She Asked for It... Pt. 02

His tone is calm, cool, dispassionate -- almost cold, in a way she has never heard from him before, a tone that burns into her, sticks her like a knife. He's not even looking at her now -- talking quietly into his phone. To say such things to her -- make such shocking demands, such dire threats, without even a gesture at asking for consent, explanation, or soft words, makes it very clear to her that she is something else to him now -- that some radical shift has happened in the space of minutes.

The shock is only momentary though; almost immediately she understands -- it is the end of warmth between them; of sharing, of jokes. It is obvious; he's got her now, she's given herself to him; her feelings have ceased to be relevant.

As she complies, slowly, half numb, but without questioning her acquiescence, she turns the new reality over in her mind, wondering at it. Everything has changed -- just like that, in a couple of minutes. She has asked to be enslaved -- something she has spent weeks telling herself she would never do, no matter how he gets to her, and now, just like that, almost casually, it appears to be a done deal, her fate sealed, taken for granted by him already.

And the implication of this unfolds all at once, then, in her mind -- that this has been planned for a long time -- that he can be so calm, despite the speed of it all, despite the momentous, impossible idea, in this modern world, of a young woman accepting sexual servitude -- asking for it. He can accept this so casually because he has been working towards this moment for a long time, because it is in no sense a surprise to him, but rather an intended outcome. That she has been played, manipulated, delivered into a trap.

She should hate him, she knows. He has done something dreadful to her -- almost too dreadful to contemplate; perhaps better to have been killed than to be giving herself over to the fate of the blonde. But again, all of this is no more than thoughts. The certain knowledge that she is going to become a girl of The Castle -- lose herself, become whatever this Anne-Marie decides she should become, be roughly used and heartlessly abused as a sex slave by sadists -- this is her reality now. What came before is irrelevant. She is not that person -- never again will she be that person. Any anger at his cruel manipulation is pointless. What fills her mind is (wondrously) admiration, respect -- even awe.

To have achieved this result with her -- an independently minded, apparently confident, educated woman with a career that she loved; to have succeeded so completely, in just a few short months, in making all other possible pathways seem worthless to her, drab, save only the path that leads to becoming a victim of cruel strangers, a helpless willing sex slave -- this is both breathtaking and humbling.

She feels more tears coming, but finds herself repressing them, almost savagely, chastening herself; 'He hates tears/'. She makes herself smile in recompense, works on herself to make it a pretty smile, flexes her shoulders a little to encourage the blouse to fall open, even though she is now showing more cleavage than she would ever normally feel comfortable with in public -- and aware, too, of how unnatural her pose is -- how this is attracting attention -- that she is already being looked at, looked at differently, stared at, by people at other tables. Shaming herself, but refusing to let herself off the hook, making herself swallow the hook.

It's hard, holding herself so, making herself smile, while he ignores her, hard to be working to look pretty, not to cry, to look sexy.

The thought comes to her; if this simple posing is hard, how is she going to manage what is soon going to be required of her?

Then -- as if it is him -- or that frightening Anne-Marie character -- a voice in her head, with that dispassionate tone he had just used; "It's simple, pretty -- you will have no choice but to obey."

And then she laughs again; soft, small, despairing -- but a laugh nevertheless. She has suddenly realised that she feels glorious. She, a demure, serious country girl, who has never done anything extraordinary, never been anything but dutiful, industrious, careful, is brazenly whoring herself to a handsome, fascinating, manipulative swine who will sell her, in all probability, to a stranger. Her heart is thumping; the intensity of the moment is both sweet and terrible. She knows she wants to be fucked -- turned face down and rutted like a bitch on heat. She can't believe it is herself feeling these emotions, so glorious, so horrific; her laughter becomes deep breathing -- almost animal panting; so humiliating -- she is sure, now, that he understands her all too well -- that he sees what is going on with her -- that she has given him his victory, that she is defeated, and that he knows it. More layers of glory and terror, more intensity...

