This post is in the CRUELTIES category. Don’t read it.
This story was recently enriched with amazing images by 3DPerversion. These inspired THW to add a final few hundred words, to round the episode out.
“Please, Chantal, sit down.”
I was a little nervous— I had no idea why they wanted to see me, the partners. It was not a huge firm, and I’d been there over four months, but I hadn’t really had much contact with the two guys whose brilliance, aggression, skill and sheer chutzpah made the outfit such a powerhouse, made them so rich, and made it so cool that I’d got a job there. Not that it wasn’t hard work, and stressful, too; constantly pushing, pressing, constantly trying to keep all your performance indicators out of the red, and hopefully most of them through the green zone, towards the gold.
Now, here I was, in the huge and overwhelmingly male boardroom— all heavy, dark wood, library shelves, old leather chairs, a billiards table; high ceilings; money, money, money.
I was perched on a high stool, while they lounged in heavy wood office chairs behind a wide, imposingly solid oak table. Somehow even the lighting felt powerful, and I was nervous; worrying about that time last week when two indicators had gone red while I was at lunch, and so had stayed that way for half an hour. I hadn’t taken a break away from my desk since. Was I about to be fired?
Picture: Chantal, nervous on the stool
If I’d had more notice, I would have dressed up more— as it was, I was in my normal office mode—smart, conservative— a little subtle sexiness— heels, stockings, a high, tight-ish waist to the skirt—but nothing over the top. I would have worn my sexy underwear— which, even though invisible, had the side-effect of helping me feel confident, in control, a power-dressed woman.
But here I was, shifting nervously in my seat, smiling at them, hoping they liked me.
They left a long silence, watching me carefully. I figured it was some sort of test, and tried to keep calm. In the end, though, the pressure of their cool, amused gazes wore me down, and I let out a foolish little giggle, and did a sort of involuntary wriggle, looking down, then up, then down again, flushed, immediately embarrassed, knowing that I had shown weakness.
They still said nothing.
Another long silence. I was getting so uncomfortable, and still they just watched me, calm as you like.
My mind, despite my best efforts, began to run on sexual lines; I became acutely aware of my breasts, my legs, my mouth. It was a power thing they were doing to me— a young woman, alone with her two rich bosses, in their territory, after hours. My skin began to tingle, to tremble.
Just as I began to feel I had to say something, anything, just to break that intimidating mood, T. spoke;
“We’re going to rape you, Chantal— right now. Quite violently. “
It took a little while for me to realise what he’d said, and even then, I put a silly half-smile on, trying to think it was some sort of joke, feeling really weird, frightened, but somehow utterly unsure of what my response should be, feeling my heart patter, getting all nervous.
Picture: Chantal, stunned
“It’ll be like this, pretty; we won’t hold back. We like to see lovely girls frightened, hurt, humiliated, degraded. And we’ll fuck you that way, too, while you’re crying and begging; while you’re in despair. That’s what we’re going to do to you; now. It will be harsh, and it will be violent, and afterwards, you will go onto your knees and kiss our shoes, and say thank you, and tomorrow you’ll be back at work. Until we decide to do you again.”
Picture: Chantal, struck dumb
It took me a few seconds to properly react; then my whole body went into overdrive. I was up, out of the chair, hearing my shouted “No” hanging in the air as I rushed to the door. I never made it. They shot me with some sort of taser, or stunner— I don’t know— it hit me in the arse, jolted me with shocking pain and heat, and I fell flat on the floor, only just managing to save my face with my arms. They were laughing.
Within a second, I was up again, even though my limbs felt numb, only to be yanked backwards by a fist in my hair, and thrown to the floor again, then kicked fairly hard in the stomach a couple of times, so that I was winded and dry retching at the same time— utterly incapacitated.
They stood over me, talking about my tits, my legs, my lips, all in the dirtiest locker-room terms, while I feebly wriggled on the floor. The tears were flowing, soft, helpless; all the fight was gone out of me. I was terrified.
