This post is in the CRUELTIES category. Don’t read it.
I have not written anything as harsh as this before. If you don’t think you’ll like it, please, don’t read it. If you do read it, remember, this is all outrageous fantasy.
The cab took me out to his villa. I give all the cash to the cabbie— not to mention a careless flash of my naked pussy as I got out— there was no need, any more, to take care, after all. He’d been ogling me in the mirror all the way, and I had found it a sort of liberation not to have to make efforts to sit primly, to make it clear— as one had to in those days— to make a man certain of your status as a free woman, if you were dressed in pretty clothes.
He drove off, happy enough with the money, and I walked up to the gates, quivering, but almost happy now that I had given up the struggle.
I was about to press the call button, when I remembered that slave girls aren’t allowed to do anything so presumptuous. With a weird, sick feeling, I knelt down in what I hoped was the field of view of a security camera. I put my door-key on the floor in front of me (they would need to dispose of my belongings, wind-up my affairs— as if I had died— the legal position would be essentially the same: slavegirls are objects, and cannot own anything) and made myself wait.
Waiting was hard— the sane part of me kept urging me to; Jump up and run away— Right Now! I forced myself to ignore its voice, weakening, and shrill, but still obviously sane— I had no illusions that I was doing the ‘right’ thing— it was just the only way out of the torment I had been going through. The only possible resolution.
It wasn’t right. But it was the closest thing to right for me, and that was all I could manage.
It wasn’t me that had turned the world upside down and inside out. It wasn’t me that had started the slide toward the degradation of women. I had just lived through it. And it had happened so terribly swiftly, that, while we had been trying to work out how to protest the first changes (which had begun to happen in my later teens), more had been pushed through, and then more, on a terrifying wave of male aggression, fatally supported by just enough of the female vote for there to always be women in the media explaining why it made perfect sense for their husbands to have access to nubile young women as sex partners, how it reduced crime, reduced ‘immorality’, reduced the birthrate (since slaves were mostly rendered infertile), and all sorts of other specious, vile bullshit.
Until, shellshocked by the pace of change, terrified by the violence meted out to protestors— the public mass rapes, the murders; no charges ever brought— we had no option but to swallow our objections, stop meeting in the open, and try to live.
After all, we were told, there was still a perfectly decent path for women to follow; marriage, children, career, education, human rights.
Just that there was always, always, the spectacle— the increasingly shameless public use of slavegirls, the public tolerance of vilely cruel treatment, so that you could not, could not get it out of your mind.
And, too, the rapidity with which the media had normalised it all— naked young women in all the contemporary dramas, naked weather-girls and gameshow assistants— not only naked, but pierced, tattooed, the subjects of all kinds of cosmetic surgeries. The gameshows where the contestants won slavegirls, the gameshows where contestants became slavegirls, the gameshows where free women pretended to be slavegirls, the televised auctions of minor celebrities selling themselves to become slavegirls. The pay-TV channels where slavegirls were auctioned, where they were used and abused non-stop. The public places where the screens showed these channels, all day long. It was endless. It soaked into you.
I had spent so long fearing that, despite all my certainties, my pride, my best intentions, I would somehow fall, that it seemed I had become dangerously destabilised, to the extent that it had taken only a little push, on that first visit to the villa, then another push, by Master, to show me that, in my soul, I had already become a slave; so that I had ended up there, humbling myself, degrading myself; kneeling in the street, head bowed, in a skimpy dress, waiting to be enslaved, unable to see a way to live otherwise.
It was madness, and I found it increasingly awful to be there, waiting; simply waiting, for my life to be ended.
So that when the sound of footsteps came to my ears, my first, ridiculous, reaction was to feel pleased— at least I was being attended to, not ignored, that waiting was over.
It took a few seconds before the sensible reaction kicked in— mounting terror at the impending reality of what had been just imaginary.
I dared not look up, wasn’t even able to decide whether I wanted to or not, as the footsteps grew louder, until, with a smooth whining of electric motors, the gates began to swing open.