He reaches out to her then, his call finished, cups and gently strokes her cheek -- an outwardly tender gesture, but to her very clearly proprietorial -- reinforcing his ownership, controlling her. And it works, too -- she is rapidly calming, knowing that she must focus now on him, not herself; grateful, even as she is diminished yet further in her own self esteem (how is it possible that she can be so easily managed -- can let this be done to her -- can have asked for this to be done to her?)

"You are very beautiful like this. Look at me, now. Listen. Pay attention."

"Good, good. A small, respectful smile is the standard expression required of you."

Unable to help herself, she tries to find a way to please him, attempting to radiate helpless obsession. She tells herself that she's being ironic, teasing him. But she knows she's been telling herself that for weeks now, knows its a lie. Hard to admit as it is, she has a need, right there in her solar plexus -- an urgent need -- for him to approve of her. She's trembling now, waiting for his verdict, trying her very best, feeling ridiculous but at the same time glowing pink.

"Yes, like that -- that will do fine. You really are very pretty. Of course, pretty girls incite cruelty, are treated more harshly -- you'll have to live with that."

His tone is less cold, but almost more upsetting, he's talking as if to a stranger, as if she's a child, patronising.

"You will be more beautiful still once you have been brought to understand your new condition. This will happen relatively fast -- I've discussed your treatment with Anne-Marie and she agrees with me that an accelerated regime will be most appropriate for you -- rather cruder than the usual programme, with an emphasis on violent and explicitly cruel treatment, both physical and mental. This will be very hard for you, of course, and at times you may even wish for death. But in a few weeks you will have been utterly transformed."

"At that point, you will, as standard procedure, be asked if you wish to go free, or whether you wish to remain -- to become a full chattel slave. While nothing is certain, Anne-Marie considers your complete submission a foregone conclusion."

He watches the impact of this on her -- the way she shakes, the quivering at her jaw, the short gasps for breath which set her breasts moving so deliciously -- and marvels at her acceptance. He's never pushed a girl so hard, not before she has been fully secured, and it's exhilarating, like a high-wire act, maximally risky.

But it's working; she has held her pose, despite some desperate seeming seconds, and her breathing is calming. He sees tears forming and decides this must not be allowed;

"Do not cry."

There is no compassion or comfort in his tone -- it's an order. He dabs at her eyes with the napkin; she fights the urge to loosen her hands from their vice-like, desperate grip on her elbows behind her and start babbling at him, imploring him not to tell her these terrible things, just to take her to the place, make him understand that she can't bear to be spoken to like this, to be frightened like this, that he's being cruel, that he should remember it's her, the girl he says he has so much fun with, that he can talk about art and politics and philosophy with.

But she finds she can't -- can't loosen her hands, can't even release her tongue tip from between her teeth, can't speak, can't do anything but watch his eyes -- see the cool enjoyment there, see him watching her, see him watching as these awful thoughts, these wrenching struggles rage in her mind, see him watching her presenting herself for him despite all of this. She sees him grin at the jiggling of her exposed cleavage as she fights to control her breathing and the bitterness of her feeling is mixed with -- and intensified by -- the pathetic pleasure she feels at knowing he is looking at her like this.

And suddenly she is weirdly proud -- proud that she is behaving for him, that she is entertaining him with her distress, with her submission, with her willingness to suppress her tears, to maintain her position. It's what she still has, she realises -- her ability to work for his pleasure, to make her humiliation, her fear, her debasement work for him, offering these for his enjoyment. It's a bleak pleasure for her, to be sure -- but it isn't nothing, and she clings to it.

"That's better! When tears are desired, it will be for the entertainment of others, and they will be forced from you, never fear, but in general, losing your little smile, letting tears fall, will bring punishment, pain."

"From now on it is important that you understand that you have no rights to express whatever goes on inside your head. Your body is ours, and you are required to manage it entirely in the service of our entertainment, our pleasure. If we want to see what you are feeling expressed on your face, you'll know about it -- but otherwise what is required is the pretty smile that speaks of vulnerability, of sexual availability, of helpless eagerness to please -- whatever you might be experiencing inside."

