She Asked for It... Pt. 03

A voice in her mind is telling her the obvious (trying not to scream) -- that all this is gaslighting, that she is being suborned, trapped in a myth, that nothing, nothing at all holds her here. It is a curious thought -- and she recognises its truth, wondering at it -- without for a second considering that there is anything at all to be done about it.

This is it. She is theirs -- her breasts are theirs, her belly, her mouth, her sex, her hands (the stranger still grips her wrists -- she's losing feeling in her hands), her -- her holes (she forces herself to make the word). All theirs. Nothing to do but offer it to them.

She's shocked from this reverie, jolted back into awareness by their laughter, then struck by it; that there is no anger at her pretence at not understanding what the number means, her lie -- only amusement. This is humiliating; she tries to feel outrage at being patronised like this, but it won't come -- nothing but trembling.

When it becomes obvious to a girl that her transgressions, her successes, are not considered at all as 'bad' or good' -- merely as more or less entertaining, it induces a strange feeling.

Eventually, if she is of a thoughtful turn, she will realise what this means; that she has ceased to be considered as having a moral existence. That she is being judged as one would a cat -- that she can't do anything 'wrong' or 'right' -- that no-one cares whether her intentions are mean or saintly, that her intentions are beneath consideration. That she's just an animal, which does what it does, to be punished as a deterrent, perhaps, but not as retribution. To be fed treats, perhaps, when she gives pleasure, but not approved of.

A few girls, on realising this, become unhinged, and start to behave as badly as they can -- in some sense demanding to be recognised as having agency (as having a soul, perhaps? Who knows? -- for no-one ever asks them). This rarely ends well; sometimes the madness can be beaten out of a girl, sometimes a long spell of solitary deprivation in some dank oubliette, with the iron pear enforcing silence, might do the trick, but the usual outcome is a sale to some brothel in Moscow or Nigeria or Taiwan, after which she is forgotten -- for she will certainly never be seen again.

"Oh you silly girl; we all know that you know exactly what that number means -- even Alison here. And now you're in even more trouble; girls like you are not permitted to tell lies to their betters, you know. Not ever. Well, unless a lie is what's wanted, of course. The problem is that you have no way of being sure at any moment, of course. It's a cruel and impossible condition -- but then, that's what you've opted for, so you'll just have to smile and look grateful, won't you?"

More laughter; easy, self-congratulatory laughter, consciously cruel.

"Why be so mean?", she thinks, but without the thought providing anything beyond despair and weakness.

"Whatever, your number is now five. Remember it, please. And now, pretty, you really must tell us all what you think this number represents."

There's a silence while her body refuses to accept what is happening, so that she is as if frozen, and then the necessity of something, of something happening forces itself upon her, and she hears a voice; soft, husky, hesitant but clear, saying;

"The number is ... is to do with ... with ... with me being ... punished... The ... the whip."

It is her voice; her chest heaves -- the situation is unreal. This must be a dream -- a nightmare -- but ... but it can't be ... too many contradictions.

And yet the silence that stretches out now is populated with such normal, everyday sounds, snatches of dinner table chit-chat, laughter, the kitchen in the background -- all ... all too detailed to be a dream. Somehow, she must recover, must deal with it, or get a larger number; and so with a despairing effort she straightens herself, lifts her shoulders, clamps down on the quivering at her jaw; pushes out her breasts, sticks out her tongue-tip, licks her lips, suppresses a sob, tries to recover that feeling of desirability...

Amazingly, as far as she can tell, the intensities of the last minutes have not drawn any particular attention -- the evening sounds are much as they were. No doubt some people are talking about her, judging her, thinking dirty thoughts, perhaps -- but the business of dining appears to still be uppermost in the minds of most customers.

Strange, how such dark depths and agonies, such heights and ecstasies, can be played out in public in this way. Don't they realise that she is being made a slave, here? Does she matter so little?

Evidently. The taste of ashes again. The specialness of the blonde -- specialness that might be hers, is exposed as the specialness of a low class slut, beneath the notice of decent people. She has lost her place in the world, and the world has lost interest in her.

