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|© Copyright 2012 - AmyAmy and all that stuff. This work may not be reproduced for profit or without this attribution.|
|Storycodes: M/f; D/s; bdsm; bond; cuffs; chain; intubate; enslave; punish; torment; oral; denial; reluct/nc; XXX||
|Betrayal Part 1: First Betrayal AmyAmy M/f; D/s; bdsm; bond; cuffs; chain; intubate; enslave; punish; torment; oral; denial; reluct/nc; XXX|
Chapter One: First Betrayal
It was September 1986 when I arrived in Australia.
It was early morning, and after a gruelling redeye flight we finally arrived at Lucas' apartment in Sydney. I was exhausted, and over excited about arriving in a new and mysterious country. Before we collapsed into bed Lucas asked me for my passport so that he could put it in a safe place with all our other documents. He took it away with all our bags. I never thought about it at the time. How could I have been so stupid?
The next day was the beginning of my new life. My parents had been uncertain, but ultimately judged it was probably for the best that I had fallen in love with an Australian man. Things in Hong Kong were uncertain then, at the end of British rule, with the 'colony' about to be handed back to the mainland. Nobody was completely certain how things would go, especially after the mess that was being made of the so-called democratization, which had done nothing but annoy the mainland Chinese government.
I married Lucas in Hong Kong, and after a seemingly endless wait, my Australian visa was granted. I made an emotional farewell to my parents, and many cousins, uncles and aunts turned up to the airport to see me off. I was filled with excitement at the hope of a new life in the 'lucky country' of Australia. I didn't want to move away from my friends and family, but I thought I knew what I was doing.
From Lucas’ descriptions, Australia seemed to be a land of freedom and comfort, with little to fear from crime or government repression. Other people told me horror stories poisonous snakes and spiders, of rough, hardened farmers in a vast empty uncivilized land where water and people were both as scarce as each other. I knew Lucas couldn't come from a place like that. I never imagined threats from other directions.
Lucas was wonderful throughout, as he always had been. He was kind, attentive, and perhaps a little old fashioned with his ideas of a woman's proper place. Despite my protests, he proudly assured my father that there would be no chance of me having to work to earn a living if I was married to him.
My father probably thought it was a good thing that he was a 'real' man. I had more modern ideas and I was quite sure that I would be able to bring Lucas around in due course. Certain that he loved me, I was sure that once he understood that my happiness required a career of some kind, however modest – something more challenging than producing his children – his mild protests would quickly end.
These were the eighties and as a child I’d seen women make huge strides in becoming more equal with men in a real way, rather than just having the vote. I was old enough to understand how much the contraceptive pill had changed things and I had expectations of a life outside the home.
I was to discover to my great discomfort that it was I who would bend to Lucas' preferences, and that they would be somewhat different to those he had led me to expect. This became immediately apparent when we awoke in Sydney, in the mid-afternoon, after we had slept to recover from the flight. Outside it was dull, grey and overcast, the humid atmosphere close and brooding, heavy with impending storm.
He shook me rudely awake. While I was still fuzzy and half-asleep he laughed and then began a speech. He delivered it proudly and with great certainty. I realize now that he had been preparing it for a long time.
“Here's how it's going to be. From now on we are going to do things by my rules. First you must realize that there is no alternative. There is nobody here to help you. You are alone, apart from me. I know you cheated your English test, and you barely speak a word. Good luck finding anyone here apart from me who will help you and can speak Cantonese worth a damn, and yeah, you'd need it because everyone here who counts only speaks English. If you run off the best thing that can happen is that they bring you straight back here to me, but without any identification, more likely they'll take you for an illegal and put you in prison a thousand miles from anywhere.”
He paused to laugh, his hand on my jaw, his thumb on my chin, fingers brushing against my cheek. The gesture might once have been made in a loving way, but this was hard, threatening and controlling. I began to cry of course. Why was he suddenly being so cruel? I didn't understand why my loving husband would speak to me in such a harsh and contemptuous manner.
He continued, “Yeah, if you end up in one of those places you'll spend ten years there behind the wire before they put you on a plane to mainland China, who don't look so kindly on runaways and will probably send you straight to a work camp. Or worse things could happen. If the local Chinese pick you up, you'll be locked in a room with nothing but a dirty mattress, taking it up the ass from truck drivers and dock-workers until you're too old to whore for them any longer. When you're finally worn out they'll toss you out to fend for yourself, old, ugly, broken and riddled with venereal disease. So if you were reckoning on those miserable fucks to help you out, you're shit out of luck because they're worse bastards than I am.”
“Lucas!” I wailed, “Why are you being so horrible? Why do you say these things? I'm your wife. I love you. Why are you frightening me?” I can't believe how naive I was. I had believed all his lies before and I kept on believing, even as he built a prison out of them.
“Oh Mei, you stupid bitch. You were my wife, for a few weeks. Now you're just my property. Don't you get it? There's no way in hell I'd take the stigma of being married to some slant-eyed bitch who can't even speak English properly. Chinese are foreign scum here, and not much chance they'll ever let more than a handful in. It was bad enough when the wogs arrived and ruined everything, but your kind? I don't think so,” he said angrily.
I was hysterical. I couldn't believe he would say anything so dreadful. Not only was he an awful racist, he loathed me in particular, and everything we'd shared up until then was a lie. Worst of all was that I was deceived so easily. Had I fooled myself? I knew the truth in my heart and it was more than I could bear.
I wept and wept and couldn't stop. Rather than continue to hurt me with words, Lucas rolled out of bed and got dressed. I think he said something but I didn't hear it. He strolled out of the room and I heard him lock the door behind him as he left.
Suddenly aware that I was trapped, I looked around momentarily for some way out, I don't know why, as I never would have left and I knew there wouldn't be an exit anyway. I already knew we were on the fourteenth floor of a modern concrete apartment block: the only exit was through an unbreakable glass window followed by a long terrifying drop to meet some ancestors I didn't believe in. It wasn't a way out I considered at the time.
I wept until it was dark and the storm broke, with a thundering rush of heavy rain that beat against the windows like a monsoon. There was an en-suite bathroom, and I had water to drink and access to the toilet. By the late evening I was very hungry. I was mentally and physically exhausted and defeated. I tried to grasp at the straw that it was all some kind of awful joke, or that perhaps Lucas would change his mind – that he was just struggling to adjust to our marriage – but I couldn't make myself believe it.
My heart leapt when I heard the sound of the key in the bedroom door lock. I positioned myself ready, sitting on the edge of the bed. I was ready to plead with him, beg him, say or do anything for him to treat me kindly again. I despised myself for my weakness, but he was right, the odds were against me. Alone in a strange and alien city where I could speak or read little of the language, I was practically helpless.
If I ran to the authorities, what were the chances that they would believe I was here legally? Would they even take the time to check? I couldn't rely on it. From what Lucas had said, the Australian authorities were even worse than the British in regard to their attitude to Chinese people. Nothing I had experienced while entering the country had persuaded me otherwise. Everyone in power, they were all Caucasian English speakers, and they would despise and distrust me.
In Hong Kong the British had mostly treated the Chinese like servants and stuck to their own. While some Chinese became wealthy, even respected, there was always a class divide between the two.
My parents were not poor, but they didn't have enough money to send all their daughters to get an English education, and I as a younger daughter had Hong Kong Chinese schooling and went to a college where the teachers were all Chinese.
