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.
Life was very bleak, then, cold and still, the panting of the dog, Bonzer, joined to me by the swollen base of his hot, still jerking cock, as he pulled at me, evidently bored, wanting to go after Alpha, who had lost interest; was fawning for attention from Jenkins, from the sounds he made.
It seemed there was a loosening, as, with a tearing wrench, he pulled at me again, making me squeal with pain and humiliation, tugging me backwards, my knees grinding in the gravel.
Then his heavy panting, and Alpha’s whining, gave way abruptly to deep, threatening barks.
I cowered, terrified— was the brute going to savage me? I was astonished to find that I still cared about anything, but my body still wanted to live, even if my mind was past caring.
The barking became harsher, and the tugging more insistent, as I heard a heavy engine sound, growing in volume.
Jenkins called at the beasts to be silent, and was instantly obeyed, as I realised that there were other things I still cared about. An approaching vehicle meant strangers— strangers who could not fail to see me for what I was, a defiled slut, all but naked, grovelling, ashamed, with a dog’s cock deep in her sex, the dog controlling her movements. I wanted to curl up so tightly I disappeared, so awful was this prospect, but of course, there was no escape.
It was worse than passing strangers, I soon realised, with a lurch, as the vehicle drew up, the engine was killed, and a door opened. I was facing the other way, not daring to move, utterly transfixed by the idea that some stranger was about to witness my degradation, up close.
Footsteps, as of heavy boots, then;
“Fast work!” said a new voice; “Got her doing dogs in public already! Maybe you don’t need us!”
My heart stopped, it semed, and at the same time I forgot the cold as my body temperature seemed to soar; I couldn’t breathe. This was it!
For this would be the slaving contractor that Master had promised me. The people who would break me in; brutally and mechanically.
If some miracle didn’t happen in the next ten minutes, I was going to cease to exist as a person; become a piece of meat; permitted life, air, food, water, shelter for only as long as some man found it more entertaining to use me for sex than to kill me.
And it would take a miracle, I knew, because I was proved already to be a slave in my heart.
Sharp, acid tears of bitter despair replaced the shamed, horrified ones of the dog rape; I was not sobbing, just weeping now, burning all over with the immanence of it, the finality of it, the terror of it, feeling the sweat start, even as I was freezing cold, and physically frozen.
I was worthless. I didn’t value myself, clearly; so why should anyone else?
And so, the wheel turned full circle again; Master, then, could save me; if he took me as a sex slave, and kept me, then he must value me, surely? Even if only to fuck and be cruel to.
Sexually entertaining. Feebly, with pathetic desperation, I made myself assume the position; face down, ass up, knees far apart, hands out, palms up; tried to do it well, though I knew for certain that I must present an awful spectacle, filthy, sticky, besmirched, face covered in mixed tears, dog lick and snot, what felt like pints of dog come dripping down my thighs, shivering violently.
“Oh, she’s not a slave yet. That is just a little appetiser she wanted.”
“Bloody hell. You for real? I’ve seen a fair few, but this beats all of ‘em! So, she’s still a citizen?”
“Indeed so. But not for long. I’ll send Bonzer off for his breakfast, and get the submission machine up, and she’ll say her piece, just as if she was already a slave; made for it, this one. Unless you want a blow-job first? I’m sure she’d oblige. Good at it, by all accounts; very willing.”
“Nah, mate— not policy. Gotta do ‘er by the book, see.”
“As you wish. Ah, I believe Bonzer is … free … yes, good dog Bonzer, good dog, Alpha; here are your treats. Alpha, come away!”
Alpha had begun licking at my poor degraded sex, licking hard— getting his tongue into me, while I cried brokenly, too terrified to protest.
It was the knowledge that I could not, even then, even after having been shown what a slavegirl’s experience might be— even after that, I could not find the character to refuse to submit. Understand this; I knew full well that I had every legal right on my side to walk away— that no force would be used. There were illegal, coercive slavers, to be sure, but Master, a respectable citizen, would have nothing to do with them. All his girls were voluntary submissions. Most of them, of course, had sold themselves, giving the money to their families, but all were legitimate volunteers.
I had no family, so there was no-one to leave money to. I suppose I could have demanded he pay a charity for me— there were some who would take money even from such a source— but really, what was the point? I was leaving the real world; what did I care what happened in it? I was just giving myself over; giving up on a life I no longer believed I could live.