I was shaking, then, quivering with terror; and when the footsteps started again— approaching— half of me, horrorstruck, panicked, began a lurching movement, trying to rise, to run for it, while the other half of me sabotaged the attempt, so that I rose up, arms flailing, then fell, awkwardly, hurting myself, shaming myself, hating myself.
I had not wanted to be one of those girls who becomes pathetic; screeching, undignified. Ridiculous, I know— I would be whatever a man wanted me to be be, forever; what was the point trying to salvage any dignity, any self-esteem?
And yet … it mattered; it mattered desperately to me, at that moment, and I scrambled, pathetic again, to find my position again, on my knees, thighs parted a little, hands at my sides, head lowered, shoulders back.
From the boots, which came into view, I knew that it was Jenkins, and I was even more terrified, shaking, almost whimpering. Why was it not Master?
But somewhere inside me there were, undeniably, feelings of mounting excitement that were not only fearful; there was anticipation, too, a crazy, fierce anticipation of something that felt like a liberation. Gods! I was there, about to be consumed, about to disappear, to be deprived of all meaning beyond my use-value as a vehicle for the sexual pleasure of others— and I felt liberated?!
It was crazy! But it was real; real in me; relief, welcome. So welcome that I tried to express it— soften my pose, adjust my hips, set my breasts moving, acknowledge that man in front of me, as I had seen countless slavegirls do.
‘Obeisance’, they had begun to call it; ‘a movement of the body expressing deep respect or deferential courtesy, as before a superior; a bow, curtsy, or other similar gesture.’ Beesence had become the slang, as in; Pay beesence, bitch, before I smack you down!
Having seen him managing Master’s girls, Jenkins had become, in my head, the epitome of granite hard domination; magnificent— unyielding; a man with whom there would be no doubt about what sexual slavery meant. Maybe it was better this way? For Master me not to see me until I had been broken— trained, made into whatever it was that He wanted me to become.
Nothing happened.
He simply stood. Was he watching? Waiting? For what?
I suddenly became terrified that he might reject me on Master’s behalf— not find me sufficiently alluring, not even accept me even as a slave— and I adjusted my pose again, abjectly making myself more obvious, fear and shame eating into me like acid.
Still, he stood, as my trembling became ever more pronounced. I was desperate to see what was in his face, but simply could not look up; had no choice, no choice at all but to wait, feeling the sharp stone of the paving biting into my knees, until, at last, he moved, stepped closer, to within touching distance. My whole body became hypersensitive; I could feel the warmth of him on my flesh.
More silence, more wating; he was expecting something of me. The only thing I could manage was to not actually wet myself, such was the tension.
Eventually, after what seemed eternity, but was likely only a few seconds, so strangely did time work that day, I found I had no choice but to look up, blushing fiery red, utterly shamed: I was doing something impossible— I was whoring myself! Giving myself over— and not to Master, but to his servant!
He looked at me, cold, relaxed; his expression closed, until I dropped my eyes in shame, remembering that a slave girl should not dare to look a master in the face. My heart was thumping, fast in my chest.
And then, at last, he spoke;
“You are not yet a slave. You are still a free citizen. I’d like to see my dogs fucking you. Here. Now. As a free woman.”
That got me! I couldn’t help but look up, again, needing to see his face, to see what sort of a joke this was— a test? A simple cruel sneer? A threat?
Because it couldn’t be …
Except that one look at his face showed me that it was; that he meant what he said. That he was telling me that I should permit him to have his dogs do me, on the side of a public road. That he wanted me to choose that, even though I was not a slave.
His gaze trapped mine; I was frozen, apart from the trembling— it was cold, in the early morning, on the road. Cold outside, frozen with horror inside.
He smiled, then, a little;
“I would like you to beg me to call them, then hike up your skirt and go onto all fours. Face down, ass up. They are trained for fucking, but they are also guard dogs. Any false moves, and they are likely to savage you. A slave with a scarred face, or a shredded tit, is not likely to be an attractive proposition. You have a minute or so. No longer, before I close the gate, leave you here.”