The stranger leans in then, talks soft and low into her ear;

"Well done pretty. Punishment will come later, never fear, harsh punishment that will certainly devastate you. But then, there is always punishment in your future, now; always a certainty that some cruel bastard will require you to offer yourself up for torment, without any need for justification at all; always the knowledge that you will do so with the prettiest smile you can muster, always the knowledge that your suffering will provide pleasure for perverts, that there will be laughter and crude comments to meet your despair, rather than pity. That you have no other choice. This is what you have given yourself to. So, look pretty now, hold yourself well, advertise yourself as sexually available -- maybe you'll get raped instead of thrashed, eh?"

Of course, this little speech is not at all intended to help her calm herself, but to test her further, push her -- and test her it does, as tears threaten to overwhelm her and she dearly wishes she could scream at him, wrench away from his now searing grip, slap his face, call him out for a sadistic bastard...

It doesn't help that her lover/master (owner?) has heard all this, and, far from seeking to protect her is instead exchanging more grins with the stranger; the bitter taste is in her mouth and she feels despair rising now, hopelessness -- how is it that she has enmeshed herself in this nightmare? How is it that she can see no way out? How is it that she is still aware of her own interest in the heat of his body, so close to hers, of the likelihood that he can see into her opened bodice, see how painfully stiff her nipples are.

She makes herself breathe, slow and deep; seeking control, at least, if not calm. She can't fight -- she's proven this to herself again and again this evening -- and clearly, a large part of her is fascinated, despite everything, by the idea of this new life. True, too, is that the prospect of returning to 'normality' -- going, as it surely must, with never seeing her lover again, is almost impossible to even think about, let alone choose.

Once again she tries to settle herself, just as he leans in again.

"By the way, you failed me. You were supposed to incite rape, but it seems he's just not that into you tonight."

He pauses to let this sink in, then;

"So now your number is two more than it was. Tell me your number, now?"

Her mind rejects this; for a moment, all is inner turmoil; "No! I won't, This can't, I can't ... Stop! Stop it! Leave me ...". Tears threaten. For some reason her nipples become hyper sensitive, the feeling of nakedness, of exposure intensifies; "They can't do this to me! they can't, they just ...".

And then, somehow, her voice again.

"Seven. My ... my number is ... is seven."

A pause, then;

"Oh, little one, I'm afraid you're wrong again. Masters are addressed -- at the minimum -- as 'Sir'; so that's an extra one for you, I'm afraid. You're going to have some tearful moments later, I think, some sad regrets. But it's too late now. So, tell me what your number is now, will you?"

This time, she can only manage a throaty whisper. It's clear enough though;

"Sir, my ... my n...number is eight. Sir"

"Now, pretty, you're going to kiss me, just like you did him -- just as sweetly, just as submissive, just as sexy. You must understand, you've submitted to The Castle -- to be held in common. If you can kiss one Master like that, you will be expected to do as much for any other Master -- on pain of a whipping. So, promise me what you promised him with your pretty soft mouth, see if you can get me to rape you now..."

Everything seems to turn grey. Bizarre circumstances notwithstanding, her lover (Master) has been her lover -- they have kissed many times, and she has gloried in kissing him, in giving herself to him -- from long before he began to make demands. She has loved him (does she still? Can she still -- after tonight? It doesn't matter -- she must learn this, she tells herself; that it no longer matters what she thinks).

But this crude, grinning stranger, with his nasty way of talking -- even to his own girl -- the thick, sandy hair on his hands something that for some reason makes her skin crawl -- she can't kiss him! And certainly not in the way she has just kissed her conqueror; she begins to quiver, horrified.

"Here, let me take that for you."

Her lover's voice behind her -- he reaches behind her, grasps her wrists, the stranger releases his iron grip -- momentary relief, then a surge of sharper pain that makes her writhe, desperately controlling herself, determined not to attract attention to her despair, to her humiliation. She is forcibly turned to face the stranger, feels the bodice of the dress sag -- surely her breasts are on show?

He's grinning again -- such an ugly grin; heart-breaking that she must serve him -- and yet, and yet, she knows a deep need to have him want her, sick as it seems, she breathes deeply, lips quivering, and then, slowly, oh so slowly, trembling, leans into him, trying to control herself.

