This post is in the CRUELTIES category. Don’t read it.
“More begging! More grovelling! Excellent. Keep it up, girly.”
“And since you asked so nicely, here’s something you can do for us. Put this in your mouth.”
I looked up, trying to calm myself — here was something I could do for myself, not just be a passive victim of this horror. Something — however bad — at least something, not to be just a body getting fucked and hurt.
So I took it, the thing, and put it in my mouth, even though I had some idea it was awful. I even begged for it, crying, like a little dog, while they laughed,
It was like two gumshields, joined by a spring, that fit at the sides of my mouth; then he reached in and flicked some catch; the springs opened, and my mouth was instantly, irresistibly stretched obscenely, painfully wide; I yelled, inarticulate, horrified, and they laughed.
Shortening the chain against a leg of the table, T. casually stuffed his cock into my mouth, and then immediately on, into my throat. I was utterly incapable of resisting; all I could do was fight for breath, fight not to puke on him which I was sure would result in more horrible pain; fight to survive; squealing and grunting into his cock as it slammed deep into my throat again and again, my whole body writhing, in the attempt to avoid this unspeakable foulness. A shorter session this, until he pulled out, a little pause, for sobbing, retching, pathetically trying to beg in a pretty voice, nothing but gurgles coming out; more laughter, and then N.’s cock was pushed into me, without any more ceremony than a satisfied sigh.
He was slower, more leisurely, interested in whether I would pass out or not, pleasuring himself more sensuously, enjoying my squirming. Thankfully, he too pulled out after a short time, preserving his orgasm for god knows what evil. I was frantic to have the thing removed from my aching jaw, but they left it there for what seemed years as they discussed what to do next with me, while I knelt, trembling, trying to do nothing that might attract their attention, unable to believe, really, that this was actually happening. But it was, and there was no escape, and of course, eventually, N. remembered my existence, glanced down and casually put a couple of fingers right in between my wide open, drooling lips;
“Oh yeah, bet that hurts, doesn’t it, pretty?”
He almost caressed me as he removed it and tossed it aside, then knelt beside me to casually rip open my blouse, then cut my bra away, and laughed happily at the sight of my tits, which are firm, large, all natural, and tipped with pretty, perky nipples. I closed my eyes as he mauled them, but I could not hide from myself the feeling that I got — my breasts, my nipples, always having been a source of sensuous excitement to me.
Then his other hand was at my pussy and he leant in;
“Kiss me: kiss me nice, pussy, or I’ll shock your cunt.”
And so, desperate, despairing, shamed, I kissed him as he mauled my pussy and breasts, tears flowing softly all the time.
He whispered in my ear; “You’re very wet, for a girl who is hating every minute of this … slut,” then kissed me more.
It is hard to kiss a man—a man who has just raped you—a man who is groping you roughly, something you desperately wish he would not do; a man whom you nevertheless urgently wish will keep on kissing you in case he does something more dreadful — so hard — because if you don’t kiss him well, he may hurt you, and when you kiss him well, your body reacts as it is used to doing, and you feel your pussy surging for him, feel your thighs spreading, feel yourself moving to give him your breasts, and you shake, and cry, and then force yourself to kiss him even more carefully, even more seductively, in case the shaking and crying makes him angry, and this just makes it go on longer…
…until, at random, he pulled away, laughing, while I sobbed helplessly, hopelessly; shamed and degraded and panting so that it was impossible to hide.
I dared not close my thighs, and something in me was thinking about the picture I must present, chained, semi-naked, sobbing, breasts and sex on display, and it was such a powerful, gut-wrenching image… and I moaned, helplessly, as I felt complicit in my own rape, as I remembered the times in the office when I had noticed N. coming, and looked for some pose which would catch his attention, to emphasise my backside, or my bust, and I moaned again.
“We’re going to whip you next, girly; with real leather whips — old style, so you know what thorough, careful, hand-crafted pain is like. It’ll help you, believe me, it will. Then again, what do I care if you believe me — we’re going to do it anyway. But for now, I want you to take off your skirt, and fetch us some drinks.”
T. loosened the chain, and pulled me to my feet.
I almost collapsed again, sobbing, but fear helped me pull myself together; I bit my lip, hard, told myself there might be less pain if I was helpful, and shyly unzipped my skirt, let it fall, naked then but for the remains of my stockings, the ripped blouse and a chain around my neck.
He stood back;
“You are really a very lovely girl; a gorgeous piece of fuck-meat. No, don’t close your thighs — or I’ll have to shock you. That’s it! Open for me, accept me — always — anytime, anywhere, anyplace — this pussy is mine!”
“Ah!” he jabbed three fingers into my pussy and I was almost hysterical again, tears spurting from tightly closed eyes but I kept myself open somehow, then could stop myself from jerking when he caressed some sensitive spot;
“Oh, a high sprung filly, indeed” he laughed; “On your knees, quickly. Suck me! nicely now, or you’ll wish you were dead.”
