She Asked for It... Pt. 03

And she gives herself to him, helpless. Grateful to be allowed to do something as simple, as welcome as this -- offer herself to be fucked, use her whole body to beg to be fucked, and mean it -- wanting the intensity of that oblivion.

After a minute, she knows that she has opened herself, offered herself to this stranger more fully even than she had to her lover, working her sex against his invading hand, lifting her hips, working her mouth against him, mutely pleading for him to take her somewhere, somewhere, anywhere, to fuck her until she cannot think any more...

And all the while her lover and the man's girl are watching.

When he releases her, he's laughing -- her lover is laughing too, and she knows she is lost. That somehow she is made for this, that's she's not only not going to be able to resist, but that she's going to respond, helplessly, to this treatment, that they're going to find her easy. That the 'accelerated regime' with the 'emphasis on explicitly cruel treatment' -- those phrases that have been on a loop in her mind, so ominous are they -- is going to work on her all too well.

She feels hysteria mounting and has to repress it ruthlessly.

Strange, a voice in her mind, a part of her, calmly observing -- such a fit of hysterics might be the one thing that could rescue her now -- attract attention, make it hard for them to spirit her away without questions being asked -- but instead, she is forcing herself to appear calm -- accepting a glass of water, sipping at it carefully, making the shape of a smile, at least, with her lips, straightening up as the men lean back from her, joking with each other. Feeling the stare of the girl Alison, burning into her.

Alison will, a few months later, attend a dinner party, rather like the dinner she attended with the blonde -- only this time it will be she who is the star, she who has to behave through dinner as if she is an ordinary woman, with rights, dignity, responsibility, points of view -- all these things she has not practised for what seems like an eternity -- sit with the guests, including Alison and this sandy haired man, the man who had collected her for The Castle.

And it will be her who, on being asked -- so politely -- by Anne-Marie, as if she had a choice in the matter, whether she would like to strip, if she would like to ask the gentlemen present to destroy her, to take her beyond her limits, for the entertainment of the company? -- it will be she who, voice shaking but still clear and controlled -- she who will say; 'Yes, please, Mistress; if it please you, I would like to.'

It will be she who, on receiving the nod of assent from Anne-Marie, will ask, in the same small, shaky but clear voice; 'Please, sirs, I beg to be allowed to strip myself for you, and ... and hope to inspire you to destroy me -- use me beyond anything I have experienced before -- to take your pleasure with me without any restraint at all, to show me no mercy or kindness whatsoever'.

And this girl Alison will do what she, in the same situation, could not. Alison will take a turn at whipping her -- will use the riding crop on her breasts, between her legs, will draw blood, will require her to kneel, clean the soles of her Louboutins with her tongue, to take the heel of that shoe into her swollen, whip-striped pussy and fruitlessly hump herself, crying softly.

When, at last, the following year, it is Alison herself whose turn it is to be humbled -- brought to The Castle one afternoon, crying, kicking, tantrumming like the spoiled child she is; delivered, indeed, by her own stepfather -- she will be kind to the girl; soft, risking punishment to ease her path, for no other reason than sympathy, shared distress, knowing just what it is that is tearing the girl's soul as she is brought to face her own inner weakness, her own Gethsemane, as she is made to grovel and beg to be raped, just another humbled cunt.

Despite all this, Alison (no longer known as Alison, of course, but as 'Tammy') takes every opportunity to cause trouble for her, and when Anne-Marie notices this, it tickles her, and she makes a point of having Tammy/Alison be the girl who administers punishment to her, knowing that every blow will be a zinger, that every chance to add to the count will be taken, every excuse to pour humiliation on top of pain.

Alison, though, never fully settles down, is always trouble, and within a year is sold to some government minister of an unnamed African state. It is rumoured he keeps trained dogs to mate with his girls. No-one speaks of her again.

And then, it seems, it is time to move. The bill is paid, a handsome tip left, jokes with the waiter -- the waiter who takes no pains to disguise the way his eyes linger at her cleavage, her thighs, without for a moment doing exactly anything one could point out as disrespectful. And then they are leaving, People are staring, she notices, but astonishingly, it appears that the outrage that took place before their eyes escaped detection -- although clearly some know that something was going on, there is not outcry.

And thus the last chance of rescue is gone. They walk out into the cool night -- a gentle dusting of the lightest drizzle -- almost a mist -- cools her, she shivers in the thin dress, conscious of her nakedness underneath, and her lover, laughing, puts his jacket over her shoulders, just as if she was a person that he cared about still.

"We'll fetch the car ourselves", says the sandy-haired man to the the valets -- and they shrug, indicating the lift down to the parking basement.

In the lift, the stranger stands behind her, matter of factly gathers her sore wrists in one hand, and locks some cuffs at her elbows. He leans forward and bites her neck, soft, greedy, hot;

He speaks softly into her ear;

"Bye bye freedom, pretty cunt."