Of course, everything official was in English, especially written matters, but I had been lazy learning English and had always found ways to get others to do things for me so that I didn't need to learn. This, along with my poor judgement of character, was something I would come to deeply regret in the near future.
Of three sisters I was probably the worst equipped for life in Australia. It occurred to me that Lucas must have looked long and hard to find a middle-class girl in Hong Kong whose English was as limited as mine.
* * * * *
Lucas strode into the room and closed the door behind him. I was sitting on the edge of the bed staring at him. He walked straight up to me and slapped me sharply across the face.
“Don't you dare meet my gaze you slut,” he snarled. “If I want to look into those black piss-holes that you call eyes I'll tell you. Otherwise, keep your attention where it belongs.”
I did as I was told. He had been horrible enough to me already. I was very afraid of what he might do if he became really angry.
“Now things don't have to be all bad for you if you follow the rules and always do as you are told,” he said, adopting a kinder tone. “You understand don't you? You must do exactly as I tell you, and immediately without hesitation. If you disobey, or hesitate, or delay, you will be punished, and I can assure you that you do not want me to punish you,” he said very slowly, and very seriously. I was in no doubt what he meant.
“Do you understand me? You must do exactly as I say, without hesitation, always?” He said, catching my chin in his hand again, leaning over me and pulling my face towards his. He loomed over me. I dared not meet his eyes. I knew I dared not. He need not even have told me, I was so afraid.
“Yes... Yes, I understand you,” I croaked.
“When you speak to me, you will call me sir. You will not utter a sentence to me without the word 'sir' in it. Do you understand?” He said in a hard voice, using the English word 'sir', his fingers cruelly gripping my chin. I was sure his hands were leaving marks.
“Yes... Sir... Sir, yes, sir,” I said, fearfully. Would he be satisfied with this?
“Good,” he said, and paused as if thinking. “Right, now a few more ground rules. One, you don't speak unless spoken to. I never want to hear a word out of your stupid mouth unless I gave you permission to speak or in answer to a direct question. Exception to this, when I give you an order, you may enthusiastically say, 'yes sir' but you must learn when that is appropriate. As you are so stupid I expect that to take a while, so I won't punish you too harshly when you screw it up, though you will still be punished. How else can a dumb bitch like you learn?”
This sounded bad. He was talking about punishments and the rules were so vague I knew I wouldn't be able to comply. Why did everything have to be so difficult? I tried to fight back more tears, but they came anyway. I made sure that I did not sob. I did not think he would like that.
“Two, remember you are my property, not yours. You do what I tell you, and you do it right away. You don't worry about damaging my property. I worry about that. But if you mess with my property in ways I didn't tell you to, then you will be in big trouble. I'll put that so a dumb bitch like you can understand it. That means you do what I tell you and you don't do anything else, ever, that I didn't tell you to do ... like trying to run off by yourself. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir,” I said, trying to seem enthusiastic. I tried to smile. He seemed to like that and chuckled.
“You might get the hang of it after all. Ok, rule three, I want you always ready to fuck, and to see that you are always happy to do it. I want you begging me to fuck you. I want you naked, or dressed like you want to fuck at all times.
“If I catch you giving yourself airs and graces and acting like something you're not, you will be punished. But I don't want you to be an embarrassment. I expect you to use what little brains you have to interpret my rules and orders to best suit my intent. I don't want a stupid robot bimbo that dribbles on the carpet like a slug, I want a hot slut who adores me and treats me like a god. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir,” I said automatically.
I couldn't make sense of what he was saying. Was there a glimmer of hope? Was this all just a sick sexual fantasy of his? Did he just want me to be sexy, adoring and available? I know that I had been proper and demure before we were married, and we hadn't even made love until the wedding night. Since then we'd had some difficulties clicking, but I was nervous and unused to such intimate relations, even if I did find him very attractive. I had assumed that making love was always a little difficult for a new married couple.
His brooding glances could send me wobbly at the knees, but I'd never told him. Was this my punishment for being such a cold bitch? Had I brought this on myself? Perhaps if I became what he wanted he would love me again. I thought it was right to be a 'good girl', but he was telling me that was wrong.
What a fool I was. I made exactly the mistakes he wanted me to. I blamed myself. He enslaved me and I was the one who felt guilty. I'd never been cold to him, but he had always twisted things so that we had never had satisfactory sex on my terms, only on his. He made sure that my suggestions always seemed to cause difficulties and awkwardness. I berate myself for not realising then, but I was emotionally shattered, and I have to remember it was easy for him to manipulate me, he had the advantage and he had a plan. I didn't even know what the game was. I have to remind myself it wasn't my fault.
He looked down at me, a dark expression on his face, “I'm not sure you really understood me. You don't look as if you did,” he said, threateningly.
I realized that he expected something: he expected results immediately. I practically wet myself with fear. I had to smile, to keep smiling. I did that first, trying to think what to do next. Had he said something about my clothes? Well I had nothing 'sexy', just my plain nightdress, so I pulled that off over my head, leaving myself naked. Naked would be ok? He wanted that didn't he? It was in the rules? Despite the oppressive damp heat, I felt cold, alone and exposed.
“That's better,” he grinned, obviously liking what he saw. His hand went to the zip on his pants, and he fumbled out his penis. It was already erect. He was definitely getting off on this. If this was what he wanted from me, I would do my best. He could forgive me. He could love me again. I was sure.
I thought he was going to push me down and put it into me dry like he'd done once before, but he didn't. Instead he shoved it towards my mouth. I'd never had a man's thing inside my mouth before. How disgusting! I'd heard of girls who would do it, but it seemed to me like the kind of dirty trick that Americans put in pornographic movies, and not something that real people ever did or would conceivably want to do. Nevertheless, I made no protest and obediently opened my mouth so he could stick it in.
It was rather large and tasted of salty stale sweat, and something else that was bitter. The taste was foul, but the thing itself felt, if not pleasant, not awful, kind of hot and firm and yet soft and smooth at the same time. I knew that the awfulness of it was all in my mind. The taste was soon gone. It was an experience I could cope with. I had to, to save myself from something worse. I had to seem to enjoy it. I had to learn to enjoy it.
“Suck it slut,” he said, “Suck it nice and hard. If you do a good job of making me cum, I might give you a little reward.”
Desperate as I was for just a little approval, I used my tongue to please him. After a few moments he suddenly jerked his penis out of my mouth and grabbed me by the hair with one hand. He smacked me hard across the face again with the other. My ears were ringing.
“You stupid whore, watch your fucking teeth. Scratch me again and I'll knock them out,” he snarled.
I was crying in fear but at the same time smiling for him. After that I was very careful of not touching him with my teeth ... very careful. I tried to concentrate on him, to forget my own experience, erase my own feeling, to make him happy. I tried to imagine that his penis was the most wonderful tasting thing. I tried to really enjoy it. I tried to think only of his pleasure and how good he would feel if I did it right.
After a while he began to make noises: sighs and groans. I thought the more he makes noise the more he likes it, and so I adjusted my sucking and tongue work accordingly. I put my hands up to grasp him and better guide his penis, but he slapped them away.
Eventually, he seemed about ready to cum. It took so long that I couldn't believe it. It seemed like he would never cum.