He takes out his 'phone, then, as she is reeling mentally, trying to parse the crushing suffocation this little speech delivers, fighting off hysteria; another unbearable low, desperately blinking away tears, biting her tongue to bring sharp pain, digging fingernails into her arm, black despair threatening to engulf her even as her pussy tingles and the need for sexual immolation rises in her again.

How can he do this to her with such calm, in such a public place? How can he induce these highs and lows of emotion that so powerfully undermine her sense of self, of normality, of reason?

Why is she so grateful? Why does she feel this need to please him growing stronger?

Apparently uninterested, or unimpressed by the unmissable storm of emotion that is affecting her (although she manages to maintain some semblance of a smile -- its trembling weakness heartbreaking to anyone who might have a heart -- deeply entertaining and gratifying to him, her captor, her procurer), his expression is neutral as he sets his 'phone's camera to record, and points it at her face before speaking again;

"Listen now. In a while someone will arrive from The Castle. He'll tell you what to do -- and you'll obey, without question, without speaking, without resistance, as prettily as you can. Let him see how incredible you can be, what a great asset you'll be, how willing you are to be subjugated, controlled, used. I'll be coming along, but he will be in control of you. Complete control. I'm going to ask you now if you understand what is required of you, what is going to be done to you, and you're going to answer, in a clear voice, with 'Yes Master."

"So, pretty, do you understand what is required of you now, what will be done to you, as you give yourself over to The Castle?"

She looks at the 'phone, at the little circle that is the camera, recording her as she gives away her life to a whirlwind of madness -- a world of "accelerated regimes of deliberate mental and physical cruelty", one which has been promised to "transform her", to bring her to an understanding of her new reality, to voluntarily accept a future as a "chattel slave".

And, not knowing what else to do -- mind almost blank, indeed -- she hears herself say, perfectly clearly, in a voice that only slightly trembles;

"Yes, Master."

The heat is back at her groin again, shaming her, but glorious too. She's going to be kept naked, vulnerable, she's going to be fucked, gang fucked, by cruel men, and repeatedly, and she is not going to be permitted to resist them; she will be whipped for their entertainment, helpless, collared, chained, naked, and she will smile at them, naked, on her knees, debased, and thank them, just like the blonde did. And mean it.

For the third time, she finds herself laughing sadly at the insanity, the sweet, cruel insanity of it all, and again she has to work to suppress the tears, exaggerate her smile, even as her lips tremble and twist with the intensity of her emotions.

"Very good. You will lower your eyes now. You don't look into people's faces anymore. Not unless they explicitly tell you to -- and then you will be alert for the slightest sign that you may look down again. Do you understand?"

This time, her voice is softer, much less clear, full of suppressed emotion, thick with unshed tears;

"Yes, Master."

With an enormous effort, half crucified by his own desire, by the ache in his balls, he controls himself, tears his eyes from her glowing lusciousness, her delicious vulnerability, her magnificence in defeat, and looks down to his 'phone. He stops the recording, turns his attention to the ice-cream, and ignores her.

For her this is another small eternity, as her position becomes less and less comfortable, ignored by him -- apparently having not the slightest interest in her any more -- the growing knowledge that people are staring at her gradually eroding her calm; panicky feelings growing in the aching hollow that has settled itself, just below her ribcage.

The question of making an effort to resist, to escape, has simply evaporated, all her thoughts running within the narrow channel of the certainty of her own submission, of the knowledge that she has lost herself. In her glorious, seductive weakness she cannot think of anything beyond being as perfect as she can make herself be for him -- for them.

This elevated, trance-like state is nothing more than her first taste of her 'new normal' -- this is how a new girl will spend most of her first weeks and months; horribly aware of her own vulnerability -- vulnerability to humiliation, to degradation, to violation, to pain, and yet at the same time transfixed by the majesty of the imposition; pinned, helpless, unable to do much more than wait, try to hold herself attractively, try not to lose her own, increasingly fragile balance; hope to be fucked, rather than thrashed. Allowed no hiding place.