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.
So, I said yes.
And he said;
“As if there was every any question but that you would…”
And I— J— stared at him, for a second, as He smiled in a relaxed, friendly way— totally unstressed, as if I had agreed to try a new flavour of ice-cream or something, rather than accepted that my life as— as me— was over. That I would become— actively seek to become this … this thing …— J— a cunt.
This cunt:
— which hopes that this image makes you want to put a cock into it and fuck it. It has three soft, warm holes, and is humbly eager to please you.
He didn’t speak, though, and J— J was forced to guess what was in his look. And when she couldn’t, and realised that there was nothing in his look; not for her, at least; nothing at all— that he was looking at her as if she were a lab specimen, or a bit of machinery, she could not restrain a small cry of despair, as her belly lurched.
She dropped her gaze, then, in a hurry, overcome by shame and confusion. As He laid it out for her.
“The question for you, always, cunt, should be; ‘What can I do to get a cock to fuck me?’ So ask yourself, right now, cunt, how are you making good on that question? I mean, have you even asked it of yourself?”
“No, don’t answer me, cunt.”
J had made a miserable, agonised lurch, opened her mouth, wanting to justify herself.
“Don’t ever speak to me unless you strongly believe that the act of speaking might make it more likely that I’ll put my cock inside you.”
“I know, this is hard. You’ll always be failing, forever, now. You are a failure. You will never succeed. You’ll never be a good, or even a half-competent piece of cunt. You’ll get older, and it will be harder and harder to get cocks to fuck you. This is all that’s left to you. You’ve failed at life. Because most of the time, you won’t have a cock in you, won’t be being fucked, won’t be earning come.”
“Right now, you’re horrified, I know. It was one thing thinking about this, wasn’t it— wondering if you dared admit to yourself that this insanity actually is the best thing you can do for the universe— that was hard enough— I’m sure you’ve shed many tears, spent hours in anguish, and so on.”
“But get this. None of that matters. No-one gives a shit, still less cares. No-one will ever care again— you’re past that, as long as you do this cunt thing; and the sooner you manage to stop caring inside that little head of yours, the better things will go. What that useless old ‘you’ thinks is forever irrelevant.”
“The minute you even began to think about saying yes, the minute you didn’t tell me to stuff it up my ass and walk out, you ceased to matter— the old you; that pretty, lively girl I met, the one with hopes and a shy, seductive smile and dreams and a history and a future. You betrayed her, and now she’s just clinging on through force of habit, hanging around with a collection of needy holes.”
“So when I— your Mentor for now— unless I give you up for a bad job or get bored— when I ask you a question, it’s not because I want to hear the answer. Mostly I don’t want to hear anything from you ever again apart from sexy little fuck-me noises or agonised cries— and those had better be sexy, too. No, when I ask you a question, it’s a kindness to you, as your mentor, to help you redirect your mind back to the Principles you’ve just told me you want to accept.”
By the end of this, J was desperate, in an agony of shame and despair, devastated by the cool cruelty of His words, but at the same time intensely grateful. The days spent as He had described, wrestling with the enormity of knowing she wanted to tell Him yes, but being unable to face the implications of doing so— those days had been terrible. Now, she understood the meaning and need for the Mentors the document had described. I— J— was going to need constant reminding of the changed meaning of her existence.
For He was right. J had known, this morning, that she would say ‘Yes’, but all she had really thought about was herself. How she would dress for Him, how it would be to see Him after almost a week, how pleased He would be with her. J had spent almost no time thinking about the Principles— let alone acting on them.
Sitting there, on the park bench, with Him, in the warm sunshine, in a pretty park, birds chirruping, it was sort of inconceivable to her that what she should be focused on was how to get fucked. But that was it, now. That was what J had asked for— for Him to help her live according to those Principles— to be a little less of a complete failure than was absolutely necessary.
It was very sad. Tragic. All but unbearable. But she’d been through all that, endlessly, and every time she had ended up knowing she needed to be here. However awful it might be.
But it was also beautiful to force herself go to her knees, bare on the sharp stones of the hot blacktop, in the skimpy sundress, and lay her head on His lap, as near as she dared go to His cock, her hands weak, dangling at her sides, pushing her breasts against His knees, breathing slow and deep. To try and focus exclusively on the willingness— the desire— of her mouth to take Him into her— to try to project that willingness.
To stop thinking about her, and concentrate on Him. To let herself jiggle a little, like a small girl, incapable of filtering her needs out from her body language— deliberately not filtering; letting him see her eagerness to serve. Letting the shame and humiliation wash through her— feeling it intensely, but not taking it seriously (because it was a feeling of hers, it didn’t matter; not any more. Not at all). Telling herself that at least, knowing that it wasn’t true— that later, in some quiet moment, it would be back to torment her.
He laughed;
“No, cunt, sorry. I’m not feeling like fucking you now. You’ll have to look around, see if there are any other candidates.”
Another seismic jolt; somehow, even though she had read the Principles, understood clearly that there was no reference to whose cocks it would be, understood that this meant ‘any’ cocks… somehow, despite all that brainwork, all that thinking, again, the reality of what it might mean to be with Him, required to find other possessors of cocks, to consider how she could encourage them to fuck her— actually penetrate her— this requirement had not really been taken seriously.
Again, J realised just how much she would need Him as a mentor; on her own, J would have simply run home, blindly, to hide. Failing again.
“Look up, look around— not at faces, you understand, cunt, you’re looking for cocks— so look at groins. Faces don’t matter for the likes of you— you don’t choose on the basis of faces, or smiles, or character, or any of that stuff— you choose on probability of getting fucked. So look around; think with your cunt; think hungry, think helpless, think needy, think eager.”
“It will be hard. I’m going to enjoy it being hard for you, if that helps— and it should because it’ll get my dick hard, and so maybe mean you’ll get my cock more, so let me see how hard you’re trying, how it affects you to be working at becoming nothing.”
It wasn’t hard for J to show him shame, not while the man who, only months before, had been a sweet boyfriend to her, was speaking to her like this, as she hung her head, working hard to make herself accept his words— to take them in, to tell herself to trust these words, to let them define her, to let Him shape her.
J has to stop, now— He is here, and there’s another voice, too, another cock that can perhaps be served.