“Don't you dare spill so much as a drop. I want this cum to be the most precious juice to you. I want you to beg for the taste of it. I want to see you savour it, and to swallow with relish,” he ordered. I was a little relieved as this seemed to confirm that he was close to being done, and I was quite tired.
Suddenly, my mouth was full of his fluid. It didn't taste like the most precious juice, but it wasn't so bad as I had imagined. It was slimy, and somewhat variable consistency; the taste salty sweet. I could live with it. I knew I should be disgusted, but why?
I did my best to clean and suck every trace of it from his penis, swallowing it all. My stomach didn't like it, and I had to suppress the reflux. Eventually, he withdrew.
“Ok. That was disappointing, but it was your first time so I'm not going to punish you. In future I want you to take the whole thing in and swallow it right down your throat. You are not good for much, so it might take you a while to learn. As encouragement, if you can't do it properly a week from now you will receive a punishment that will really help you learn.”
The threat was alarming. I couldn't imagine how I could get that thing entirely in my mouth: just the head was enough to completely fill me up. It seemed like he had made up something impossible just to test me. I tried to smile, as if he had just suggested the most wonderful possibility. I don't suppose it was too convincing with the state I was in, but he seemed to care.
He ruffled my hair fondly, like a puppy.
“Good girl. Good girl,” he said soothingly. “Just do your best and everything will be fine, ok?”
“Yes sir,” I nodded.
He chuckled to himself, then picked up my nightdress and left the room, locking the door behind him.
I didn't even dare to move for a while. Eventually, when it seemed he wouldn't be coming back, I went into the bathroom and drank from the tap. Afterwards I lay down on the bed and dozed fitfully through the rest of the night. I was hungry and despite the heat I was shivering – from shock I think. I was too confused to pull the covers over me.
Chapter 2: Rapunzel Envy
I waited through the next morning, and he didn't come. I was very hungry. I fretted, walking around and around the room. I would drink from the tap, filling my hands like a cup, and getting the water that way. I would pee nervously on the toilet, listening to the seemingly deafening splattering rill. The noise of the flush seemed to go on forever. The uncertainty soon gnawed away any confidence I might have regained.
I wanted to brush my tangled hair, or do my makeup, but I had no brush or cosmetics. I looked at myself in the mirror. Long black hair that had once hung in glistening tresses hung flat and greasy in disarray over my face, concealing the features. Only the frightened eyes peered out from behind the mess. I thought it had once been a pretty face.
The girl in the mirror had dark eyes, beautifully shaped, but it was not the shape that was loved here. Not any longer. Not ever. I tried not to cry, but once again couldn't help myself. I looked at her, and she looked so sad, so defeated. I looked away. I didn't want to see the mirror ever again and that defeated face. I didn't want to look at who I used to be when I would have to be something else.
Everyone reading this must think me so weak, so pitiful. I'm ashamed I didn't put up any kind of fight. I confess that I never even considered disobeying him. I didn't even say “no”. I was complicit. I didn't have much spirit, but what could I do? If you haven't been there you can't understand the pure physical terror of the situation. In my bare feet I stood about five feet tall and I wasn’t made of much more than slender bones and a little padding. In that bedroom, if I'd dared stand, he would have towered at least a foot above me, heavy and muscular, twice as wide, bristly, and stinking of sour sweat. How could I defy him? He could kill me – quite simply kill me – with a single blow of his fist. Or with his huge hands he could grasp my head and snap my neck like a chicken. If you weren’t there you cannot know my fear. I did not want to die. I wanted to live. I did what I had to.
Around what I thought might be midday, I heard the door unlock, and quickly I was ready, sitting on the edge of the bed, like before, but eyes down this time. I heard his snort of derision as he looked me over. I was naked. He'd taken the only item of clothing that had remained. He must have taken away my other clothes the morning before. I practiced the contradiction of smiling up at him while looking down.
“I think you should greet me on your knees, ready and eager to take my cock in your mouth. What do you think?” He asked. I didn't know if I was supposed to answer. I was terrified to speak out of turn.
“Well?” He demanded.
“Sir… I think that's a wonderful idea sir. I'd like that very much sir,” I said gushingly. Was I convincing? Did the quality of my lie satisfy him? I was terrified it would not.
“Of course you do, you're such a slut you just can't get enough of that tasty cock can you?” He said. I assumed that again, an answer was expected.
I slipped off the bed and dropped to my knees in front of him.
“Yes sir. I...” An idea came to me. “Your slut loves the taste of your cum so much sir, and she can never get enough of your great big cock.” At that moment I realized that he didn't want to hear from 'me' any longer. He wanted something else, so I spoke about the object that belonged to him; I knew that was what he expected.
He seemed satisfied by that, in fact looked down at me expectantly.
I decided that I must have done well, and dared to continue in the same vein.
“Please sir, this slut needs her cum breakfast right now, she needs it badly,” I said, panting like I was out of breath and desperate, though in reality I was just afraid he would punish me for speaking out of turn.
He didn't say anything, so I reached for the zip on his pants. Fumbling I opened it up and reached inside for his penis. It sprung out at me, large, proud and erect and I knew more or less what was required.
I began as before, but thinking of what he had said, I tried to get more of his penis into my mouth. When it bumped the back of my throat, I felt the urge to gag. I felt my throat spasm. I was afraid I would vomit, and I swallowed to choke it back.
Unexpectedly, he grabbed my head in his hands, and tilted my head back, ramming his penis into me. My hands batted ineffectually at his arms as I choked on the huge thing jamming into my throat.
“Don't you dare try to stop me,” he said.
My hands dropped away, my arms hanging weakly at my sides, as he controlled me. I was swallowing coughing and retching all at once, choking, unable to breathe. Even when I was afraid I couldn't breathe I daren't fight him. I could feel him actually inside my throat, pushing hard into me. I was paralysed with fear, confusion, and a kind of horror at what he was doing to me – something I hadn't even believed was possible – I'd never imagined I could be violated in this way.
He pulled out, and I fell forwards, still coughing and choking.
He stood over me, laughing. At least he didn't seem furious.
When I had regained control of my breathing, he looked down on me.
“I'll let you off this once as that was your first time, but if you mess up again, you'll be punished properly. Something you won’t forget easily,” he said as if it were something he was quite indifferent about.
“Are you ready now?” He asked, as I continued to wheeze.
“Sir, yes, sir, I'm desperate for it sir,” I panted out.
“You'd better be,” he said, holding out his penis for me.
I straightened up to a kneeling position again and took the head in my mouth. Trying to prepare myself by continually swallowing, I pushed it against the back of my throat again. This time he didn't ram it in there but let me move my head to control it. Even so, I felt the gagging, and to my utter and overwhelming horror choked out a watery spew of bile onto the bedroom carpet between his feet. There was no food in my stomach of course.
“Fuck! You stupid whore!” He raged. “That's it for you!”
He grabbed me then by the hair, and dragged me bodily, out through the door and down a corridor. Cold fluorescent lights flickered on as we entered the room. He dropped me there on the cold white tiles. I didn't know what had hit me it was all so fast. I was still choking and coughing. I couldn't stop vomiting up thin, colourless bile.
I lay on the floor, motionless and confused, afraid to twitch so much as a muscle voluntarily. He was very angry and I instinctively froze. I was in what looked like a bathroom. It was located in the middle of the apartment somewhere, without any windows. My long black hair seemed to float on the contrasting white tiles and lay in a dark pool by my side.
There was a shower and drain in the corner, though without any kind of screen. Adjacent to that was a white ceramic toilet and washbasin. The basin also had another tap, with a threaded end, set into its pedestal, at low level, that one might use to fill a bucket or attach a hose for cleaning the room, which was completely tiled in glossy white, floor, walls and ceiling.
I realized that there was another circular drain in the middle of the room, the sharp metal of which was cutting painfully into my knee, but I didn't dare move to prevent it. The drains had shiny metal seats, presumably set into the concrete, into which the grilles were set, and then held in place with chromed hex-bolts that fastened flush with the surface. I remember those bolts so clearly. They were one of the few details I could focus on during much of my time in that room. I stared at them for hours.
Somewhere above me was a single cold blue-green fluorescent tube that gave a morgue-like tint to the whole room and buzzed unsettlingly as it cast shadows down through the steel ‘I’ beams that crossed the room a couple of feet below the high ceiling.
It wasn't until Lucas returned that I processed the fact that he'd been gone, with the door wide open. I could have made a run for it, somewhere. But where would I have run to? Who would help a naked girl? They would close their doors on me, I was sure, unless they fully understood how helpless I was and took advantage of it. Lucas, I thought I knew but strangers might be capable of anything. Murder, cannibalism? I could only guess what the unknown people in this tower had inside them. I decided it was probably better that I hadn't run.
Lucas dragged a heavy kit-bag behind him and dumped it on the middle of the room before closing the door. He paused, standing over me, taking stock of my situation, and perhaps noticing that I hadn't moved from where he'd abandoned me. At least I had stopped retching.
“You brought this on yourself by making such a fuss over nothing. Why couldn't you just do as you were told? Now you're going to discover that my punishments are something you will want to avoid. Perhaps that knowledge will make you more obedient in future?” Then after thinking a while he continued. “You do want to please me don't you? You are properly thankful for your punishment I hope? It is only to help you learn. I don’t want to do it, but I have to, because you’re such a stupid worthless cunt.”
“Yes sir, this dirty slut is very happy that you think she is worth your attention, that she merits a punishment. This slut hopes it will be effective sir. Extremely so, sir,” I babbled, pleading desperately to appease him. At least by taking the punishment well I might be forgiven a little.
“Don't worry my pet. It will.”
After that he removed metal cuffs lined with rubber and locked them around my wrists and ankles. Then he attached chains to them and ordered me to lie on my front and spread out just so. The floor was cold and very hard, but I obeyed him without hesitation, helping as much as I could. To do otherwise could only make things worse.
I was grateful when he unrolled a foam mat and made me lie on that instead of directly on the tiled floor. It wasn't much softer, but it was less cold. The tiles must have been put straight onto concrete and they quickly sucked all the heat from my body. Even through the mat, I could still feel their chilling touch.
Once he was happy with my position, Lucas attached the chains to points recessed into the floor that I hadn't noticed before and tightened them up until I was pulled tight and spreadeagled face down. At first the stretching seemed almost relaxing, but quickly I began to feel that the cuffs were digging into me, and it didn't feel good at all.
Then I felt him pulling some sort of leather harness over my face. A large, rubber covered, ring was forced into my mouth and with some pain, located behind my teeth. Straps went from the side of the ring and fastened behind my head, securing it in place. Another strap fastened under my chin, pulling the ring down into my jaw. More straps attached to the side straps rising up and passing either side of my nose to join together and form a single strap that was pulled down and fastened at the back, balancing the pull from the chin-strap.
It was unpleasant to have my mouth forced open so, though the straps were not especially painful in themselves, the ring was not easy to tolerate at all and my jaw ached. Almost immediately I began to drool uncontrollably, some of it I could swallow, but the rest just ran down my chin in a fitful slimy stream that formed a pool in front of me. I found this particularly humiliating, which is strange considering my predicament, but nevertheless it upset some small part of my mind that had so far been untouched, and of course I began to cry again. There was something sad about losing another vestige of my humanity in this way, and knowing that I had done nothing to prevent this totally debasing situation. I had, in fact, cooperated fully in becoming so helpless. Was this something I actually desired?
Previously, I had chosen, albeit out of fear, not to speak, but even if I wished to, there was nothing I could articulate. I was less than an animal, and as helpless as a baby, though considerably less endearing. My gaze remained fixed on the pool of drool as if it contained some profound truth for me.
I tried to stop weeping for my lost dignity. I had not thought I was a stupid person. I had been lazy perhaps, but not stupid. Was it stupidity or laziness that had brought me here? Or had I known, unconsciously at least, that I was walking into something dark? It seemed impossible. Worse, faced with situations that I had imagined I would respond to with strength, I had turned out to be no more than water.
Lucas had me well secured. Chains stretched from the metal cuffs on my wrists and ankles, holding my arms and legs tightly spreadeagled. He had tightened the chains to the point that the rubber lined cuffs dug painfully into me. He had forced my mouth open with a ring-gag and harness (I would later learn to call it a 'trainer') and I expected that he would repeatedly rape my mouth, choking me in the process.
I thought surely there was nothing worse that could be done to me, but I was wrong. I had no idea of the baroque complexity of the whole affair. To my mind at that time, to be chained there like that, drooling on the cold tiles, and then raped, seemed the limit of possible punishment.
I felt a rough leather belt fastened around my middle, closed at the back with cold metal. Then a pair of straps were passed through my legs. They divided around the crotch and passed up over my buttocks to be fastened at the sides of the belt. The two straps served to part my thighs a little further, exposing my genitals in a very rude and embarrassing way. Then I felt Lucas connect something to the harness on my head and he pulled my head back remorselessly. I felt a connection between the belt and my head.
I tried to arch my body to relieve the pressure on my neck and crotch, but the chains would not allow it. He tightened the strap again until I thought I could bear no more before starting to scream with pain. Then he tightened it further. Despite my determination, despite my every intention and what little will-power I might ever have possessed, I screamed. The involuntary shriek echoed emptily around the tiled room. I thought my head would snap from my neck, and my poor neck, roughly abused, went into spasm, pointlessly, because there was nowhere it, or I, could go.
Lucas laughed, “Scream all you like. Nobody will hear you. There's the roof above, and only the plant room below. Between us and them are several feet of concrete, and of course I added my own special sound-proofing to this room, so don't be afraid to go full blast with those little lungs of yours. Nobody will hear a thing.”
Once the floodgates had opened, I couldn't stop, so as he suggested, I let the pain flow through me as I screamed and screamed until I was hoarse and my voice cracked. When I finally sagged exhausted, he laughed again, and let a little slack into the strap. I was so thankful. It was still painful, with the strain on my neck and on the straps digging into my crotch but it was so much better than before.
Again, I thought he was done. Once again, I was wrong. I had so little grasp of what the human body could be made to bear. He showed me a strange plastic device made of tubes. I barely had time to grasp what he was doing before he jammed it down my throat. I was choking. The feeling of helplessness was overwhelming. There was nothing I could do to save myself. I was completely in his power. Until then it was mostly the pain that had reached me, but in that moment he taught me that the way the gag had controlled me was nothing compared to this. I thought I might die.
He jerked the tubes around painfully, and then I could breathe again. There was something thick wedged deep in my throat and he eased that in further. When I breathed in or out, there was a whistle of air through plastic. My throat was burning. I felt as if I was continually choking but could still breathe. It was horrible, and far worse than the simple pain of before. It wasn't comfortable or easy breathing: every breath was stolen with hard work. With every breath I thought the air would fail to come and I would fall into blackness. It felt terribly wrong, like I shouldn't be able to survive like that, and yet I did.
Lucas eased the thick tube further down my throat, which I could feel being stretched as if my neck were being torn open. After he clipped something in place it felt like I was continually swallowing and vomiting at the same time, and to no effect whatsoever. My throat was flexing and pressing against the relentless intruder, but it remained indifferent, unyielding. It was I who would eventually tire and yield.
Lucas settled himself crouching in front of me. I dipped my gaze down, still afraid to look him in the eye. My hair, which had fallen across my face, was stuck to the floor with drool.
He smiled, “Well there you go baby. Custom intubation just for you. That should teach you not to make a fuss over having to take a nice cock in your throat. That tube tends to scrape the surface of the trachea, so even after the tube is out you'll probably feel like you're about to choke for a week or so. By the time I'm done training you, you won't feel right unless you're being stretched by a big rod.”
When he left, he turned out the light. It was completely and absolutely dark. After a while, when I realized my eyes would never adjust to the perfect darkness, I remembered I was hungry. I would have laughed, if that hadn't been taken out of my control.
As time passed, my attention focussed on each different pain and each different limitation in turn. Over and over each one became more unbearable than the others only to be forgotten as another rose to the fore. I don't know how long he left me but it felt like eternity.
Chapter Three – Fitting In
My punishment continued at length. I knew by the number of visits that he made to me that it must have been a lot more than a few hours, perhaps several days.
The first time he returned, he slacked off the chains and the strap holding up my head by just a tiny amount. Even that minute release seemed like heaven for a while, though later it soon felt just as bad as before. However, this was not the purpose of the visit.
He had brought with him some complex rubber tubing, supported by a medical stand, and topped by a kind of funnel. He chatted to me as he assembled this contraption, which I could not see properly. It was strange for him to talk to me so casually and yet so callously, in a cruel parody of the intimacy of our courtship.
“I guess you're learned that it doesn’t pay to break the rules. I know you can't answer, so I'll just assume that you're trying to say 'yes sir' at every opportunity like a good obedient slut. Yes. Slut. That's a word I want you to think about. You are not a whore. A whore fucks for money. Really, it is a compliment to you to call you a whore, an indulgence even. You are a slut, and a slut fucks because she can't help it, because she can’t stop herself.”
He paused to let the nuance of his words sink in. Despite my best efforts, it was hard to concentrate due to the pain in my joints and muscles that made my head swim, and the continual fear that the next breath would not come.
“I think it's fair to say that one way or another you just can't help being a fucking slut. You will fuck whoever, whenever and however I say, and whether you want to or not. I mean, who cares what you want really? But no matter what, you will always act like you want it, and in the end what's the difference between what you want and what you seem to want? To everyone in the world, you will be an insatiable slut not even fit to be a whore,” he said, and laughed.
“Anyway, I know you haven't eaten in a while. If you had behaved yourself, I was going to reward you with a nice meal, fresh prawns, coffee, cake, and that sort of thing, but you had to be a stupid little drama queen bitch and screw everything up, so now you're going to be fed through a tube. I know you'll be sad that you won't get to taste it, but I'm going to give you a meal of cream infused with your very favourite cum. I know that cum is already your favourite, but you are going to learn to love it, really love it, in fact, it will be like an addiction for you, you just won't be able to get enough... It is probably going to be a good thing because you'll want all those yummy sugars, proteins, vitamins and minerals to keep your strength up for that incessant fucking.”
Lucas had a chip on his shoulder over some story he’d heard about Chinese people saying that westerners are sweaty and smell of sour milk. I guess that racism goes around and comes around. You can find narrow minded people who hate everything different from them in any country.
There were some people that said that because I wanted to marry a non-Chinese that I must like the smell of sour milk – that I wanted to stink like that. So the cream was an indication that he really wanted to rub the remains of my love for him in my face and make me a proxy for all the people he hated.
I began to wriggle and squirm, attempting to somehow communicate to him that I'd learned my lesson – that he could stop now – that he didn't need to go any further. He just ignored me. I had no part in the decision about what would be done to me. I was not even permitted to suggest. It really sank into my mind that I had lost all control over every aspect of my life.
As Lucas inserted the feeding tube into my conveniently open mouth, and forced it down the plastic tunnel, down into my defenceless stomach I finally grasped how real it all was. Up to that point it had seemed a kind of nightmare that I just shut myself off from and watched from a distance. Movement had been taken from me, then speech, and finally control of my own breath. It was abundantly clear that I was just an empty receptacle for Lucas' desires. It was not a matter of will; will was irrelevant; there was nothing I could do, or think, that could stop this being done to me. It was not just words, I really was his possession, a toy to play with as he pleased and I could no more resist him than a plastic doll could.
Lucas pumped two air bulbs, which seemed to secure the feeding tube in place, and then began to pour a huge, family sized, container of cream into the funnel, mixing it with water from a large bottle to thin it down.
“This room will be reserved for your punishment time. If you can conduct yourself properly, you'll be allowed to live with human beings, though only as a kind of pet of course. It would be foolish to think of a slut who can't control herself as a genuine human being. Still, a properly trained pet that behaves itself is sometimes allowed into the house. I've decided that whenever you're in this punishment room that this will be your diet. Of course next time you may be lucky enough to eat it for yourself, without my help, but that will depend how seriously you merit punishment,” he explained as he dropped his pants and began to masturbate.
It occurred to me that he was enjoying jerking off while watching me in this humiliating predicament, and not just because he wanted to produce some seasoning for my meal. However, he didn't have to explain his motivations to me unless it suited him. I reasoned it did not bode well that he got such a thrill from doing this to me. I reasoned that he would soon want to do it again, unless what I did for him outside this room was so enjoyable that he never considered the alternative. I thought to myself that I would do anything to keep from coming back here. If he served me up his shit to eat, I would swallow it down and smile and giggle for him. It couldn't be worse than this.
“You'll be well fed in here this time. You're such a miserable skinny bitch, nothing but bones. I want to put a bit of jiggle in your walk, nice tits and ass. Yeah, I'll make you into a nice juicy cow that just screams ‘fuckable’ instead of some scrawny bitch with two fried eggs and ribs that stick out like a racing dog,” he cackled to himself. He didn't even seem to be talking at me any longer.
He lifted the funnel down, ejaculated straight into it and then mixed the results of his masturbation into the funnel before putting it back. I would be drinking his cum again, but it was no different to the cream; they both represented his hatred for me.
His words still filled me with dread. It hadn't really occurred to me that he would exercise that kind of control, or that it was even possible to control me physically in such a way. Considering my current predicament, it was obvious that he could. I would eat whatever he wanted to eat. There was no question about it.
He topped up the funnel and then without any further word he left. This time he didn't turn off the light, and I could watch the liquid descending the tube and slowly filling me. He had more than sufficient height for gravity to force it into me, and it did the job perfectly. I could feel my stomach full of the stuff, and despite the fact I could get no air through my nose to breathe, I could still smell it somehow.
It wasn't long before I had to pee. There was nothing I could do about it. It was one more pain nagging at me, and it was getting worse and worse. In the end I gave up and pissed where I lay. I felt the warm liquid flowing around my thighs and belly on the mat. I was disgusted with myself, but I was also defeated. What was the point of struggling? If he wanted to, he could take control of that from me as well. I accepted it. This was what I was reduced to: a piece of meat fed through a tube and lying in its own piss. It wasn't my fault. I couldn't help myself. It was just what I was made to do, not something I had control over.
He repeated the feeding process, though with less dialogue, two more times. Pissing myself just became part of the routine. The skin on my wrists and ankles was sore and broken by this point, crusted with blood. The area under and around the cuffs was painfully cracked and wept on a regular basis. I wondered if I would have scars, or worse get an infection and die alone on a cold bathroom floor. Despite myself I did not want his brief, cruel, visits to end. I was desperate for his company, even if he was not kind to me.
Then there came a moment when he entered the room, and he did not bring more cream with him. Instead, without any warning, he crouched in front of me and began to remove the tubes. It was as frightening as when he put them in. My throat felt so strange and empty without the tube in there stretching it, but it was worse when he pulled the breathing tube free. My throat didn't want to work properly and I constantly felt as if there was something stuck in there and I was choking.
“You had better keep your food down from now on, or I'll intubate you again,” Lucas said curtly. He didn't say anything else.
Gradually, I recovered my ability to breathe, but every so often something in my throat would catch and I would start to feel as if I was choking again. I would start to cough and it would get worse as I coughed. The coughing was painful too, and my throat was very sore and swollen up, as if I'd had a terrible cold. After a while it would subside, only to start again a while later. Lucas left me alone for a few minutes, and gradually I began to improve.
“Here, suck on this,” Lucas said, and unexpectedly he gave me a strong throat lozenge that numbed my throat completely and made things much better. I hadn't expected him to show such kindness.
Then, to my delight, and pain, he slowly released the strap holding my head back. My neck hurt badly from being so badly stretched for so long, but it was still better than before. My face was pressed down into the big puddle of cold drool in front of me. It was revolting, but I had no strength to hold myself up, and I was beyond caring.
He left the ring gag trainer harness in place, but unchained my arms and legs, and then removed the metal cuffs on my wrists and ankles. I was still in constant pain, and moving was all but impossible despite my apparent freedom.
“Now I'm going to bring you back in the house, but you will have to behave properly if you want to stay there. Your gag won't be removed until you can demonstrate that you've learned your lesson and can take a cock into your throat the way I told you to,” he said in a soothing, slow gentle tone that one might use with an over-excited child.
I was in no situation to complain. I just hoped I could do what he asked.
He picked me up and carried me the short distance to the corner where the shower drain was. He turned on taps and selected a temperature on the cool side of warm before sticking me under. I wasn't bound, but I was still helpless. He increased the water temperature, and gradually some movement returned to my limbs.
“Clean yourself properly,” he said giving me soap, and to my amazement, good quality shampoo.
When I was done he returned with a towel and I dried myself vigorously, relishing the movement of blood through my skin.
The injuries on my wrists and ankles were still burning. Lucas cleaned them for me, carefully but efficiently, using strong disinfectant that made my eyes water from the stinging. I tried not to make a noise or show any signs of discomfort. This seemed to satisfy him, and he applied antiseptic ointment, and then used surgical tape to secure dressings. I had four furry cuffs instead of metal ones. At least they did not hurt as much. Apart from the dressings and the gag harness, I was entirely naked.
I followed him back into the bedroom, passing several doors on the way. There was nothing that looked like an exterior door.
“You can rest for a while, and drink some water. Then I'll see whether you have learned anything from your punishment,” Lucas said, locking the bedroom door behind him as before.
Chapter Four – Easily Broken
I fell asleep immediately. I slept the sleep of the dead. There were no dreams, and no nightmares. It was no wonder; I was exhausted and had been denied sleep for a long time.
My mouth was very dry and I spent a while working out how to drink. I discovered that it is quite difficult to drink with a ring gag in. I felt the fastenings of the gag, and it just seemed to be buckled in place, but it was very difficult for my small fingers to work the buckles and stiff leather, and besides, I would never dare to remove the gag without Lucas' permission.
After that I began to pace around the room again. Despite the shower, I could smell myself. The worst part was that I knew it was coming from me. I hated it, but I could not change it. I knew I must learn not to hate it, but to love it, otherwise I would go mad, or perhaps, alternatively, I would anger him and he would kill me, or dispose of me to others worse than he was. This latter possibility was something that had occurred to me while I suffered bound in the bathroom, though ultimately it came from ideas that he had suggested.
Perhaps he would give me to the Chinese gangs, or to some Australian pimp, who wouldn't even have to bother getting me addicted to drugs to make me do as he wished. Lucas had said I wasn't fit to be a whore and that I needed cock so badly that I wouldn't even get the money for it. He had said so, and he was in control. He would make me into what he wanted. I knew there was no point fighting it: I'd just end up punished.
I found that a small thing had been changed in the room during my absence. There were clothes in the previously empty wardrobe. At first, my hopes rose, but I quickly discovered that these were not the clothes from the luggage I'd brought from Hong Kong. The clothes I found were obviously something Lucas had bought specially. They were all good approximations of my size, according to Lucas' tastes. I don't know how he managed to buy clothes in my size, but he did have access to my entire, sadly lost, original wardrobe to use as a pattern, so there was no need for him to find my measurements directly.
All of these new clothes were carefully chosen to resemble what a prostitute might wear. Anyone who looked at a girl in those clothes would know what she was at that instant. Not only were they the clothes of a whore, but they were the clothes of a specific kind of whore; a girl who is used by her pimp in a few particular ways. I understood nothing of this at the time, but I could still see that these clothes marked me out to all observers, especially those in authority that I was low-class and if not a criminal myself, at least the ornament of a criminal. In Hong Kong, to be caught unprotected wearing such clothes would get you arrested, beaten, or raped, or some combination, depending on your choice of neighbourhood.
I learned later that these were the clothes of a girl that a pimp keeps close by him as a kind of advertisement, overtly sexy, but still keeping back a little. Girls of this kind are a way for the pimp to let others know he is a pimp without saying it and they are intended to entice his clients with something young and juicy. “This bitch is fucking insatiable,” they say, and other things, even more demeaning, but she will pretend that she likes it. Such a girl is only hired out to those with whom the pimp wants to make a good impression. Nobody gets to these girls without going through him first, and they reflect on him, so they must look good and they must play the part. They are keen to do so, for from their position the only way is down.
When a girl is not so pretty, she is hidden away in a back room, or stuck on a street corner. Ordinary street girls are not dressed so well; they buy their own clothes, and they must be careful of the police, so they do not often dress so obviously, despite what the television portrays. They usually like to leave some doubt for anyone who sees them, because it is safer that way. There are exceptions of course, and when working in a place where prostitution is allowed, or at least very common, such at Kings Cross, the meat is dressed up to attract attention. As for the back room girls, they are usually lucky if they have any clothes at all.
I knew none of this when I looked at the whorish clothes Lucas had provided, that I was sure I must wear for him. I knew only that they would mark me out to all men as someone easily available to them.
The skirts were all so short that they would barely cover my crotch. There were three skirts, one of very glossy red vinyl, which people sometimes call PVC, another of black vinyl, also glistening, and a third in black stretch-fabric, a little longer than the other two. There was a pair of electric-blue hotpants, and a pair of very short cropped denim shorts that wouldn't even cover my bottom completely. There were boots, and shoes to match each skirt: shining red, knee-high vinyl boots, black patent ankle boots, and a pair of white sandals with spaghetti straps.
To my dismay the boots all had heels at least four inches tall, and the shoes were at least three. For my little feet these were enormous heels; I would barely be able to totter along, certainly I wouldn't be going anywhere in a hurry, and my feet would soon be very sore. I remembered they were not really my feet any longer, it would be easier if I thought that way.
The tops were in the same vein; with a red vinyl corset-style top that I would tend to 'pop out' of; a black fishnet top with long sleeves that would reveal as much as it concealed; a little white; strappy crop-top that would offer a barely interrupted view of my breasts to anyone; and on further investigation, two different teeny-bikini tops that despite their small coverage were in some ways the most modest of the available options.
The discovery of the clothes posed a dilemma. On one hand I hadn't been told to dress, on the other, I had been told to use my initiative in pleasing my owner, lord and master, Lucas. I tried desperately to remember exactly what he had said about clothes before, but it seemed so long ago. I felt like an idiot because I couldn't remember. It wasn't as if he had said a lot to me. Why couldn't I recall this one essential thing?
I really was as stupid as he said I was. I only had to remember a handful of things, and I couldn't remember when I was supposed to be dressed and when I should be naked. I was such a fool; I would happily thank him for his punishment when he discovered my failure. I deserved it!
In the end I decided to think through it like a slut, as that was most likely to get the right answer. What would a slut do? Specifically, what would the slut that was me, who desperately wanted a mouthful of hot cock rather than days of torture in a cold, dark bathroom do?
I decided to stay naked, but put on the shoes. This was all around the worst thing I could do for my comfort and dignity, and so most likely to be satisfactory. Besides, naked had always been correct so far, and I had no specific instructions to the contrary. The shoes were so uncomfortable that I nearly rejected them twice. The straps cut into my feet, and there was no support to speak of. I was balanced on the balls of my feet and just walking around the bedroom made them ache. It was probably that which convinced me that Lucas would like me to wear them.
As soon as I heard the key in the lock I was on my knees in front of the door, lips licked, mouth gaping from the gag, hair pushed back as best I could. I had made a little puddle of drool in front of me before he came through the door. It didn’t matter to me. He had made me pathetically keen not to disappoint him again with that punishment. I desperately wanted to remain in the house. I would gladly be a good 'pet', if that was what it took to avoid his wrath.
Lucas smiled when he saw me ready. I noticed that he missed nothing, his gaze flicked to the shoes. I watched him back through eyes that always seemed lidded and downcast. I dare not meet his dreadful gaze.
“That's a good little slut,” he said, popping his ever-erect cock from his pants.
He stepped forward and I took his cock into my mouth without using my hands, he pressed forward, and I tilted my head back and my neck forward as much as I could and began to swallow. The awful choking feeling returned, but I didn't gag in the same way. It sank in that he had his dick in my throat and was pumping down into me. It was such a strange and degrading feeling to sense him literally fucking my throat. I tried to breathe, but I couldn't. I was voluntarily his fuck receptacle, and he could just keep taking his pleasure from me until I blacked out.
I hadn't prepared my breathing, and I was desperate for air, but there was no way to get it, there was just his cock, thrusting up and down in my throat. It seemed to last forever. My lungs were bursting. I was dizzy, spots before my eyes. I didn't think it could go on any longer, and it seemed to have been an eternity already.
Then he pulled back, and I gasped in a loud, harsh rush of desperately needed air. My head continued to swim, and before I could do anything else, he thrust back into me again. I could barely sense the rest of my body, and all I was thinking was the same mantra over and over again, “do not fuck up, do not bite him, do not fall over, do not choke, do not throw up,” a ceaseless catechism of orders that must be obeyed to continue living. Not that I could bite him because the gag would not permit it. There was nothing I could do to keep his cock out of my mouth.
Once more he withdrew, I gasped for air again, through my nose, seizing another wonderful deep breath that might be my last for some time. Once again he delved into me, fucking my neck like a jackhammer.
He pulled back, letting me hold and lick the head in my mouth as he came, letting me have the sweet taste of his cum. I tried to suck as if I could get more from him, and amazingly, I did. I smiled with joy at my success as I swallowed. My throat was on fire, but I didn’t care.
“That's a lot better,” said Lucas. “You should have done it like that the first time.”
I pressed my cheek against his cock and a slow deep breath, sighing quietly as I exhaled. If that cock would keep me from punishment, I had no problem loving it.
“It seems that your punishment has done you a lot of good. Well, perhaps you can have a little reward now,” he said. I wondered if this meant that he would finally fuck me, because I was keenly aware that he hadn't touched me down there since we'd arrived and it seemed odd that he always wanted to take me in the mouth.
Apparently it didn't, because then he zipped up his pants and left. He returned quite a bit later with a large glass of milk, a bowl of ice-cream, and something much more glorious: the big hairbrush from my luggage.
“I want to see all of those disappear before you get this,” he said, holding the brush and nodding towards the tray of food. He removed the gag so that I could eat. I was so grateful for that.
“Thank you sir, thank you,” I whispered. He didn’t seem to mind that.
Dairy was just a code for his hatred, and this time I would have to eat it willingly. One thing was certain: I would happily swallow anything rather than face another punishment. He watched me intently as I produced fake expressions of delight as I consumed the stuff. The cold was a balm to my tattered throat. The ice-cream was sweet, and that was wonderful after days of tasting nothing but water, cum and hard plastic.
I made a show of licking the bowl, trying to make it look sexy, though I felt ridiculous. For whatever reason, Lucas seemed satisfied with this, and dropped the hairbrush onto the bed.
“You might not be a total waste after all. Keep working on your attitude and we'll see,” he said.
See what? I wondered.
He locked the door behind him and I heaved a sigh of relief. Nothing really bad had happened; nothing worse than milk and ice-cream. You may laugh, but to me this was all about what it meant to Lucas. I knew that when he gave it to me he was getting his revenge for every imagined slight he’d ever received from a non-westerner. I suspected that Lucas spent a lot of time imagining slights and how he could take his resentment out on me.
Of course, I brushed my hair. I really had nothing else to do, and it became something of a compulsion. I would sit for long stretches on the bed, just brushing. When I think about it in retrospect, this was probably an obsessive-compulsive behaviour brought on by shock and trauma. At the time, it seemed like it was just something to do.
I was tempted to masturbate myself, as that seemed like something Lucas’ ideal slut would do, but I also suspected that because I might enjoy it, it would get me into trouble. I decided to err on the side of caution. If Lucas really wanted me to do it, he would find some way to make it horrible for me.
The next day Lucas dispensed his cum to me five times and delivered three meals of milk and ice-cream. This didn't sit well with my stomach after the past abuses and I spent a lot of time on the toilet, my bottom becoming increasingly sore. As long as it didn't strike while Lucas was in the room I knew I could get through it.
The day after was much the same, but he supplemented the milk with cereals. There were also pills, which he did not explain. I continued to work on my oral skills and he continued to pay very limited but highly specific attention to me. I was to be fed, and used for oral relief, but it seemed I served no other purpose. He barely spoke to me.