I felt my face drain and the cold began to really bite, then. His dogs! I had heard him threaten girls with his dogs before, but not truly believed even Jenkins capable of such a thing. Two slavering Dobermans; huge and seemingly half wild; only Jenkins could really control them.
It was crazy! Of course— of course I would not. How could I? Slavegirls were, it was known, made to have sex with dogs, but this something done in private, was deemed too much even for the permissive public screens and marketplaces, where terrible things were done to girls who were to be terminated.
But I was still free! Still had something … something, did I not …?
He was grinning at me now, much more widely; satisfied, almost smug. But why? I was going to deny him, refuse his disgusting, horrifying proposition. Maybe, maybe when I was a slavegirl, if Master enforced it, I would have no choice … but I could not even think of that without feeling as if I must vomit.
I caught myself then, and he saw, and his grin widened further, and then, with a horrible, gruesome lurch, I understood it.
It didn’t matter that I was technically free. We both knew I was to become a slavegirl; that he would have charge of me, that he could put me to his dogs at any time, if he wanted to; so what did it matter? Denying him now had one advantage only— it delayed the experience; but it had a serious disadvantage— I would have defied Jenkins; Jenkins, the man who managed Master’s ‘stable’— the man who would have a free hand with me, who would manage me on Master’s behalf; who could make my every moment a living hell if he so chose.
I wanted to beg, to explain, to reason— but of course, there was no point. My world was no longer complex. All I had to do was obey. The only thing that I could do, from that moment on, was to obey. Time slowed, moved like molasses. I fought off tears, suppressed a few dry heaves, forced myself to stop thinking about anything but the need for this man to have reason to believe me fully submissive.
Then his boot toe began tapping; not impatiently, but steadily, with a second or so between taps; I watched it tap, three, four times, before I jolted; my body had realised what this meant, and was taking the initiative, whatever I thought;
“P … please … S.Sir … Please … Please c…call your … your dogs.”
Tears flowed freely then, but I did my best not to sob, and to look pretty as I hiked up the little dress, showing Jenkins my ass and pussy for the first time; Jenkins who had been at his most polite and formal as he served his master’s girlfriend in that golden age of only a few weeks ago— a girl now kneeling at the side of the public road, putting her face down in the dirt, opening her thighs, lifting her buttocks high (trying to be as good as the girls she had seen on the TV), forcing herself to move slowly, to stay as outwardly calm as possible; not to let the churning horror in her belly take control of her.
I heard him then, on a walkie-talkie, and seconds later the high-pitched bark of a doberman. He stepped forward and retrieved my doorkey ‘Good little girly’. His short, full whistle, clipped short, was all they needed; I heard their rapid pace along the gravel drive, racing toward us, and I began to shake terribly, the sobs breaking through, although I did all I could to keep them under control; somehow I held my pose as the dress fell away from my ass as I pressed my face down and brought my rear up high; obscenely high.
Jenkins then put his boot on my cheek— not heavily, but with devastating symbolism, sending a convulsion through me that shocked me to my core— just the feeling of the moulded sole imprinting itself in my face, the cold gravel, the unyielding concrete of the roadway was devastating.
I had known, of course, told myself hundreds of times over during the previous hours and days (trying to make myself see sense), that, no matter what I thought I was letting myself in for, that the reality would be worse; much much worse; unimaginably worse. Again, this was common knowledge— some owners found it entertaining to make their slavegirls speak, honestly, about their emotions and their experiences during the early part of their enslavement. There were documentaries, there were books; everything; both men and women, it seemed, were fascinated by the actuality of the transition from free woman to less-than-zero.
And I had read these pieces, and watched the documentaries, and discussed these ideas with my girlfriends, and with men, too, at polite dinner parties (sometimes with a half-naked girl, breasts marked with signs of a savage beating, serving the meal), well-dressed, secure people, talking, pruriently, about ‘what must it really be like for these sluts’.