I slumped over to one side, like a wrecked puppet. But, then, when Jenkins commanded me, I knelt up like an automaton;
“Your Master would prefer it if you were naked and in a slave position for your submission. Of course, this is your choice.”
Without a word, as prettily as I could, I removed what was left of my dress, spread my thighs. What point resisting, anymore?
His politeness was a nasty joke, really, given that in a few minutes time they could legally do anything they wished with me— even cut my throat, there and then (a rare occurrence, but not unheard of).
I was ridiculously sensitive about the stranger seeing my breasts, had to fight my automatic desire to cover them with my arms, to make myself cross my hands at my back; deep breaths making my chest heave, trying to hold down hysteria.
I had a chance, then, to calm myself, before my big moment; Jenkins disappeared through the gates momentarily, before reappearing pulling something on wheels, something sinister; the submission machine.
The slaver, meanwhile, having tutted in an entirely pragmatic way at the filthy state of me— stones and gravel sticking to body fluids, grazes, scrapes and deep scratches, tears, snot, blood and dog come on me— had fetched some wipes, and proceeded to do what he described as buff me up a little, gripping me by my hair and rubbing me down just as he might have treated a dog after a muddy walk; It was perfecly fitting, after all, I told myself, trying to make myself accept this abrupt introduction to lack of respect for personal space.
“She’s a corker, ain’t she”, said the slaver, and Jenkins replied, busy setting the machine up;
“Indeed, a good figure, and a pleasing face, coupled with a highly charged libido, apparently— you won’t find this a hard case, I’ll wager.”
I blushed, in spite of my numbness. He was saying I was a slut already. And he was right, of course, otherwise why was I here, kneeling naked, in the dirt of a public road in front of two men who had just watched me take a dog’s cock— all of my own free will?
At that point, there was a distraction as three teenagers arrived— two boys and a girl, on bicycles, in school uniform, though they looked too old for it— some posh private school, no doubt, out here where the rich lived. They stopped, visibly fascinated— looks of avid shock on their faces at the prospect of seeing for real what they had only seen on TV before, giggling and muttering to each other, eyes big.
It was unbearable— yet inescapable. I could hardly understand how had I came to be there, how I had not yet collapsed. It all became unreal. And yet, outwardly at least, I was managing to look quite calm at that point, as the slaver adjusted my position, taking out his ‘phone to record his capture, giving myself over; becoming nothing.
“You may begin.”
I knew the ritual off by heart, of course. It was in a million trashy TV series, but I had also watched many other versions over the last few days, in sick fascination. I had to start it— indeed, it was all very carefully set up so that I had to voluntarily engage with the process all the way through. A slave had no-one to blame but herself, if legally taken.
The presence of a watching teenage girl made it all the more terrible, all the more degrading, all the more awesomely symbolic (they often did such things on the TV, cutting backwards and forwards from the beautiful, fascinated teen to the gorgeous, naked slave-in-the-making; the actress sometimes actually becoming a slave herself during the filming, sometimes a slave already, sometimes a free citizen prepared to act the part, then panning to the eyes of men looking greedily at the teenager; she variously defiant or coquettish or intimidated— odds offered on betting sites as to how many episodes it would take until it was the teenager herself naked in the dust, impaled on cock, enslaved, dirtied, defiled). I had no idea what the real girl near me thought, as I had no chance to look at her. I was busy signing my life away, without the faintest real notion as to why.
There was, simply, nothing else I could think of doing, at that point;
“Please … please, masters, w…will you take me … me as … as a … take me as a slave?”
“Will you please put yourself into the submission machine?”
There are various versions of these devices— they take simultaneous video and sound recordings of a submission, along with a DNA sample and various other data points— GPS location, time and date etc; all in a one-time encrypted memory chip.
These legal requirements are easily satisfied by a simple mechanism, but the slavers have developed devices with more entertainment value, and of course Master had his own, high-end version.
The submission recorder in front of me had as its DNA sampler a large black dildo, set into a frame into which I would kneel as it penetrated me, from which were suspended cameras and microphones. The scene would be available to Master as a 3D holographic recording— he could put it online if he wanted. Men with haptic VR body rigs could even be the machine— feel me impaling myself on their cocks, watching my face as I lowered myself onto them, as I became a slave for ever.