Things were much the same the next day. I spent most of my time staring out of the window while brushing my hair and the remainder walking aimlessly around and around the room, or back and forth when I wanted a change. I didn't remove the shoes. I was determined that I would get used to them, and I removed them only to shower. Lucas had allowed me more soap and shampoo. I wanted conditioner, but there was no way that I could ask him for it, and I doubted that it would ever occur to him to get it for me.
The smell of milk never seemed to leave me. Even showering didn't dispel it completely. The scent of the soap concealed it at first, but I began to learn to detect it, to find it hidden underneath any other smell.
I didn't want to shower too often in case Lucas intended to ration my supplies. I restricted myself to twice a day. Of course, the smell was a figment of my imagination. I had not minded dairy products in the least before Lucas got to me, but he made me hate them. In the end I realised it was just something in my mind that I would have to get over.
Chapter Five – Not Exactly Cinderella
The next day seemed the same as the others, but then in the evening, Lucas made an unexpected appearance. I had no means to tell the time exactly, but I could tell roughly from the view out of the window what time it was, and I had grown used to Lucas' routine.
“Get dressed, we're going out to a party. Don't worry, you'll be a star attraction. I'll tell everyone that you're just a whore, so you needn't be worried about getting special treatment. Make sure that you're clean all over and use plenty of this.” He placed a bottle of cheap perfume and an assortment of cosmetics on the nightstand. “You've got twenty minutes. Don't make me wait.”
I showered very quickly and towelled myself off roughly. My mind was racing. Going out? Would I have a chance to escape? Would I dare to take it if one presented itself? Would there be someone I could ask for help? What horrible activities did Lucas have planned for me there?
Despite the trepidation, I was very excited. The tedium of routine locked in a bedroom had worn me down, and I was fairly well recovered from my punishment. My wrists were no longer in dressings, but there were still some scabs. My ankles were no better, but I could hide them under boots.
I didn't waste any time thinking about my outfit, and put on the slick red plastic miniskirt and top, which would go with the knee-high boots. The boot heels were even worse than on the shoes, which I was by no means properly used to, but at least they covered the most skin possible. I wished I had some tights or socks, but of course Lucas had not opted to give me anything like that, by omission or design, I could not tell.
I slathered myself in the cheap perfume, hoping that I would get used to the overpowering smell more quickly than anyone else, and that it would hide the smell of state sweat the plastic clothes would probably produce.
The cosmetics amounted to a pale foundation that was a bad match for my skin, blusher, a harsh deep-red lipstick, cheap mascara and a pale green eye-shadow that would look awful on me, or anyone else for that matter. I didn't have much time, and I was guessing that Lucas expected me to look cheap anyway.
I applied a thick layer of foundation, added heavy spots of blusher on my cheeks and went well beyond the line of my lips with the lipstick. Hurrying, with no idea how much time I had left, I blended big patches of eye shadow and then applied a heavy coat of mascara to my lashes. There was no eyeliner, which seemed an oversight to me, as without it I was unable to properly complete the low-class whorish look that was obviously expected of me.
I studied the results in the mirror, waiting nervously for the sound of the key in the lock. I wiped the lipstick off and reapplied it. There was still no sound. I had time to begin covering the scabs on my wrists with foundation, trying to blend it up my arms. It didn't really work, but perhaps the fact that I had made an effort would be recognized.
I studied the results again. My face was pale, dead flat and artificial under heavy foundation, and devoid of any natural glow. I was glad of it, my once perfect skin was in a dreadful state, blood vessels burst, dry and greasy at the same time and ravaged by stress, cheap soap and weeks of poor diet. I needed that shabby makeup to look even half-way decent. My lips pouted, bright and red, like a ... like a slut. The blusher was a mistake that was too far gone to rectify and my eyes looked like I was seriously in need of a pair of tweezers.
Was this how they felt when they looked in the mirror? Those poor working girls that I had never seen, that were invisible to my upper-middle-class eyes. They existed, ignored by those too privileged to see them, their existence unacknowledged. Did they see themselves in the mirror like this? Did they think, this is not who I really am, but I can't do any better than this today? Were they thankful for what they could do with what they had? Did they look at the little princesses that wandered past them, nose in the air, so perfect their shit smelled of roses, and wish that they too could be like that? Or did they have the wisdom to wish for something more practical?
The sound of the key in the lock jerked me rudely from my thoughts. In a panic I rushed to take my place in front of the bed. I could barely hobble along in the treacherous, high-heeled boots. I knew there wasn't time. I would never make it to my usual place, so I dropped to my knees where I stood.
Lucas didn't even want me to suck his cock. I just knelt there like an idiot, my mouth open, as if waiting to receive him, as if I still had the ring gag in. He was dressed in a white suit and was wearing an impenetrable pair of dark wrap-around sunglasses. I know it sounds foolish now, but at the time it was very modern and cool to dress that way, or at least a stupid young girl of twenty-one years, like me, thought so. Sunglasses at night were a little bit of a cheap gangster look, but everyone liked to put on that kind of style sometimes. It seemed that my appearance was a perfect accessory to his outfit.
“Get up you stupid tart, and put your things in here. You might need to tidy yourself up a few times tonight,” he said, throwing a small metallic gold clutch-purse onto the bed. I stood up and hastily scrabbled to gather the pathetic little collection of cosmetics into the bag.
Lucas grabbed me by the arm and marched my stumbling form down the corridor, through a door into the little entrance hall I'd forgotten even existed, and then out through the door that had originally admitted me to this unceasing nightmare. We were outside in the corridor that connected the apartment to the lift.
There was one other door between ours and the area with the lifts. There was another apartment on this floor. Their door, like ours, was solid and windowless, and the blank wall of the corridor revealed nothing of the character within. Would they help me if I could ever make a run for it?
Lucas gave me more instructions as we waited for the lift. The way he delivered them, they seemed like an afterthought, but in hindsight I think he had planned exactly what he needed to say.
“I don't want to hear you talking to people. If they ask you a question, just giggle or make something up. Don't tell them anything that's true, and don't get into any conversations. Otherwise I don't want to hear a peep from you. You definitely don't go asking anyone any questions. Your job is to suck and fuck and shut up. Do you think you can manage that?”
“Yes sir,” I said, bobbing my head.
“Don't forget it. Also, keep your lipstick neat. A lot of guys get a thrill out of seeing that lipstick mouth wrapped around their cock, and any half-decent whore uses that to her advantage,” he added as he hustled me into the empty lift. “Also, don’t use my name. I don’t want it sullied by your slut lips.”
One thing he didn't offer me was condoms, but of course, at that time, HIV and AIDS were not something that most people cared about in Australia. He didn't bother to warn me against attempting an escape either. I think we both knew there wasn't much chance of that happening.
A taxi was waiting for us outside, and it rushed us through the busy streets and heavy traffic of Sydney to somewhere up on the south end of Elizabeth Bay. The weather had cleared up, and the night was warm and clear, though still quite humid.
I stared out at the people on the other side of the glass. A wall separated us. I wished they could help me. They had no idea what passed invisible through their everyday lives. When we finally arrived, Lucas gave me a long hard look before he paid the driver and we got out of the taxi.
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story continued in part two
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