But nothing; nothing, it turned out, that I had thought I had understood, had empathised with, had exclaimed at, cried at, laughed at, that those poor girls had suffered so much to make public; none of it had made it possible to imagine this reality; the grinding, helpless outrage of it; the despair, the emotional agony of knowing I had done this to myself…
… and then they were on me; jumping, barking; a cold nose pushed firmly, shocking, into my pussy, then a warm lick, making me cry out; making my whole body try to flip itself away from this outrage, jouncing and jerking. But I knew— and Jenkins, with all his experience, certainly knew, too, that I was not really trying to escape— that I was too frightened for that; that all my moves were more about expressing my fear, and horror, and shame, than actual attempts to escape.
This phenomenon was much discussed in the psuedo-intellectual ‘long-read’ pieces in the serious papers which discussed slavegirl behaviour; for there was an increasingly publicly acceptable narrative that, in fact, all along, there had been two types of women; those who were effectively lower grade humans, and those for whom freedom was a natural condition (this was obviously very welcome to free women; another part of the way it was handled that made it hard to resist). And— so these articles said— the way you could tell that these former normal girls who had become slaves were of this lower kind was just that— that they never, not really, tried to escape— that they flipped like fishes in their sufferings even as, in their hearts, they knew that they were worthless, helpless sluts, and could not escape that reality, no matter what they might do (no-one denied that slavegirls suffered; indeed this was also increasingly being seen as ‘natural’, ‘inevitable’, even ‘important’).
And there I was, ‘proving’ their point; wriggling like a girl gone crazy, but not doing anything that would actually free me. The moments haunt me still. Might I then, have been able to break free? It doesn’t matter, of course. I didn’t. I’m meat, now; there is no point at all in making myself suffer with thoughts of what might have been.
Jenkins spoke, then, casual, firm;
“Easy now.”
It was more for me than the dogs, I think. Excited barking made me tremble; I am not good with dogs and at that point a black pit of fear and self hatred opened within me as I heard him encouraging them, almost hyperventilating then, knowing that I must, that I had to suppress my panic, that hysteria would get me in trouble with the dogs, that if they did disfigure me, I could quite likely be their next meal. Once finished with— terminated— slave girls did not get burials, but were simply disposed of, in whatever manner seemed most practical.
All the time I was struggling to accept that any of it could be real. Because it couldn’t be; not what I had imagined! Intolerable! Impossible! Insupportable!! An outrage so gross as to be beyond possibility.
Another part of me told me that this was the life of a slave girl, for which I had freely offered myself. That this was just the first episode of my life to come, a life of outrage and intolerable treatment that would, nevertheless, have to be tolerated, and what’s more— if I wanted to stay with my picky Master (owner!)— tolerated with a good deal of skill and a pretty smile.
Then it began; sharp claws scrabbling, scratching my back; I felt Jenkins move— he was helping the dog into position, and then there was bounce of a thin cock-head, somehow unmistakably a cock; hot and slimy against my thigh; some random thrusting, helpless wriggling from me in a vain attempt to avoid the inevitable, as I began wailing in despair and degradation, until it happened; I was speared; penetrated, and silenced; my whole body stunned into some sort of impossibly tense paralysis. It could not be. It could not. That could not be a dog’s cock, thrusting so freely, so jerkily, so deeply into my precious, special pussy!
Except that it undeniably was, and the dog was far from frozen, thrusting into me— rapidly, almost desperately; whining a little, panting loudly in my ear, while the other one barked and bounded around us, occasionally sniffing and licking at me.
My paralysis broke down, and I jerked, stiffened and groaned from the depths of an awful, soul-besmirching shame.
I was being fucked by a dog! Physically, I suppose it wasn’t such a big deal— it wasn’t a fat cock, although it was long and did feel hot. Mentally, though, I was hit very hard indeed, devastated, especially when, quite quickly, it came— pumping urgently, deep inside me, panting and yipping. I felt its come; thin and hot and burning, somehow; would have turned myself inside out to expel the stuff, and got the terrible dry heaves, sobbing bitterly. I was ready to die at that moment— would have welcomed it.
He pulled the dog off— there was a little struggle, and sharp claws scratched my flanks, deeply— so deeply that I was scarred— Master kindly camouflaged the scar with the first of my ‘doggie paw’ tattoos, which now form a ‘cute’ trail down my side, curling in towards the crease where my thigh meets my groin, showily advertising my status as slut well accustomed to being fucked by dogs.
I was crying, and calling out in despair, then; without the slightest hope, cursing myself for stupidity at having made the choice I had— but it was too late. The worst was knowing that it was going to happen all over again with the other dog, and that with Jenkins there would be no mercy.
The second dog was bigger and heavier, and Jenkins kicked at the inside of my knees, forcing me to open my thighs yet wider. I was trying to control my sobbing, control my distress, because I was so frightened of that dog by then; it had growled, menacingly at me as I had flailed my feet when the first one had hurt me; snarled and shown me its teeth another time, and everything in me wanted to show my submission; to Jenkins, to the dogs, desperate to do anything at all that might reduce the terror which had been installed in me in those few minutes.
The terror that still lives in me, that has only grown, that is the governor of everything, now; that makes me do my makeup so carefully, makes me smile so encouragingly, makes me shimmy so shamelessly, has me so desperately, eagerly subtle and giving in my submission to those who use me. For I no longer want to die. I want to live; live on this agonising tightrope that is my daily experience; I want to continue to be permitted my tongue, my nipples, my eyelids, my clitoris; I want to be taken, again and again, to orgasm, even in the vilest, the most degrading and shameful of circumstances; for that little death is my freedom now, my meaning, my escape; even if that terror will always be my true Master.
For they have done something terrible and glorious to me; they have offered me a chance at manumission; at becoming a free woman again, even if the price is to live in seclusion, to serve in other ways, with others of my ilk. The price of this freedom is a sharpening of the terror, of course; death is no longer an inevitability, only a near certainty. I walk backwards, along a knife edge, naked, barefoot; smiling and jiggling to amuse people for whom I exist only as an entertainment; expendable, never of more than momentary interest.
There was no will in me at all (as far as possible, I was trying to make there be ‘nothing’ in me at all, by then, so awful was every prospect); I was pure grovelling, as he mounted me, and, after some wild and misdirected jabbings, got his cock lodged between my sex lips, forcing a wail of abject despair from my mouth.
“Move, cunt, help him in; show me what a good little bitch you’re going to be for him, hm?”
The dog was jerking his cock at me, but it wasn’t lined up right, and now Jenkins demanded that I should collaborate in this shame, make an effort, not to avoid this horror, but to enable it!
Something in me broke, then, and I sagged, distraught, defeated, despairing, wrecked.
It made no difference; somehow excited by my movement, the dog shifted, pawing at me wildly with his front legs, until, with a violent lurch, he was in me; straight away very deeply, and his cock was fat and hot, and horribly he seemed to fit me, as he immediately began fucking me, hard, really hard, and fast with it, so that I had to straighten up again, or have my face and breasts ground into the surface of the road.
Straightening up made it easier for him, though, and now I was being really raped, by a dog, and holding my body up so that he could rape me. He scratched my back with his claws, too, scrabbling up onto me. He was much bigger than the first one, and I could feel his cock stretching me. It hurt. It also felt like sex. Like actually having sex with a man, like being very effectively and satisfyingly fucked; a sensation which it seemed urgently necessary to reject, to deny, however real it was; I squealed and bucked helplessly, fighting hysteria, until Jenkins said, calmly;
“Keep still, cunt, or I’ll have Alpha bite your tits.”
