no longer with the urgency of saving herself, but with the knowledge of the heat at her belly, and with the certain knowledge, now, of her own weakness in the face of these grim visions, in the face of his willpower, of the awesome implications of the power and wealth of The Castle, of his greedy, bright desire, which she finds it so easy, so sweet to serve -- so much more easily than she can serve her own doubt-ridden self.

And now it's her turn to be amused, weirdly, and she cannot keep it inside, so that, a soft, wondering bubble of laughter breaks the silence. Hearing it, she knows she is lost -- since it speaks so clearly of her weakness, her helplessness, her resignation, her fascination, and she blinks back more tears.

He understands the tones of her laugh exactly, knows that now is the time, and reaches for his 'phone, saying casually;

"You should open a couple of buttons at your cleavage now, then cross your arms behind your back, hold onto your elbows. Spread your legs more, too -- your thighs shouldn't touch. Open your lips and put your tongue between your teeth; lick your lips occasionally -- keep them moist. Stay like that. From now on you are expected to be completely focused on presenting yourself in a perfectly satisfactory manner at all times. Lapses will be punished harshly, without warning, often with shocking cruelty."