I hesitated for a second, but only a second, and then I went down, and I was gently sucking his fat cock, tears on my cheeks, but trying hard; boyfriends tell me that I am good at this, and it’s a fact that I had been proud of my ability — and enjoyed doing it, too, liking the feeling of power it gives me; but this situation was so different, I could hardly manage it.
Of course, the thought came to me that I should bite him, have my revenge, but I was so terrorised I was even frightened of the thought, and immediately tried even harder, so that I felt him stiffening in my mouth, and for a second I forgot the situation, and felt pleased, tried a little trick, and he got harder, and I was feeling again as if there was something I could actually do, when he grabbed my hair, slammed my head against the desk, and pushed deep into my throat, grunting in pleasure jerked faster and faster, then pulled away just as I felt I would black out. T. spurted his come into my mouth, so that I choked again, and it came up through my nose, and as he shouted his pleasure, I was spluttering and snorting and crying noisily; covered with sticky, demeaning come, as N. laughed out loud at the both of us.
T. said;
“Fuck, that was good — she has the loveliest mouth. Don’t you gorgeous? Proper little oral expert! Fuck!”
I seemed to have run out of tears then, to have become passive. I just knelt, wiping my mouth with the back of my arm, spreading his come over my face, numb.
“Go and clean your face, sexy, and come back here quickly — I need a beer and a scotch both!” N. orders, taking the chain off. Somehow, I found myself obeying.
In the luxury executive bathroom, I was at first an automaton, before the tears came back, and I collapsed, but five seconds later I remembered the need to hurry, and became terrified; fear kept me in motion, then. Heart pounding, I saw a lipstick and mascara, and found myself trying to improve my face; a degraded rape victim, trying to look pretty for her rapists. But I carried on — it was something I needed; tried to fix my hair.
I had no clothes to fix, and again, I sobbed, wracked, but found myself, as I exited the washroom, trying to walk prettily, gracefully. I should have been making myself ugly, unattractive, hoping they’d leave me alone, but I couldn’t allow myself to do that. I needed to be together, somehow. My shoulders were back, and my swaying breasts shouldered their way out of the ruined blouse, nipples catching at the edges of the cloth. I was aware of pleasure at the sensation, and again at the obvious appreciation in N.’s voice as he remarked on my reappearance to T.
“We chose a right one here!”
I wanted to cry, but blinked back the tears, went over to N. as he beckoned;
“Do we still need to chain you, pussy, or would you rather wear this pretty choker?”
I remembered that I must beg, and so, full of fear, desperate not to be chained again, I went down to my knees, hating myself, and softly begged for the choker, earning more laughter.
I was to stand, they made it clear, to put it on myself. Of course, my breasts swayed as I lift my hands to fasten the catch.
“You have great tits, pussy, but they will be even lovelier soon, splashed with tears and striped by the whip. God, but I love my life! Drinks now, pretty, and bring the vodka bottle too — time you had a drink!”
I fixed beers and whisky for them, asking them in a meek voice if they would have ice, soda, unable to believe I was where I was, that it was all real, but just as unable to think of anything else I could do but try not to anger them. I could not bear any more pain, I just couldn’t.
They poured vodka down my throat, making me retch. More laughing. Then, their beers finished, they got serious.
It turned out the choker had a snap for a chain, which hung from the column. They adjusted it, tightening, until I was on tiptoe. I was begging, but they told me to shut up, and I did. My hands were lifted to cuffs on the chain, and they both picked up whips. I pissed myself with fear, and they got angry, or seemed to, and then, without any particular fuss, I was being whipped. Whipped, for real, for the first time in my life — an unimaginable horror, an impossible outrage.
Impossible, except for the fact that it was so terribly, viciously real; they were using long leather whips that cracked just like in a cowboy film, and it hurt like nothing else in my life had ever hurt — the mental multiplying the physical multiplied by the horror and then by the shock, so that I was almost immediately hysterical — beyond crazy; an out-of-body experience.
I screamed so much they stopped to gag me before starting again. It is very strange to realise, looking back, that it actually wasn’t much of a whipping, but as a first time, it was utterly devastating. It was impossible to endure, and yet, there was no choice. The chain held me; I could writhe and wriggle, but I could not defend myself. The whips cut between my legs, smashed into my tits, crossed my thighs, my belly, my arse, my back. When they stopped I could not stop jerking from the pain for a good minute, while they, of course, laughed and joked.
At last, they let me down. They left me in a heap on the floor for a little while, before N. said;
“I need another beer, pussy!”
And somehow, I made myself stand up, trotting to the bar to serve him. I couldn’t meet their eyes, but they had no inhibitions at all about touching my pussy, my breasts, and apart from instinctive little flinches, I dared not pull away.
