Worst

by ariel emms (if you enjoy this story, please feel free to let me know or to distribute it to others)

“All right, all right, then - one!” she called, and winced as the strap crashed down, but no cry was heard.

It had begun as such a nice day - a gorgeous day, really.  She had been out for a pleasant walk in the garden, thinking back over the events of the past week.  Such pleasant thoughts had so occupied her that she had not noticed the landscape change, meadow turning to hedges, the hedges growing taller, till, as she emerged from her reverie, she recognised that she was in a maze.

It had occurred to her, as she recognized this place, that her situation might be less than ideal.  She had been here before, this domain of predators and dominants, and it would be best for her to leave as quickly as possible.  But which way had she entered, exactly?

“Two!” she called out, bracing for the impact, which again came without drawing forth any cry.

She had turned back in her tracks, but blocking her path was a tall man, dressed in black, who grabbed her before she could react.  Unfortunate, but not disastrous - she knew this game, and could bargain for her freedom with a piece of her clothing.  Embarrassing, she had thought to herself, but a small price to pay - and once paid, she was sure she could escape quickly.  She was quick and small, not easy to catch.  Even more importantly, she was sly, and had often talked her way out of these scrapes before. It was amazing how many so-called dominants took her naivete at face value and took “pity” on her.  Sure enough, the predator had been persuaded to release her at only the cost of her shoes - nothing! - and she had quickly left him behind.

Or so it had seemed until she turned a corner to see a different black-clad figure, a woman, at the end of the path.  Swerving to avoid her, she saw the first figure again, and ducked down a smaller side route - but the woman had already been moving to intercept her new route.

“Three!”: the whoosh of the strap, the smack of leather on flesh, but no other sound.

She had realised then, to her dismay, that the two predators were hunting together - very unusual, and more dangerous than she had first thought.  Time and again they trapped her, leaving her no way to avoid capture.  Worse, they were smart, and her ploys were ignored, dismissed, or (most worrying of all) seen through for the frauds they were.  In a distressingly short time she had been reduced to nakedness, cowering in a corner, trying to cover herself with her arms.  This could be bad.

Then they had leashed her.  They had leashed her and led her through the maze - paraded her, she would have said, except that they paid virtually no notice to her at all.  At least, she had thought to herself, such sights were common enough in the maze that she might be unnoticed.  But they had led her from the maze, taken her to areas where a woman on a leash was a rarity, and even though they had given her scraps of clothing to wear, she felt the stares of the passersby, the strangers who saw her humiliation and degradation, she had felt those stares burn into her hotter than any flame. 

“Four!”: the whoosh, the smack, silence.

She had no idea where they took her, but they had stripped her and tied her, spread eagled and supine across a table, her nudity again on display to all. And they left.  They left? 

Doubt had begun to rise in her.  Their absence was good - wasn’t it?  What worse thing could happen with them not there than with them there?  Soon, to her regret, she had discovered the answer to that question.  They had announced her presence - and predicament - to all, and offered use of her to any who wished.  There were many who did.  Women, and some men, in turn and together, hands running over her skin, her body, her body...sullied...by the touch, using her in all the ways a woman can be used, and, and, and...it was almost too much to bear.  She had lost count of the numbers. She had tried to comfort herself with the thought that the worst must now be over. 

And yet still it was not enough for them.  For her freedom, they had said, it was not enough that others had taken her.  No, it would only be enough if she were to offer herself, for their amusement, invite strangers to use her as they watched - or did not watch, if they chose.  And if they chose not to watch, well then, they would need to see the physical proof, glistening on her skin, that she had been some man’s sexual plaything.

“Five!”: whoosh, smack, nothing.