Amazed that my legs would obey my bidding, I stood, acutely aware of the way I was being watched (whether intentionally or not, Jenkins had aligned the machine so that I was facing into the open roadway; the teenagers had a grandstand view), and found the need to hold myself well becoming paramount. After all, this was the nearest I would ever come to a wedding day. A public event in which I was the centre of attention, expected to be sexually alluring, and committing myself to a man. This wasn’t my own metaphor, but again, a commonly repeated one, however sick. One that, as a feminist, I had railed against as calculated to encourage young women to think that becoming a slave might in some way exalt them.
Now here I was, naked apart from extravagantly high heels, blushing but finding it necessary to do what I could to rearrange my tousled hair, knowing that as I lifted my arms, my breasts would sway in a way I hoped was alluring, taking a deep breath and walking in a more calculatedly sexy way than ever before in my life as I approached the device that would seal my fate. This was my walk down the aisle, and I was making myself look like a whore for strangers.
To be sure, there were new tears in my eyes, but somehow I kept my face smooth, bit my lips to keep them from puckering into sobs, and squatted as elegantly as I could over the machine; setting my wrists into the offered bracelets, lowering myself slowly, aware of the transfixed stares of the teenage boys as I lowered myself onto the fat black rubber cock, unable to stifle a sob as it entered me, filling me, finding myself shamefully slippery inside, remembering why.
The shin supports spread as they were designed to do as my weight bore onto them, splitting my thighs obscenely apart so that my own weight bore me down onto the dildo, and at the same time pushing back the wristlets so that my arms were held out behind me, so that I was very obviously pinioned, helpless. A despairing cry broke from me, then, uncontrollable, as the slick, fat artificial cock split me wide open.
There was a gasp from the girl, and I almost lost it, almost gave in to racking sobs; but I screwed my eyes tight for a second, and once again bit my lip, hard, to maintain my control. All pointless, but somehow urgently necessary. I needed to dedicate myself to being sexually appealing. There was nothing else for me, not any more; all hope was gone.
The device did something; a light went orange, but not green. After a second, I looked up, confused, humiliated— did the machine not accept me?
The contractor grinned;
“You gotta fuck yourself a bit darlin’” he says, not unkindly, just matter-of-fact.
Again, I found it hard to maintain control; blackness engulfed me for a moment, and I began to slump; but some reserve pulled me up, and, bizarrely, I found myself smiling; a sad little smile, but still— as I found a way to thrust my thighs up and back, up and back, taking the dildo more deeply at each thrust— the whole mechanism seeming to respond, almost as if it was fucking me back, making it impossible to hold back a gasp as it penetrated me; right to the core as it seemed.
All of which brought forward an awed jeeeesus! from one of the watching boys; She’s fucking herself on the machine!
At last, the light went green, and the contractor spoke, reading from a sheet, his voice becoming more official, his diction improved;
“State your full name, please.”
“Cerys Anne Smalley”
“Citizen number?”
“Qz7c-3mu8-e98t-plk4”
“Do you confirm that you are undertaking this procedure of your own free will?”
“Yes … yes, I do” my voice is not much more than a whisper.
“You will be registered as the property of M… M…, who will henceforth have total dominion over your body, your rights as a human being fully, and without reserve derogated as a result of this voluntary act.”
“No special rights of whatever kind will apply to you. Your status as property of the most basic kind will be internationally recognised. This is not a time limited condition, and there is no possibility of manumission. If an owner of yours no longer wishes to hold you as a slave, rights in you revert to the International Slave Federation— you may be terminated or re-assigned for use or sale at the ISF’s sole discretion. You are about to cease to be human— to become an object. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“And do you consent, understanding that this is a full and irrevocable consent, with no chance to repine?”
This is it; one more line, and my life is over. I can still say no. But that seems impossible, somehow— there is some bizarre momentum, and I hear my voice, surprisingly calm;
“I consent.”
With that, the slaver nods, and Jenkins touches a button on the remote. There’s a, sharp, agonising stabbing, deep inside me— the DNA sampler on this machine, as so many of the newer ones, being designed to inflict terrible pain, even though it is entirely unnecessary. It brought a horrified cry of hurt from me; it was awful for me to hear myself sounding so lost, so despairing; knowing that I was, now, indeed, lost. Forever, lost.
I sagged in the mount, before forcing myself back to a proper position, a dull feeling of boundless horror growing in me, warring with a stupid, but very real sense of relief. It was over; I would never have a serious choice to make again.