But even as her lips brush his, as she tries, desperately to remember how it was, how she had been with her lover, her Master, just minutes ago (it seems as if a lifetime of intensity has been lived since then), she knows she is failing; it's just too hard, to give herself to this crude, cruel man so completely, to do this on command, without warning. She knows that her mouth is tight, that her shaking is not sexy, that her movements are unsubtle, her body stiff, and she is not surprised when he pushes her away -- although she is terrified of the implications.

Again, there is no displeasure in his voice, just amusement, as he says;

"Clearly, you have failed, pretty."

He lets the silence grow, and then, gently, grinning again;

"So, what do you think happens next?"

She knows, of course, knows that she is being played with, was set up to fail, but equally, that no-one is going to save her from this, and finds herself begging, pathetic, babbling, voice soft but desperate;

"Please ... please, Sir, let ...let me try again; I ... I'll be good, better, ... please ..."

And then his hand is at her sex, inside her skirt; her thighs instinctively clench, but his knee and other hand are ready, preventing her, and he grins again;

"This just gets worse for you, pussy; you don't close your thighs -- ever; and certainly not if a Master wants to go there. An available, open cunt is what you are now. If you aren't that, you're nothing any more. Do you understand?"

The last words are still softly spoken, but also clearly serious, and she feels a chill, babbles, urgent;

"Yes, yes Sir, yes I ... I understand."

"So tell me, pretty, what are you?"

Deep, heaving breaths; blinking back tears, trying to hold her pose. She can't say it. She can't.

'Stupid! It's only words. Say it -- If you don't it'll be more numbers -- more whipping! What do words mean? Say it!

"I ... I'm an ... an available, open c-cunt. Sir"

It turns out that words do mean something. She wants to die, can't believe that she hasn't imploded, fighting back the sobs. The girl heard her say that about herself.

But there is no let up. Nothing but relentless invasion of her fragile sense of self as he continues as if this was just a simple point of fact.

"Good, good pussy. Now relax please, open yourself, I'm going to ... yes, that's it."

He has her swollen clitoris gripped between thumb and forefinger -- hard, but not quite painful -- not quite. Not yet.

"Oh, that's it now. I am in the driving seat, aren't I? I mean; the pain I can cause you, right now ... You get it, don't you, pretty?"

And there is no other answer but a soft, sincere, pleading, so conscious of the way her hands are clamped behind her, of her own determination not to be noticed by those around, by her inability to believe she can fight them -- by her accumulating powerlessness, that makes her desperately keen to please.

"Yes. Yes Sir. Please ... please Sir..."

She trails off, her breath a soft, defeated, almost inaudible wail.

"Good, good little cunt. Now, I need you to tell me what happens next, like I asked you before. It's not a complicated question -- even a helpless little fuckbunny can make a guess -- so just tell me what you think happens next."

Pulse thumps in her ears, but there's nothing for it but;

"I ... I get more ... numbers added. Sir."

"That's right, of course you do -- good girl!"

And he's teasing her clit, turning out to know exactly what to do to get her squirming. She finds it hard not to moan out loud.

"And more numbers mean what?"

"More ... more whip. Sir."

"Excellent. More ... whip. I like the sound of that, don't you?"

He's talking to her lover, not her. Somehow, she feels like preening -- this anticipation, shared among the men, of their pleasure in whipping her. It's the specialness. The girl -- Alison -- they can't whip her -- she wouldn't submit to this, arrogant entitled bitch.

'It's me, me they're interested in -- because I can do this, because I offered this, because I am ... can be that ... open ... cunt.' She makes herself use the words, apply them to herself. Feels her thighs move apart a little, It's all she has. 'Might as well embrace it...'

Her nipples stiffen -- she makes a show of wetting her lips, slow, obvious, heart thumping, cheeks burning, trembling violently. The fingers at her sex take glorious advantage; she almost swoons.

"So, we're going to play a game now. Not a fun game for you, I'm afraid, but it makes us smile, so that's what we're doing. It goes like this. I have a number in my head -- a number more than one and less than five. That's how many more I think you deserve for that lousy kissing. But I want you to guess -- is it two, or three, or four? Here's how it goes; if you guess right, no problem -- but if you guess less than I think, you get double what I was thinking, plus the difference between your guess and my choice. If you guess more than I think, you get that, plus one more for being wrong. You get it?"