She had done as they required - she could not refuse, her mind told her, though her body told her the same message with different meaning.  She had found a man, and pleased him - the proof of his pleasure, his cum, dripped down her skin, drying where it lay.  Surely now, she had thought to herself, this must have been the worst.  But they led her away again, they had led her to a dungeon, where, where they had...they had..had - to say they had beaten her would be inaccurate.  There was a whip, it was true, but the threat, the anticipation, the fear of the lash had weighed more heavily than the few strokes that actually licked her flesh, leaving their red stripes across her buttocks and back.  She could have managed the pain, embraced it, made it her own, if only they would not confuse her so with the threat of it.  They rejected her denials that she had felt any pleasure, and threatened her for those lies.  But they equally rejected her admissions of pleasure, which they said were made only to avoid punishment.  She feared giving the wrong answer, but there were no right ones.

But finally they were done, their lust sated and their cruelty satisfied, and they had left her bound in her restraints and alone on the floor, aching and bruised, sore in her loins and jaw, and striped with red, and covered with slowly drying spunk.  At last, she had said to herself, and had believed it this time, the worst is truly over.  Who, she had wondered, could she call to help her get free?  Miu certainly would come, and would comfort her and would not judge, but it was always Miu who rescued her, and she did not wish to be a burden again.  Miss Alt had keys, Miss Alt would almost certainly - she would, wouldn’t she? - assist her, but even in this extremis summoning the nerve to ask such a favour of Miss Alt was beyond her.  It would have to be Ayla, sweet Ayla, who would understand and would soothe her and would save her.  And in only moments, Ayla had responded to the request, and was there, kneeling to free her from her restraints and help her up.

If only, she thought to herself, she had not called Ayla.

“Six!”: the leather strap tore through the air, slapped painfully against flesh, and finally, finally, having borne it so long, Ayla cried out in pain.

They truly were demons, this pair.  They had not been satisfied, their thirst had not been slaked - they simply had used her to catch more prey.  And though Ayla fought like a demon herself, they had had the advantage of size and surprise and numbers and in only a moment Ayla had been bound face down to a rack, her pants cut away from her with a knife.

Their scheme was inhuman, she had thought to herself as they lowered her to the pit - so simple, yet so cruel.  Her legs were free, though her hands were still bound together and leashed, and they had told her she was free as soon as she climbed out.  If that was too difficult, they had said, she need only call for help and they would pull her up a bit through the impassable portion.  Just call out a number, be pulled up a foot - and let Ayla pay the price with her pain.

She had done her best.  She had climbed a long way, nearly falling many times, and had made real progress.  But then she had hit a place where passage was simply impossible.  She looked - god she looked! - but there was simply no route upward that she could manage on her own.  She had waited a long time, she had felt terrible, but, but, but - perhaps they would not strike Ayla very hard, not the first blow? - and feeling enormous guilt, she had called out “All right, all right, then - one!”.  She winced, but Ayla had not cried out.

It was never easy, but it became easier each time.  She did her best, but five more times she had to have help or stay in the pit forever, and Ayla had always borne it - till the last stroke.  She could not bear that sound, the sound of Ayla’s pain.  She swore to herself that she would ask no more help - if they left her in the pit forever, she would find her own way out!  Spurred on she climbed - the top was so near now - till at last she stalled again.  Still, she would not call out - no matter what, she would not!

It was then they began to fill the pit with water. 

At first she thought this a good thing.  She could swim, she was a strong swimmer, reaching the top would be no problem.  Indeed, when the water neared her shoulders she let go of the wall, to tread water till she was out.  Had she realised how heavy her wrist and ankle cuffs were, she never would have made that mistake.  Struggling, kicking her legs as hard as she could, she could barely keep above the surface.  She scrambled to grab the wall again, now slick and slippery, and could get no purchase.  Sinking, kicking desperately, she got her head above the surface long enough to cry “seven!!”, then “eight!!”, then “nine!!”, enough of her conscience seeping through her panic to make her ashamed at every word, and enough of her consciousness outside her own struggle to hear Ayla’s cries cut through her like a knife.

Then at last she was holding the top of the pit, pulling herself out, exhausted, onto the cold stone floor.  At last, she said to herself, at last the worst is truly over. 

But she knew in her heart this time that it was not true.  She had yet to look Ayla in the eyes, to see their friendship irrevocably lost.  That, that moment, would truly be worst.