N. said — “I want one of those lovely blow-jobs like you did for T., then I’m going to come in your fine little asshole, baby. On your knees now. Quick! or it’s the prod!”
I sobbed in desperate despair, but after a fleeting glance at his cruel smile, I went to my knees before I could get into any more trouble, tremblingly taking his cock in my mouth. It took forever, this time, to get going at all, but he seemed not to be in a hurry, taking it easy. I didn’t want it to happen, but it did; a point at which my ability to give pleasure became a refuge from the madness, and I started to really serve his cock. It is a magnificent cock, and I found myself going far down on him — further than I ever had for a lover, pushing past my limits — knowing that if I didn’t I might be slammed against the desk, desperately needing even a small amount of control, even if it meant cooperating, pleasuring my rapist, working for his pleasure as best I could, until he threw me off, abruptly;
“Not so fucking fast, slut — I said I would come in your ass, and I will — don’t you try and beat it! Now, one knee up on the table, spread ‘em, hurry.”
Leaning back against the table, arms huddled in front of me, I began to plead with him not to fuck me in the ass. But begging had ceased to entertain him, apparently, and he reacted badly, grabbing my hair and pushing me backwards down onto the desk.
“You do what I fucking want, when I fucking want it, cunt! ” He said, “You’ve earned this!” and without seeming to think about it, he pushed his lighted cigar directly inside my pussy.
I screamed and screamed; as if I was dying. Since, I have realised that it hadn’t hurt so very much — bad as it was — the moisture there puts it out fast, and the mark healed much more quickly than the weals from the whip. But the psychological impact was immense. They thought nothing of burning me — there — right in my pussy!
In the wee small hours of the morning, when I was back at home, it was this casual, relaxed, unthinkably cruel, unforgivable act that replayed in my mind, again and again, as I tried to tell myself that I was going to the police, that I was never going back, that I would have my revenge even if it meant telling all the shameful details in a public court. But — again and again — the evidence of that appalling act — which must surely alone be worth twenty years in prison — meant that they were prepared for any attempt at whistleblowing, and that the retribution, if they caught me, would surely be dire. That’s what stopped me. That’s what held me. That’s what made me go back. That’s what made me understand that I would have to accept their regime — accept their conditions — dress and act sexy or be penalised, even in the knowledge that dressing and acting sexy would get me raped more often.
I writhed and wailed, but he simply manhandled me into position, brought some lube from his pocket and squirted it onto his cock before commencing to push at my poor asshole. It was hard, and maybe hurt him; it certainly hurt me far more than the short, sharp burn in my pussy had, and I wailed and screeched with the pain and shame of it, but he was relentless — getting T. to gag me after a while, thrusting away, until he was in me; deep into me, and then going deeper, getting faster, becoming more violent with every thrust, and again I thought I must surely die from it. Part of me wished that I could, to be honest.
But I was still alive, still hurting, still jerking with despairing misery at every thrust as, after ploughing into me for what seemed an eternity, he came, with a shout, and I was cast aside, weeping and shaking, devastated.
They left me again, a snivelling, quivering heap on the floor, naked, sticky, destroyed, taking turns to go for a shower. At last, I was made to stand up, then dropped into a chair — they draped a towel over it first, to protect it from the filth of me.
“That was good — which means that you still have a job here, Chantal. You’ll come in tomorrow as usual, and — just this once — we’ll give you an easy ride on performance. Of course, we’ll be fucking you again — whenever we want to. Maybe you’ll be pleased to hear we aren’t always as violent — helps at the start, we find, to get the point across; the point being that you are cunt, and we fuck cunt when and how we like, with cunt working as hard as it can to give us exactly what we want. But you have a talented mouth, a pretty face and pretty manners to go with ‘em; if you get the hang of throating soon you may even get away without a whipping sometimes.”
“Oh, one thing — you will never wear panties again — or pantyhose. Naked pussy at all times under short skirts — neatly trimmed pubes, of course, with sexy stockings. And your appearance begins to count for performance. You look extra sexy, you’ll get yourself raped more often, and then you’ll find that hitting your targets is a little easier. You look dull, you’re going to find it harder to get out of the red zone, and maybe you’ll get yourself a whipping without the consolation prize of a thorough fucking. So, smarten up, little lady!”
“We’ll be putting a nice little bonus and a generous clothing allowance into your account, so don’t think we haven’t recognised your contribution. Now, on your knees, kiss the feet of your masters, and thank them for their attention, you worthless little whore.”
Trembling, terrorised, I obeyed, as prettily as I knew how, my voice a thin reed, grovelling, pathetic, carefully compliant, eager to display my submission.
“Right, then, you can fuck off — and don’t even think about any fuss. Goes without saying, I hope, that talking about this will get you dead, yes? Painfully, slowly dead, with maximum time for regret.”
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