Honestly, she doesn't, but she's got the picture -- unless she gets lucky, she's going to be adding a lot to her number.

"Yes. Yes, Sir", she answers, feeling like a butterfly as the collector's pin goes in.

At the same time -- and she knows it is pathetic -- the idea that she is being asked to think for herself about something, even something so trivial, has engaged her. She shouldn't want to participate in a game that is so clearly rigged against her; rigged to increase her suffering -- but this is the first time the stranger has allowed her even the smallest freedom, the smallest opportunity to be herself, and helplessly, she finds herself trying to think what to answer.

'It won't be the lowest number, so it's either three, or four. If ... if it's three, and I say four, I ... I get five -- Is that right? But if it's four, and I say three, I'll get -- what? Eight? No nine... NINE!?'

She can feel them watching her, enjoying themselves, seeing her trying to calculate the safest answer, and a part of her likes it. She knows it won't last, though -- they'll get impatient.

For some reason, despite her calculus, she hears herself say;

"Three."

Immediately, she can feel their amusement, and suddenly knows that he hadn't set a number, that he will now tell her it was four, that she's just doubled her number, doubled her whipping, and the trembling increases. Her hips are working, and she knows he can feel this, as his firm grip on her clitoris is still in place. She wants to curl up so badly, to cry all this madness away. But she dare not.

And, too, impossible to deny, she is more and more distracted by the sensations in her groin, as he continues to work his thumb, casually but skilfully, against her now hard little nubbin, losing interest in the details of what might happen in favour of the immediacy of his manipulations, occasionally having to bite her lip to stifle a little moan.

"Well pretty, that was a terrible choice. I was definitely thinking four for such a let-down as that kiss, but you called three -- which means you'll get nine more. Your number now is ... what?"

She can't think for a second -- as he has deliberately applied an almost painful pinch down there, and a wave of intensity has her whole body flexing -- surely plainly understandable by anyone watching. At this point, she is finding it hard to care -- although she knows she should. Why can't they take her somewhere and start fucking her?

And so the question is not easily answered; what did he say, nine? She had thought it would double? What was it before, then? Eight? So ... double eight? And what about the nine? He's waiting, impatient, she needs to say something;

"Eight ... " No! No; double eight can't mean add nine -- panic! Something -- say something!

"Eight ... teen?"

"Eighteen? Oh dear, pretty, that's wrong. It seems you've lost count. And that's a pity. You see, when we ask a girl to remember her punishment points, we need to rely on her -- she has such an incentive to forget the odd point here and there, you see? So, to counteract this tendency, we make the punishment for getting the number wrong really, really harsh -- to keep little sluts like you honest. For starters, we round the number up to the nearest ten -- what would that make it, hm, pretty?"

She's finding it so hard not to cry, now, this is so mean, so teasingly cruel; her jaw shudders with the effort to control herself, and her lips curl.

"That's right, pretty, control yourself for us -- that's it! When we want to see you cry you'll cry, never fear -- but otherwise a pretty smile is what we want -- a pretty smile that says 'fuck me, I'm easy, and I'm weak'. Now, I want a number, and soon, or we go up to the next ten."

"T ... twenty. Sir"

She manages. He has a finger inside her now, and she realises she needs to make an effort to present herself as if this is just some fun, intimate conversation. She resettles herself, brightens her smile -- and closes her eyes as he moves inside her, shocking, delicious, heart-stopping.

"And next, we double it. And that makes...?"

She can't allow herself to think about this, can't begin to imagine what forty strokes of the whip could mean -- it can't be, just ... just say the word. Concentrate on not crying, on looking sexy, on holding on, somehow...

"Forty, Sir. Forty."

"Very good, Be sure to remember that, now! It's quite a number that. You're going to learn a lesson or two tonight, little girl, that you won't ever forget. But now, it's time for you to redeem yourself. I still need a kiss -- remember. And this time the price of failure is another ten points, pretty."

And he leans in, puts a hand behind her neck, and invades her mouth with his thick, hot tongue. At the same time, he invades her pussy with another finger.