Conscious Cunt J Post 6

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.

She Freaked out

J— the cunt, I mean.

It was bad.

Much, much worse than missing so many days of updating this journal,

She’s with Him again, now. Writing this, trembling at the enormity of what happened yesterday…

It was very bad.

She woke up, in her corner, early, and for some reason she felt good, better than the normal waking up since she became Cunt, anyway. Less sick confusion at least.

She had some time, too, to try and make herself attractive, before crawling onto His room and finding a way to get her lips to His cock without waking him, to give him the worshipful blowjob that He likes to wake up to.

She felt not too terrible about that, either:— often, after some cruelty the night before, bad sleep, naked on the cold floor, waking filled with despair and self-hatred, it is truly awful to lovingly serve the man who has brought her to this condition, even though it is not his fault that she has lost herself, that the best thing she can think of to do with her life is to turn herself into fuckable cunt.

Yesterday morning, though, she actually felt happy feeling him grow in her throat, serving his pleasure with almost no intrusions from her own thoughts— managing to feel at one with His cock, responsive to its every twitch, to the shifts of his hips; loving to give herself as she had often done as a girlfriend, but had found hard as cunt.

And it seemed as if it worked for him, too, as, when he came, he had rammed himself deeply into her, rolled over on top of her, and thrust and thrust for what seemed like an infinity, grabbing her hands when, despite her best efforts, they began to flail and weakly slap at him to signal the implacable need for air that her body could no longer do without, not for a second.

She had blacked out for a moment. But that, too, was good. She has thought several times that to die like that would be good— unconscious, not suffering, being good cunt. Not that she wants to die— or thinks He wants to kill her. Just that, well, there would be no more suffering.

And He was friendly, even said a few kind words to her, as she got His breakfast, tied His tie, found His papers, retied His shoelace, kissed His feet before He left for work.

It was the kindness that did it. Not his fault, but the stupid cunt. She It started thinking about kindness. About how tiny, in reality, had been those few words, after weeks of bleakness and cruelty and amused insistence on her facing up to the Conscious Cunt life. In the face of the certainty of there being nothing else but bleakness in store for the cunt, forever.

Facing up to the certainty, now, that even were she to renounce the Conscious Cunt Principles for the cruel, vile bullshit that they certainly are, she would still face a life of miserable self disgust, without even the harsh comfort of knowing that she lives by some rules that mean something to others, who might at least value her, just a little, as fuckable holes, if she can manage to do better at following them.

It got very dark in her head, and she tried to stop thinking, really tried, but nothing would work, and the awfulness of it, the reality of just how she has fucked up her life became the whole of her existence, and she did some bad things in His house— smashed some stuff, wrote stupid, self-pitying shit on the living room walls in lipstick, tried to start a fire, then panicked and put it out, then panicked some more and ran out of the house, still naked, with nothing apart from the ever present ankle strapped high heels and a raincoat she grabbed from the hall.

And she ran and hobbled, and ran— ran nowhere, just away, trying to get away, and failing, and failing, horribly ashamed when people saw her, the raincoat obviously wrong for a warm sunny day, her face a tear-stained mess; she got on the bus, no money, sobbed and pleaded with the driver until he said if I she’d sit down and shut up, and get off when he told her to, he’d let her ride.

The bus reminded her of other times, when she’d been young, had a future, and it felt safe for a minute, then quickly worse and then worse and much, much worse until she had jumped up, screaming, demanded to be let off, so crazy that the driver opened the door at a traffic lights, not even a stop, and, desperate, she had opened the raincoat to show herself and walked through the traffic lines, until the door of a white van opened and a voice shouted ‘You can get in here, darlin’, if you’ll fuck for a ride’.

And she did.

Get in. And fuck.

Well, got fucked in any case. Some sort of builders, three in the van, they put her in the back and two of them had her straight away, very fast and simple and crude. The driver got into the back and took his turn when they arrived at the job, and then took her inside, where there were two other men. She didn’t answer their questions, just opened her legs, opened her lips, let them fuck her. It was awful, she couldn’t stop crying. They didn’t care at first, fucked her mouth while she wept, pulling her head back to look into her eyes. It wasn’t that they were cruel, so much as curious— they’d never had a girl this way before, kept trying to find out what it was with her.

In the end, they became kind— felt bad, a little, perhaps; wrapped her up in some blankets and an old jacket, made her tea, and she cried some more when they left her alone, went to do some work.

And then, somehow, it got better. Something settled inside her. She had been fucked by five strangers in the space of an hour, some of them had had two goes; she had done the one at each end thing again, and they had all come inside her. She was naked, at their mercy. She was cunt. Somehow it made sense again.

She stood up, got naked again, tidied up the mess they’d made in their little shack, cleaned their cups, made it look neat, then, shyly, naked, made her way to where the sound of the radio was, and got down onto her knees, legs spread wide, and clasped her hands to her elbows behind her back, lifted her bum off the floor and started moving her hips in a slow roll, opened her mouth a little and stuck her tongue tip out, waggling it a little, too.

It didn’t take long; they all did her again, and this time, the thing she has been dreading happened— two at a time, front and back, one cock in each of her lower holes. And it was devastating, and it was wonderful, and she begged them to be allowed to come, and they said fucking come, then, whore, and she did, and it was incredible, and she came again and again for them, and cried some more, only this time it was soft tears and she licked all their cocks clean and told them they could hurt her if they wanted. But they didn’t.

They asked her where she lived, and, in the end, she gave them His address, and they insisted on seeing her to the door, wrapped in the old jacket, and were very gruff with Him when he answered the door, clearly prepared to disapprove and maybe even threaten Him if He hadn’t satisfied them.

He was very relaxed— told her to explain, then.

Which made her cry a great deal more, on her knees, displaying, naked, with them standing around her in the living room which she had trashed, and halfway through the explanation she trailed off and simply asked them would they not prefer to fuck her— would they please fuck her? Would they be very rough with her?

And He asked her, did she think she ought to be whipped first, since she had caused all this damage, and she had waited for the builders to object, her heart breaking a little when it became obvious that a couple of them were suddenly excited by the idea— having learned that she was not a girl, really, not any more, just a cunt, and so she said yes, and was beaten until she screamed and then fucked by all of them again, this time taking three of them at one point— airtight, they called it, not allowed to come— not feeling like coming, to be honest, not after the whip.

And so she is back, and maybe a step closer to managing to live as cunt.

There is no picture today.

How this cunt measures up (Cocks that have fucked J since last post— approximations)

In order to improve: J will be available to the builders and their friends and business associates two day a week, arranged with him in advance. J may call them if she feels like destroying property, and should restrain herself immediately after the call so that she cannot get out of control. J will ask to be whipped each morning before He leaves, to weaken her and remind her of the cost of being stupid.

Look here for the Conscious Cunt Principles that J has accepted should define her and completely govern her existence.

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