Picture: Chantal, on the floor
When I could, I gasped out;
“No. Please, don’t”
“Please! Now that’s a word we like. Pretty girls should always beg; never expect anything without very pretty, submissive begging.”
That was N; behind me, T dropped a choke chain over my neck, and yanked it tight, lifting my body with it so that my neck was squeezed hard; I couldn’t breathe. My hands were too feeble to do anything but grasp at the chain. He dropped me then, shook the chain, so I could cough a few breaths.
“The chain is fastened to the pillar. You’re a chained piece of pussy now. Want another kick?”
I didn’t! I shook my head;
“No!”
A second later, I got another kick. Another two, in fact. Winded again, I almost blacked out from pain, fear, lack of breath.
“Just told you to always beg, pretty. Always beg— be very respectful; sometimes it might even work.”
God ! They were lunatics! They might kill me! I was semi-hysterical now, desperately trying to control myself.
“Sorry. Sorry, … sir . Please, p.please … I beg you, please don’t … don’t kick me any more” It was desperate, bitter to humiliate myself by begging these bastards, but…
They laughed; such relaxed, easy laughter— no stress at all. They had done this many times before, I suddenly knew— which only increased my fear.
“On your knees, pretty; face down, ass up, knees apart— you’re gonna get raped.”
I wailed; “No no-o-o, please—p…please sir n-Oh!”
T made as if to kick me again, and I curled into a ball, shrieking, but the kick never came;
N said;
“She asked nicely not to be kicked, give her the cattle prod instead.”
And the next second my right breast exploded— or so it felt; my whole body was a jolt of pain, centred on my poor breast, which I thought must have been shot, or something, I was screeching, until they threw a bowl of water on my head, and I realised that my blouse wasn’t even torn— some sort of electrical shock.
I began to get hysterical then, and they didn’t seem to mind a bit— watching me, entertained, it seemed, simply waiting for me to calm down, which I did, as quickly as I could, forcing myself. I had figured out that I wanted to co-operate— the pain was too much, the terror too much, and their patience was, frankly, terrifying.
So when N. nodded at me, I wailed again, but made myself get into position, hoping I knew what they wanted, face on my fore-arms, knees spread, but tucked in, so that my ass was high; I was sobbing, but I held myself like that while he lifted my skirt.
Picture: Chantal, face down, ass up
I wished I could die. I felt cold metal and flinched— he cut away my panties. If I could have died of shame, then, I would have; my most intimate parts, exposed so lewdly to this pair of rapists.
It was only a few seconds later that I screeched as a big cock was slowly but relentlessly forced into my tight, dry pussy. It hurt, and it shamed, and it destroyed me; a terrible, deep wail of despair came from me as he thrust deep inside me, slow and steady, deep and hard.
“Fuck, this is a nice pussy; super-tight, just the … way … I LIKE it—!”
Picture: Chantal, fucked from behind
He thrust himself, violently, all the way into me, making me wail in awful despair, shame and pain, which obviously pleased them, since it made them laugh some more.
He increased his pace then, still steady, but insistent, bumping onto me at each thrust, pounding me, making me gasp with each stroke, however little I wanted to, grunting a little to himself. God, but he seemed to be huge inside me, and so calm; it went on and on, and then I felt, with horror, that my body was responding— lubricating, at least. He felt it too, and sped up a little, until I was horrified to know that I was wet; slick with my own juice, easing the rapist’s passage.
Suddenly, he pulled out;
“Fuck…king gorgeous! Gotta save myself though. Your turn, N. Go for it. Little bitch is hot, hot, hot!”
I was sobbing into my arms, as my pussy involuntarily surged, looking for the filling it had grown used to. God, I would see them rot for this, I promised myself, all the time knowing it was impossible; men this powerful didn’t do things like this without having it all sewn up.