It was in me then, for a microsecond, to screech at him, to scream; to tell him exactly what I thought of him, the vile scum that he was, for doing this to me, for enjoying it, for his complicity with the terrible crime that this society had legalised, and it cost me dear, terribly dear, to swallow that, too. That pain did not last long, though, for there was an increase in the pace of the dog’s rutting that made me yelp, and then, horribly, that one, too, was jerking its seed deep inside me, fouling me, and all fight was gone again.
There was new horror to come, then, as I felt a swelling in me, and began to shriek, weakly, desperately, as it hurt me, hurt me and frightened me more— it felt as if I must be split, ripped open, at my tenderest, most sensitive part, and I began to jerk, and jolt, helplessly, urgently, needing it to be gone from me, not to be ruined by this, not like this, in the street, Jenkins boot on my face, snorting my own mucus again and again as my tears intermingled with my saliva and my snot, all choking me, the agony compounded in so many ways that I could not understand how I was still there, still hating myself for my stupidity, my weakess, my failure at life, my having thrown it all away for nothing.
The ‘knot’, as I know it now, all too well, did not split me, but it kept us fixed together, that hateful animal and I (hateful then, but the truth is that, only months later, I was to have made friends with him, and, degradingly, have a preference for his fucking me over the other one, a preference my Master had forced me to express, to my grinding shame and distress, in front of visitors), kept us fixed together for an intolerable time, Jenkins having stepped back, any attempts at movement on my part greeted with threatening growling, the other dog back at me, almost friendly, licking at my face, but also, testing me, nipping at my arms, my neck— not actually biting, just checking that I understood that I was below him in the pack order, confirming that I was at the very bottom, while I shivered and wailed and cried.
And for some moments, then, I truly accepted that that was where I belonged, and did everything I could to keep the two animals happy with me, until I heard footsteps approaching, and then Master’s voice;
“What an intriguing sight; the lovely Cerys; early, just as you thought, Jenkins, and being ploughed by that brute of a dog. She is a rather lovely specimen, isn’t she Jenkins? So trim, but with those generous tits! Gods but it was stimulating watching that mutt tear into her! We must put more of the pretties out to the kennel— do remind me. I take it she has submitted?”
I wanted to die, wanted to jump up and tear his eyes out— but it didn’t matter what I wanted, I was helpless, the dog’s cock as if fixed into me— no real will to do the things my mind insisted I ought to, and the fear of the dogs teeth in my tits. I did nothing but whimper, and move to minimise the stress in my pussy.
“Actually, no sir. If she had, I wouldn’t have set the dogs on her— your orders were to get the contractors in straight away. In fact, sir, the slut requested that I have the dogs fuck her while she was still a free woman. Technically, sir, she could still refuse to give herself over after this.”
He didn’t sound in the slightest concerned at this possibility. I would have happily accepted death at that point. For Master to be watching this was utter agony. Only a month ago he had been squiring me to concerts and exclusive boutique hotels, and now I was just a willing, abject bitch for his guard dogs.
“I did take the liberty of calling the contractors sir, so that I expect them any minute— this way, she will be taken immediately she has recorded her submission.”
“Very good Jenkins; on top of every detail, as always; thank you. I’ll go and roust out a cunt— watching Bonzer at it makes me feel a need to make someone scream and then fuck her nice soft throat very forcefully indeed. And two days, eh? That triggers the side bet, doesn’t it? What was it you wanted? Thumbs removed, eh? Make her damned useless for maid work, but you’ve won it fair and square. Very well— go all the way with her, then— labia trim, tits shaped to your preference, jaw loosening, Achilles shortening— I’ll give you a free hand. Modifications are the coming thing, they tell me— let’s see how she turns out.”
“Very good, Sir”
And with that, my recent lover walked off to look for a slavegirl to abuse, while I remained, face down in the gravel, all but naked, sobbing in despair, ass up in the air, a big dog’s cock stuck in my sex, with Jenkins watching on. And I with the new knowledge that Jenkins was going to tell the contractors to modify me any way he wanted. We had all heard the stories, but I had not considered this as a possibility for me— none of the girls I had seen at the villa looked anything but natural. My tears took on a deeper edge.
