Conscious Cunt J Post 7, part 1

This post is in the CRUELTIES category. Don’t read it.

The fictional blog posts of a young woman who has accepted the suggestion of the man who uses her that she should record her journey as a ‘conscious cunt’— a woman working intentionally to continuously deepen her servitude, and at the same time ruthlessly to repress her sense of self and agency over her body, in particular its use and abuse.

It offered itself to the world

J is … is really in a strange state … a very strange state, not typing this, speaking it. He suggested it should deny itself use of its hands as much as possible, and put an app on this laptop so it is voice controlled.

So that’s … that’s coming out different, because … because this is me— J— just talking.

And … I, I … it, J, the … the cunt … feels so strange, anyway, and … and hearing my its voice, out loud, seeing myself itself, too— naked, in the mirror, on two stools, placed apart, a knee on each one, seeing myself itself trembling, body squirming, with the strangeness in me itself so strong, having been fucked so many times this day— best of all just now, my its mentor taking me it to a screaming edge several times before crashing me it over with a hard slap to my its poor clit, already so terribly tender. It’s still trembling from that one, even though it was at least half an hour ago.

Picture: J, kneeling on 2 stools. Click here to reveal.

It … it thanks you, Sir, from the bottom of its heart, for doing this to it, for helping it do it to itself, for keeping it pushed hard against it, for being merciless.

The weirdest sort of kindness— to deny it even the slightest hint of kindness; to be ruthlessly, cruelly selfish with it.

It’s like … It’s like I… it feel so safe, with him, because … because I know he’s going to make me it do the most dangerous things. He will not let me it be safe. Ever. Ever again.

Oh Gods that is so frightening and wonderful and … fuck… fuck that was like a mini orgasm then, just feeling that… so fucking scared of what’s coming to me it. Knowing it can’t escape now…

Oh Fuck, oh fuck. It’s going to be everything now. Unstoppable. I’m it’s so scared. So fucking scared because it doesn’t matter if it changes it’s mind now because it is too late; there’s no way back. Because.

Because today was…

Was something new, and … and right now, this … this cunt feels … feels as if it might be able to … to be cunt. To really become nothing; nothing but cunt.

Oh that is so strange to hear my its voice, saying those words, to hear the softness, the desire in its voice, for such a … such a terrible, terrifying thing.

And yet… And yet it … it feels good. Very good. He’s listening, too, hearing, and it’s good; terrible too, but good, to know that He can hear it … in its voice, that it is so lost in this strangeness, that … that, after today, it … it …

It … It’s really hard to say.

After … after today, it is going to be hard … impossible, probably … for it ever to go back.

That it felt, today— for the first time, at all, really— what … what it could mean, to … to just be cunt. Nothing but cunt. No possible way back; nothing to do but get fucked. To really feel it. And to want it.

The morning was hard; woken by his alarm— so sore— pains everywhere, then the … the thing of everyday, to … to have to remember what I— it— has done to itself. That it is lost, that everything that it wakes up with— its thoughts, its feelings, whether it is hungry, or thirsty, or needs the toilet, what its name is -that all that has to be put to one side. Because it is cunt.

And the thing it must do is to get itself fucked, that it must crawl to his door, crawl to him, put its head under the covers and serve his cock with its mouth, with its throat, must get its mind to the place where it gets wet between the legs, in case it is lucky enough that he will grab its hair and drag it up the bed, face down, roll on top of it and rape it there.

Those memories, though, so raw, so frightening— that it had been naked and hysterical in public, so horribly exposed, then fucked by strangers so casually, brutally, so helpless, then them learning just what she it really was and beating her it before gang-raping her it, with her its mentor watching, encouraging them to give it to her it with no quarter, no hiding place, the feel of three cocks thrusting into her it at once, brutal, jerking her it around wildly, her its arms tied, utterly helpless…

It kept being overwhelmed, and he could see it, and he laughed at her it, and told her it that this was it, for her J; feeling like that, every morning a memory of a day of being debauched, abused, degraded, of having demonstrated to the world that she it was a helpless slut, a degraded sex toy, and nothing else, never anything else, never again.

And she — this cunt -had served the breakfast, and got him ready, kissed his shoes and then been left, in silence; naked, alone with its deletion, with its nothingness, with its shame and its choice to do this to itself. To be dehumanised, to allow itself, to ask for itself to be violently, continually, cruelly suppressed, denied, degraded. To be just its body; not even that, just its holes and squishy bits and eagerness to be used.

And it was bad, then, bad for some while, as it did its exercises, pushing itself hard, very hard, hurting itself on purpose as it stretched, trying so hard to finally achieve true splits, its legs on a perfectly straight line, its cunt maximally exposed. As it showered and cleaned itself and did its slutty make-up, and made its hair shiny and practised its positions in front of the mirror, all the time the memories, and the sight of the marks of the whip and the teeth and the bruises and how puffy its poor pussy was from being pounded so much, so hard, of the soreness in its gullet, all the way down, after so much suppressed retching, realising it had probably spent an hour, the day before, with cock in its throat, choking it, sometimes unable to keep the tears back, keep the pity from overwhelming it.

To be doing this to itself, for no reason, no reward, just …

… for no reason, except that it was useless; worse than nothing. That to be this cunt thing could be an upgrade.

That, sometimes, it might be fucked so hard it got taken to that, that other place…

The idea of that, so ridiculous.

So stupid.

Stupid cunt. Lost itself as a person, useless as cunt, just rubbish.

It was hard … … so … so very hard there, for a long … a long while. Burning away it itself inside, destroying … destroying, ripping out … ripping out hopes, and and … laughing it its stupid little dreams. Hurting itself inside. Deliberate, ruthless, agonised…

Very … very hard.

But it did not go crazy, and it did not do what it had done so many times before— curl up and wait to die.

Because those words, this morning— that being this cunt could be an upgrade— had something in them, something more than words; it had a feeling. A feeling that had come and gone— little flickers— the day before; when she had gone, naked, into where the builders where working, and knelt for them, offered herself itself meekly, as sweetly it could, and they had just taken her it, fucked it in all its holes, laughing to each other, as naturally as if she it had offered them a glass of water— offered something simply, had it simply and casually taken from her it . That they had been rough with her it without having to screw themselves up to be mean— just manhandled her it into whatever they wanted from her it, assuming their rights to do that to her it without even thinking about it; that had been a flicker.

Then when her He had hadher it explain itself to them, and had asked them to whip it, and, just those moments, before they started in on it— started whipping J; many men, strangers to her, whipping a naked young girl who was letting them, who had asked for it, that had been a flicker too, of being something; something unusual, at least, even if it wasn’t special; a young woman, pretty enough to normally have some feeling of being desired by men who could not have her, whom she did not want to put their hands on her, fuck her, instead encouraging strangers— not attractive men that she might have imagined a relationship with, but rough strangers, much too old for her— encouraging them, naked in front of them, barefoot, bedraggled, with them fully dressed in their heavy, dirty work gear— to be asking them, as softly and sweetly as she could imagine, to hurt her badly before they rape her— that had been a flicker.

And it felt that flicker, and it found a way— for the first time— to nurture it, and to make it stronger, which was easy, it turned out. It let its body decide.

And its body went and got the most revealing clubbing outfit he had bought for it— just a few scraps of lace, really, almost see through, all frilly and easy access, so much on show, obvious, and the flesh-coloured wedge-heel sandals which it was so hard to walk elegantly in, so high and heavy were they, and it went out of the door— as the day before, with nothing— no underwear, no phone, no money, pushed the keys back through the letterbox after locking the door. Nothing but a cunt and some accessories which advertised it as such.

And then I it walked. Walked slowly, carefully, not making a show, but letting the heels, and the walking as if along a thin, straight line thing, just have its body, its hips switching and jiggling, its breasts swaying, not trying to hide it, nor to exaggerate it; made itself think about them fucking her it, three at a time, how that had felt, knowing that it was filled, all her its holes, for the first time in its life, filled by men whose names she it didn’t know, who had just been thrashing her it with a whip, that it was trying as best it could, with all its pathetic little soul, to make itself good for them, so that they would pump their come into it, and feeling itself hot between the legs, pussy naked under the tiny frilly skirt, finding it hard to breathe, knowing its cheeks were pink.

I it remembered, then, made itself go through, as it had done many times, before that day in the park, but not since— perhaps frightened, perhaps shell-shocked— it doesn’t matter.

It remembered those three short episodes when he had changed her it. Rug-pulled her. How quick it had all been, how few defenses she it had seemed to have, even though everything he had said was so extreme, so outrageous. How ridiculously easy she it had made things for him to get her it to do this dreadful thing to her itself.

This is the past, when the … this … cunt was … was Jennifer, so, so I’m going to call her Jennifer. Not me. That girl. That girl who has to be gone now, has to be crushed, deleted, erased, even though it makes this cunt cry to say it…

She had been such a normal girl— no thoughts of kinky things— positive or negative— just, not that interested.

But then, him. An asshole, who she’d decided was her one-night fuck on Tinder one evening, even though he was an asshole— perhaps because he was an asshole and she often chose assholes for one night stands so they would fuck her like assholes and she could hate them and ever speak to them again.

Only she had called him again and again, until … well until it happened.

The first episode was after sex. After wonderful sex, where he had taken her somewhere he had taken her before, a couple of times— a real out-of-body orgasm experience. No-one else had ever taken her anywhere close, and that time, she saw a pattern, and, greatly daring, blushing hot, not one to talk about sex, nervous because of his greater experience, his casualness, because he was an asshole, because of her neediness for him, for the experience she had just had, but still, too needy not to risk asking;

“That … that was … fucking incredible for … for me. Th … thank you, so … so much; I … I never had … anything, anything like with anyone, ever, before … before you…”

She could not believe she was saying this, naked, still trembling, her legs still split so wide apart, his weight still on her back (breathing an effort), her wrists still gripped by his hand, the burn of his teeth in her neck still sharp, his come still squirming inside her as her belly muscles spasm, her throat sore from the earlier invasion there, the memory of wondering if she was going to choke to death on his cock still live inside her, so … so completely … overwhelmed … so completely overjoyed.

That’s the word; over-joyed. He had me with too much joy, like a buffer overflow hack (sorry that’s a tech geek thing, don’t worry you understand I’m sure) .

He was silent, just making a reassuring, satisfied Hrrr in his throat, relaxed, still panting himself; the knowledge that he had had pleasure from taking her otherwhere an enormous pleasure to her, a humbling, knowing that he has been violent with her, hurt her, forced her, overridden her petitions for respite, her anguished cries (No, stop! Stop, please!) smoothly ignored, lazily, insultingly laughed at, overriden; that he had been right, that she had been, technically, raped, and yet that she had had such pleasure from that brutal, intentional violation… so … so very hard to … to compute, the sobs still backed-up in her throat, the taste of tears, the ache in her eyes and sinuses from how intense her despair, her distress had been; none of this erased, but simply overridden by the sensations from her sex, from her belly ,, so so confused, needing to ask, needing to know, desperate to know, frightened to know… knowing that she must know that she can have it again, this experience.

“I … that. That is the … the third time you … you have taken me … there— wherever there is . That I have felt that … felt this way. So totally overwhelmed, so filled with energy, light, pleasure, destruction. Jesus. If I could only explain it, describe it. Better than any drugs.”

Still, nothing but satisfied noises and weight from him, his hand between her legs, mauling; painful, terrible, delightful as she lifted her ass and opened herself to … to him hurting her. For there was nothing but pain, pain and shame, and need; need to please him, to give him every reason to believe she would do anything, anything at all for him, and yet it was glorious to give him herself for pain and shame. Because he deserved her, deserved everything from her, as tribute for having given her … given her that. That release, that intensity, that sensation, a that which no-one else could give her or so she thought at the time, until he showed her, proved to her, made her understand. That she was this cunt all along, that anyone could do this to her; that she could open herself to this, encourage the treatment that brought her to this. That she could be cunt.

That had been all she could manage, and he had not responded, and she had folded in on herself, closed up again as she showered, as she dressed, and he had said nothing as she had shyly got herself ready to go, hoping he would help her, say something; anything, rather than just grin at her, watching her (more shy with him than ever, having been to those outer edges of reality with him, been raped by him and thanked him for it, and had nothing, no response at all to her attempt to be open about it, to be ‘adult’— ha).

He had not spoken, though, and she had been unable to, and so, feeling desperate, she had had to leave, blushing, crushed, palpitating, pulled apart by multiple tidal rips, internal conflicts, and suffered these repeatedly as she didn’t hear from him for weeks, buried herself in work, in code, in hard binaries where there was only yes or no, where there was no shame, no morality, just correct/incorrect.

Where she could be correct in code, even if she was sure she, personally, was deeply, irretrievably incorrect…

The second episode was when she saw him next. A casual text, ignoring weeks of silence, of ignoring her weak, foolish texts, suggested a time that evening at an expensive sushi place in Soho and she had immediately said yes, cancelled a presentation to a hacker group she was part of, left work early, went to buy a nothing of a tiny dress, new heels (no time to go home), and been ten minutes early, had stood to welcome him as if she were a peon and the CEO had walked in, trembling, weak, feeling ridiculous as he smiled at her, satisfied.

“Tits look good in that. Nice and short too. Hard to wear underear with that. Commando?”

She had done nothing but blush, voice seemingly not online at that point.

How could she be so weak for him, so pathetic?

She knew of course, and so did he.

She wanted to be taken away again. Taken away from everything. Raped (she had forced herself to say it in her mind. That he had raped her and that she wanted it again; trying to frighten herself off. It had just gotten her hot).

After she had managed some small talk, some saki, some fairly extreme sushi— not so far from eating snot, she had thought, at times; very expensive snot at that— he had said;

“You have seen what’s happening, right? What I’m doing to you?”

She was desperate to feign ignorance, to pretend, to make him explain, but something in her was too needy to even attempt feminine mystique, to get him to pay his dues; she was too weak, and she gave it all up, immediately, almost gushing, so relieved was she to be able to say what had been in her mind the previous time, which had been building pressure inside her;

“Yes , yes … Oh. Oh, thank you I’m … I’m so pleased you see it too, yes. It … it happens when … when you … "

She faltered, unable to vocalise it.

“… it happens when I rape you, right? When I force you, when I hurt you, when I am violent with you, overpower you?”

And there it was. In the open. Said out loud in a restaurant— she saw the flinch in the woman at the next table; had to live with it.

Terrible, shameful, desperate.

Pulse building inside her, urgent; he, sitting back, relaxed, watching her tremble, watching her nipples stiffen in the thin dress, seeing her blush, she unable to meet his eyes for more than a heartbeat, blushing, looking down at the table, her wrists jittery, giving away her overwhelm, her need.

“I can do it to you again, right now, if you want. You can pay the bill then go over and get a room in that hotel over the road and I can come over there and destroy you.”

It’s not right, she wanted to say; but there was a challenge in his eyes and she took it to mean that this was a decision she had to make. Would she enable him to rape her, so that she could experience that intensity again, or would he walk out and leave her. That there was nothing else between them but her openness to being raped, his enjoyment of raping her, her transportation through being fucked with violence.

And of course, it was thus true that there was not. Not anything but that. And she wanted to be transported. Needed it.

And so she simply nodded, yes please. And then, faced with his interested, calm smile, she had stood, and gone to the bar, and paid, let the waiters ogle her, then walked across the road, knowing he could watch her, walking so carefully sexily for him, no matter that she got herself whistled at, trembling with shame and desire, unable to tell them apart, then into the hotel, booked an expensive room she couldn’t really afford, told the receptionist her partner would be along in a while, gone upstairs and waited.

And he had been brutal with her and she had waited for the spell to burst like a bubble, to see him for the petty abuser that he was and be free of him but instead she had fallen to the floor, the black eye building already, and felt herself urgently needy, opened her legs for him, lifted her ass and felt him ram himself into her with almost religious fervour, ripping her dress from her.

And he had done it to her again, without even making much effort, just slapping her clit, quite hard as he fucked her, a fist in her hair, yanking at her, her arms flapping uselessly, wailing softly with the overwhelm, with the shame; with the wonderful, terrible feeling of being destroyed, degraded, lessened.

It was all in her head, he had told her afterward, cuddling her, feeding her expensive ice-cream and scotch, holding a cold face cloth with ice wrapped in it to her cheek, his other hand in her sex, grasping, her hips offering herself up to him, making herself so obvious she could not speak until she found herself having to beg;

“Do me again; Rape me! Please!”, and then spent what seemed like an hour with his cock in her throat, alternately servile worship and desperate choking, hands locked behind her back or trapped by his, hurting her wrists, her shoulders, working to get him hard enough to do what he said he wanted to, rape her virgin asshole, have her bring herself off if she could, with her pussy grinding into the leather clad arm of the chair. He was in no hurry, and she; she was being driven crazy and knowing she needed it.

And it turned out that he could take her there like that, too. Twice in one night, with her crying in pain and shame as she came, just adding to the intensity, to the mental damage.

She didn’t go to work for two days after that. Unprecedented. Just lay in the bruised aftermath, stayed in the hotel, not wanting to leave the place of her turning.

For he had told her then she was changed.

That she was weak, that he had shown her something she could not leave behind, not manage, not normalise.

That he would eat her alive.

And she had nodded, eyes round like a child, and said;

“Yes please.”

“Not now,” he had said; “next time.”

and left.

The… this cunt can’t tell the third episode now, or, or the rest of what happened today … it … it’s too much…