N. was at me, then. He was super strong—a real workout guy; he pulled me upright with the chain, spun me round and lifted under my thighs, hoisting me and splitting me, effortless, as if I was a small child, then lowered me onto his fat cock, making me moan in shame and despair.
Picture: Chantal, fucked, standing cowgirl
I was facing him, just inches away, as he worked me up and down until he, too, was deep into me, my own weight making sure I was thoroughly penetrated. He too, was slow and steady, merciless, relentless, mashing my pussy regularly and powerfully, until I heard a moan that sounded like a girl who was aroused, until I realised it was me, and the moan turned into a wail, and stopped as I bit my lip. N laughed and just kept on, and a minute later I was moaning helplessly at each stroke, not turned-on, but very definitely awash with deep sensation; my head lolled back, swaying, until he, too, pulled out suddenly, and half dropped, half threw me onto the table, where I slowly curled up, sobbing.
Not for long, though, another atrocious shock, and another, and another, until I rolled off the desk, onto the floor.
“Grovel for us, pussy, show us you know you’re beaten.”
And I did, god help me, shrieking;
“Please! please I’ll do anything! Please sir, I … I beg you…”
Picture: Chantal, cowering, groveling
They waited then, smiling, grinning at me;
“That’s good, pussy, but we need it better. Say it. Say it in your normal voice, slow and careful, so we know you mean it; tell us that you’re beaten, that you know you are beaten, and that you’re ours.”
I stared at them, horrified, for the longest moment, until I realised it was true, and felt my heart break inside me; it was really true— so why risk their anger, any more pain, by not admitting it?
Oh, I knew why; I well knew; I knew that saying it out loud, the way they wanted, would be giving them some sort of permission— that it would implicate me in everything they did to me; I would have stopped fighting them, stopped resisting. I would have given in to them, and I so did not want to become the girl who had given in.
But it was true; they were right, which T proved, just by moving the end of the shock thing a little suggestively. Fear flared in me, and I found myself saying it; I hated myself for it, but I said it, and in a hurry, too;
“I … I’m beaten. I … I … I’m yours.”
It came out in a pathetic, shivering whine, but I had said it, and I wanted to die; somehow, having said that was the worst thing that had happened all evening.
But I didn’t die, and neither was it good enough for them;
“That’s nice to hear, little girl, but you really need to pay more attention to what we ask of you; we mean what we say, and instant, pretty compliance is what we expect of you. Failure to give us what we expect results in nothing but suffering and humiliation.”
I had no response to that but whimpering, cringing, I was pathetic, felt despair— real despair, for the first time in my life; for some reason my mouth tasted like bitter ashes; I knew I must speak, but I was frozen by the awfulness of it all, by the casual vileness that had destroyed my life, that would define me forever— I wasn’t thinking clear thoughts like these, but that was it, I know it now, because I have spent countless awful hours reliving those moments.
It was not what they wanted, though, and I got the shock prod between my thighs, right in the core of me, worse than ever, and I screamed so that I ripped my throat, and flipped like a landed fish— wildly, but to no purpose at all— ending up where I had been, half naked; a defeated rape victim, cowering, terrified, on the floor, knowing there was more to come, that she was in the hands of cruel and powerful sadists who had done this many times before, to many different girls.
They didn’t speak, this time, just waited, with that terrible, threatening, hope-sapping patience; enjoying themselves as I died inside in front of them; as I killed myself, killed my old self, the one which had dreams, and an appetite for joy, and flowers, and sunny Sunday mornings in the park; I killed that innocent, for their entertainment, so that I could become theirs, just because I was too scared to resist.
It was hard— so, so very hard, but I made myself kneel for them, made myself at least appear calm— as best I could— and made myself speak, as normally as was possible, although my voice came out low, hoarse, tear-stained, full of fear and despair and shame; I said it though, very clearly, and we all knew that I had done something;
“I am beaten. I … I know I am beaten, and I … I am yours.”
The defining moment of my life.
CRUELTY TAGS:
