This post is in the CRUELTIES category. Don’t read it.
You will find that this makes more sense if you have read the earlier parts of this story.
Hearing this, Mia’s brain shut down; she could not live with that again— she would lose her mind, she knew it; lose her last, tenuous threads to what it meant to be a person, a normal human, she would be scarred for life … she could not …
And then it hit her, what Weinstein wanted, what she would have to do to avoid the burning. It was so obvious, it was so neat, so exact, the trap he had set for her in. She had even prefigured it in her script.
I expect to be deliberately terrorised with threats of torture and treatment that I have explicitly not consented to— to be lied to, tricked, manipulated— to be told that this agreement is so broad that there is nothing that cannot be done to me with impunity.
They were doing it to her, just as she had told them she expected them to, and it had worked.
She knew just what it was that Weinstein wanted from her, and it was appalling and tragic, but she spent almost no time feeling the awfulness of it; there was no time. Nothing else mattered in any case, not when set against the immediate threat of being subjected to the hot coals again, of losing her mind, losing herself forever.
She heard her voice, hoarse, desperate, almost a screech at first, until she remembered she was supposed to be begging them;
“I’ll do it! I’ll go with your dogs! They can … they can … you can put them onto me. They can fuck me. Please … please, don’t burn me! I … I want to … to be raped by … by your dogs. I … I beg you to … to set them on me.”
Inside her there was screeching too, as parts of her went to war with other parts, bringing up the look, the smell, the heat, the fear of those bright, shiny, misshapen cocks, the impossibility that she, Mia, could ever accept such things into her pussy, let alone with Justin, Maddy, a dozen strangers watching, taking pictures, video, that she could ever live with herself afterward…
But it was too late; it had been said. And she knew that she meant it, that the deal of becoming a bitch for those German Shepherds versus the threat of immediate hot coals would always win.
A shout went up— clearly, this had been the plan, and Weinstein was being congratulated on the effectiveness of his management of her once again.
Mia felt sick, but any feeling was worth it, to be relieved of the terror of that shovelful of agony.
“Oho, little cunt. Suddenly those shiny red dicks seem much more interesting, it seems! A dose of reality tends to help great deal, I find.”
“You see, cunt, you’re ours. For days and days to come. Anything, anything at all that we want, whether it was in your little video or not— anything we want to do with you, pretty, you’re going to find yourself begging for, eager for, yearning for, willing to make little extra video appeals for, in the face of some other horror.”
“You need to face it; there are no limits on what you will beg us for, none at all. You are ours, totally ours.”
“And right now, you’re going to make a little video for us about just how much you want to play bitch for my two boys here. Don’t worry, we’ve got a little script for you, all on your friend’s iPad, so you can say it all nicely, just like you did before.”
There was some shouting then, which Mia hardly noticed, since she was finding it hard to breathe after Weinstein’s cruel speech. She wanted so much, very much, to be free, at that moment; free, and back in her apartment with Justin, Justin as she had thought he was, before, before all; free, or perhaps dead … she was drowning in misery, but the shouting had got louder, and she was suddenly possessed by a desperate fear that she had missed something, that she might be going to face the coals after all, and twisted her head wildly, desperately needing to catch what was going on.
It was something else, though— it seemed that some of the men were tired of distractions from the business of raping her— they wanted to start in on her at once, rather than wait for a video to be made; Weinstein though was wanting to get this new consent ‘in the bag’, was telling them that they had days to rape her in, and was crudely reminding them that they’d be lucky to be able to get it up twice that evening, unless they had brought a supply of little blue pills with them.
Being argued about like that was dreadful. No-one of them was in the slightest concerned about her, only about how each wanted to abuse her. At least, no-one except Maddy, who was close now, pointing the camera at her face, letting it explore her naked, dirtied body. How could Maddy be a part of this, have betrayed her so? Was she so utterly awful that the two people she had trusted most in the world had conspired to destroy her? Bitter bile rose in her throat at the cruel injustice of it all, at her own complicity in it, at the horror that she had seven days of this to come; seven days in which she was to be nothing but rapemeat for these cleverly cruel savages.
There was movement, once again, chains were fixed, and she was lifted— face upwards this time, her head lolling back, unsupported, the digger arm swung her away from the fire and she sobbed with relief, only to be grabbed by the hair and yanked painfully, swivelled into a more upright position, squeaking her pain and sudden new fear.
It was Weinstein;
“I got the high score, so it’s me first, and I can take as long as I like, so I’m going to take some of my time with the recording, gents, and it’s all as per the agreement, so quit kvetching.”
And there was a dog’s nose, cold, at her pussy, making her squeal in revulsion, then, shocking her again, a dog’s tongue, warm and rough, lapping at her there, and she was wrenching herself in her bonds, trying to escape, but to no avail.
There was a masked man, holding up an iPad— strange to see something so slick and cool in this dark hell of filth, smoke, mud and tears, but there were the words on the screen, very large, and there was the blinding light on the video camera and the men were united again, all baying at her to get on with it until Weinstein shouted them down so that she could start.
Only she couldn’t, not for the longest while; every time she opened her mouth to speak nothing came out; her throat seemed clamped tight. It wasn’t for lack of willpower— she was desperate not to be sent back to the tree stump — but that her voice just wouldn’t work.
Weinstein was not in the least upset by this, he just kept grinning and encouraging her to try again;
“If you still can’t speak after three more tries it’s the shock prod inside your pussy, little Mia, and I’m really excited to be the first person ever to do that to you, so try again.”
“I should clarify— I was always going to be the first person to do that to you— the only question is if I get to do it now or in a day or two.”
The threat didn’t help; she did try again, urgently, and again, and yet again, desperate, determined, utterly committed, but she couldn’t even get the first word out, even though she strained at it, and tears ran from her eyes. Weinstein was grinning like a devil he was, but still … still, she could not speak. It was too much; the terror, the shame, the agony, the horror that she was theirs for what might as well be an eternity, the despair, the betrayal, the thought of dogs fucking her, of being filmed, being proven to be such a helpless, worthless piece of trash… She could not make her voice work.
The shock prod did it, though; once she had recovered at least— the pain, the horror of that having been done to her had been overwhelming, and she had screamed, full throated, begged and pleaded, hoarse with urgency, not to have it again— for Weinstein had told her he would do it three times, each with the power turned up a little more, and her voice had been powerful and urgent and earnest and deadly serious when she had told him that it would kill her if he did it again, if he increased the power, sounding like her voice never had before— working hard to have it as powerful, as certain as she could make it, it still came out like a strangulated weak begging,
And he did it again anyway, and it was worse, and still, still, she did not die.
And she screamed and begged again, utterly without shame, all self-respect gone, sacrificed, thrown away for the tiny, impossible chance that her begging might possibly, just …
Except that it had not, and she had been galvanised into a jerk that those watching would not have believed her capable of, noises that were hardly human, as her whole body seemed to clench around its core, then do its best to explode away, all horribly, bruisingly restrained by the cruel chains and she blacked out for a time.
When, finally, she had attained even a slight degree of her control over her body— largely with the help of another dunk in the freezing water— necessary to clean her of the voided content of her bowels and bladder, forced from her by the intensity of the final jolt of electricity, she began, as calmly and as clearly as she could, begging to be allowed to make the video, explaining, abjectly, how terribly sorry she was for her failure, promising it would never happen again, that the prod would kill her if it did, until the chains once again brought her to the centre of the circle, and Maddy, and the iPad, and she had gathered up every ounce of strength that remained to her to do this one last thing, after which she would abandon herself to Hell.
“I’m Mia, and … and I’d like to change something serious about what … what should be done with me. I … I’ve come to understand something— that my time here, this experience I’ve asked for, will not teach me enough, unless I ask for … for something else. Something important. I … I want to raped by animals— dogs, in particular. I want to be made to …”
Mia had to stop at that point, stop and take herself in hand, hyperventilating, on the edge of panic, stop and try to manage the terrible anguish that was building in her as she said these disgusting words, as she tried to make herself sound willing, knowing she would have to do it again and again until Maddy was satisfied, knowing she could never get through it again, knowing that the shock-prod awaited failure, forcing herself to make the best approximation of a smile she could, to fake a giggle to hide the choke of tears that rose in her, feeling the tears fall anyway, forcing herself back to it…
“I want to be made to take … take their cocks into my mouth, deep in my throat, to suck them as if I am loving it, then take them in my pussy and my ass if told to. I know they’ve been trained to bite, that I’ll be bitten while they fuck me, that I’ll bleed, and I want that too, to know that I’m powerless to resist being fucked by a big strong dog, while everyone watches, to know that it’s being filmed. I want to become a bitch for these lovely dogs, for them to know they can fuck me whenever they want. Thank you.”
She is streaming with tears by the end, begging, pleading to be told that she has done a good enough job, but she gets nothing.
Nothing at all but her throat rammed with Weinstein’s hard, thick shaft.
Nothing but the beginning of the gang-rape.
