Page 348 of Ashes of Sin and Stardust

In the video, Alice was whipped extensively – and badly – until her screams faded away. She stared at the ceiling with a look of awe on her face, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Good girl, my good slave,” he cooed to her as she suffered under the whip. Eventually, she passed out.

I could barely watch. I was clenching my jaw and doing everything I could not to kill the man. The sight of her shaking and shuddering under the whip, gasping for air from the collar, explained so much to me. No wonder those were hard limits for her – she’d never experienced them the way she should have. Those things should have brought her safety and confidence. Instead, they had broken her.

Luckily, as one of the most prolific practitioners and educators of BDSM in the area, I was called to the stand.

I was able to explain three key things to the court: the first, that the collar on Alice’s neck was far too tight, and was choking her in an unsafe way, which was causing the flush on her face and the apparent arousal. It was amazing to me that she’d lasted as long as she had before she’d passed out, and that she was still alive.

Second, the way he was using the whip showed lack of skill and training, and the places he was hurting her were unsafe areas. At one point, the whip had struck her on the neck. He could have easily killed her that way, or at least permanently injured her. Anyone who had been in the lifestyle as long as Woodrow should have known the safe areas and the danger areas, and any safe practitioner of impact play should have learned how to use their tools correctly.

And third, I explained subspace, and how it was physically and psychologically impossible for Alice to consent while in subspace, because it was impossible for her to withdraw consent while in that mental place. It was the same as being high, or drunk. Therefore, everything done to her in subspace had been assault... and he hadn’t stopped.

I also explained that I, as her dominant and caregiver, had observed her in both states: subspace, and while having a panic attack. I insisted that her reaction in the video was most certainly the latter instead of the former.

Of course, after that testimony, the defense made an effort to discredit me as a source, citing that I myself had a sex slave at one point. It was a damn miracle they didn’t discover the expunged record or the newspaper article about my own trial so many years ago, and I was positive that Brett and Lindsay had something to do with that. Fortunately for all of us, Megan, Sanaii, Julia, and several other former subs were willing to stand behind me on my insistence of consensual play. Megan spoke highly of my constant respect of her boundaries and her safeword, even when we had been in a total power exchange.

Alice’s response to the video was simply, “I don’t even remember that. I don’t remember him asking me if he could record, I don’t remember any of this happening. I was dissociated for most of those three weeks, because I gave up trying to get him to stop...because he never stopped.”

As a result of her lack of memory of the situation, her character and mental health was attacked. Becca and another specialist were both asked to provide assessment on her mental stability.

As promised, Cole Stewart was called to the stand to testify for her capabilities and character. After adamantly praising her sharp mind and good work ethic, he was asked why she was fired.

Stewart admitted that he had received pressure to fire her from several classified parties that he was not at liberty to discuss. “They refused to share intelligence with us, and unfortunately, we needed that information more than we needed the best PA I’ve ever had.” He shot her a quick apologetic glance.

“Why didn’t these unnamed parties like Alice?”

“They claimed she was too insightful, and might pick up on classified details. I am confident that they were correct.”

His testimony essentially shut down any slander against her being a ditzy, stupid slut.

The details of the theft of Alice’s assets also came to light, and the marriage under duress. The money he’d stolen from her would eventually be returned to her once his personal assets were liquidated, and the deed and keys to Augustus Quinn’s house were returned to the bank for her to pick up at her convenience.

During the course of the trial, it came out that Tiama, one of the victims, had been pregnant during the course of her relationship with Woodrow. When he learned of the pregnancy, he’d attempted to coerce her into having an abortion. She’d refused and attempted to end the relationship, but he’d harassed her, eventually beating her and causing her enough stress and physical trauma that she miscarried. She had medical proof of the abuse and miscarriage in a hospital file that a nurse friend had stolen for her before it disappeared, and a manslaughter charge was added to Woodrow’s rap sheet.

We all knew Peter Woodrow would not be walking away a free man.

Some days were betterthan others. Alice sat in the courthouse the entire time, refusing to leave even when the other victims were asked to recount their experiences. She sat up straight, hair done up professional, makeup conservative, wearing her classy dresses and her practical black leather pumps. She studied every word of the court case, carefully answering each question that came her way as intentionally as possible. Despite the emotional sessions and the regular appearance of her tears during the recounting of the abuse, she won over the jury very quickly. Both the prosecution and the defense were careful in the way they spoke to her, and never accusatory, because she called them both out on it, refusing to answer questions designed to trap her or back her into a corner.

Alex had mentioned to me months ago that Alice knew how to run a room. During the moments when Alice was asked to speak or interact with the room at all, I sat there in the pew in the courthouse, stunned. She was on fire. There was something about the way she stood, spoke, and addressed people that demanded attention. She worked the room in her own way, demanding their respect with her knowledge and straight answers, but also demanding their affection in her body language.

I don’t know why I didn’t see it before, but it was obvious to anyone who knew her well; Alice was fully capable of mass manipulation. And for those moments, when she had a weird combination of telling the truth, and manipulating the emotions of the room, I was both impressed at her skill, and honored that she chose not to manipulate me. Because if I didn’t know her as well as I did, she probably could have.

The days in the courtroom were rough... but the evenings were rougher. Luckily, most of our time in court was spent sitting and observing, and she was not often called to speak. But the effort she put into keeping her shit together wore her out completely, and when we got home, she was a complete disaster.

“Sir, you’d better tie me up as soon as we get inside because I’m going to start throwing things.”

“Sir, I need to get my anger out somehow, and I don’t know how else to do it other than be horrible to you, so please make sure I can’t do that.”

“Sir, turn off my brain, please.”

The most successful nights were the ones where I sat her on the couch and rubbed lotion into her feet while she ranted and talked at me, sometimes wearing a gag, sometimes not. I gave her a pair of fluffy socks with foxes, or hearts, or teddy bears on them. I’d let her color a page from her space coloring book with her glittery gel pens, and then put on a movie or a tv show. After about an hour of this, her little tendencies were a lot stronger. She would relax and start smiling again, make jokes, or say silly things to egg me on. She also loved quoting the movies while we watched them.

Her favorite game was to pretend she didn’t want snuggles so that I could force her into my arms and make her take my affection. “No,” she’d snap, her lips pressed together to hide her smile. “No, I don’t wanna!”

“Too bad. Little girl needs hugs.” And I’d hug her close and talk softly to her until she let go of her big-girl brain, and embraced her inner child.

But sometimes she didn’t need snuggles and chicken nuggets and glittery gel pens. Sometimes she needed to scream and cry, or talk until she was empty.

Most of the time there were tears, tantrums, and refusal to eat anything other than junk food, and I did my best to make her consume as many nutrients and as much water as possible. Sometimes I caught her drinking herself stupid, and I had to force her to go to bed.

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