My choices were made; from now on, I would be a servile, alluring sex toy, or I would be cruelly treated, and then, fairly soon, killed— probably in atrocious circumstances, with sadists laughing at my suffering. That was it.
The legal formalities were over. I was a possession, with less rights than a dog or a goat.
There had, though, grown up an expectation that the newly enslaved girl might, at this point, say something that marked her transition from free woman to thing, and there was an expectant silence.
A strange peace came over me, and an acceptance, and all I could think of to say, bizarrely, was;
“Thank you”— it sounded as sincere as it felt, although I was not at all sure who I was thanking, or for what.
Another silence, and then the contractor was at me, fitting me with a stout leather collar, practical and heavy, rather than elegant, then with matching, leather bracelets, which he joined with a chain behind my back. Standing to one side, he worked a lever— the dildo slowly pulled out of my wet sex, making me moan again.
I sobbed, once, then, knowing what was coming next, and he laughed at me, tolerant, as he turned another handle, tilting me backwards and further parting my thighs, as it raised me up a little.
“These are good bits of kit, these 9000 models.”
Jenkins, it seemed, was not interested in answering that.
The contractor’s hands were at my pussy, then, impersonal, practical, unhurried but firm; clad now in thin latex gloves, and tears were in my eyes. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but I knew; I knew what was coming.
“To the clit direct, size 3— it says here. Is that right?” The question is for Jenkins— of course; I would rarely again be asked a meaningful question.
“Correct.”
“Just checking— get ready for some noise, then, this is going to hurt the piece!”
And it did, terribly, awfully, and I screamed, weakly, pathetically, as he punched a hole in my tender clitoris with some cold metal device, careful only to do it correctly, not to minimise my pain, then agonisingly inserted what felt like a fat metal bar through the hole, making me wail like a wounded animal. I felt, right through my body, the metallic snickt as the spring prong snapped home. There would be no release. The ring would be with me for life, or until someone cut it from me..
I am ringed, I thought; Ringed, like an animal.
God, but it hurt— and burned, too; insistently telling me that I had been violated in my most private place. The devastation in my mind was terrible. I was now cunt, nothing more; a slave. I could not control the tears, but was holding back the sobs as if my life depended on it.
He stood back, then, and put the chip gun onto my right shoulder, and fired; then again at my belly, just above my sex. I sobbed, once as he fired again. There was a sharp, but not terrible pain; I had been fitted with two tiny electronic tags that would identify me as a slave to anyone who came close to me with a reader— slave hunters whose job was to track down escapees had more powerful detectors with a range over tens of metres, and most public places had recorders, too, that could track my passage.
I had been tagged as a slave, forever. Later in my training, another chip would be implanted inside my skull, so that even a determined girl prepared to gouge chunks out of herself could not remove it.
He had me stand then; I was unthinkingly, servile, pathetic in my desperation not to provoke punishment; for from that moment, anyone, anyone at all, had the right to inflict pain on me, and I could not bear the idea of it.
No sooner was I standing, though, but something began inside me— at first an insistent, unusual sort of warmth; a squirming feeling, uncomfortable but strangely welcome, like a deep, soft tickling, that would not stop; got warmer, and stronger, until I looked up, briefly, forgetting, in the strange state that roiling, twisting hotness was driving me to, that I was not permitted to look free people in the eyes. I saw, then, just briefly, a grin; a knowing, smirking grin, on the contractor’s lips, shared with Jenkins, behind me, and I wailed again, wailed out loud, almost shrieked in distress and horror, as I realised what they had done to me;
HEAT, that’s what they called it, some intense and powerful mix of drugs and hormones. Injected deep into the lining of the vagina, its effect was rapid, overwhelming, and violent, for the poor girl it was inflicted upon. They had done it to me— the DNA probe had dosed me as it took its sample, and I was now in the grip of HEAT.
I fell to my knees, panting, my hips moving uncontrollably now. I knew why they called it HEAT of course, but now I felt it— burning, wet heat, like a smooth but terrible acid inside my vagina and at my sex lips, insistent, urgent. making me move, making me sigh, getting worse, and I knew; I knew, that there was no resisting it; no way out for me, and I moaned and wailed again.
This time there was no disguising the animal urgency in that moan. I needed to be fucked.
Not just because I was aroused— although I was— in my body, if not in my mind— a strange state of affairs, for a woman, whose mind typically leads in arousal; but I needed to be fucked too, with the antidote; otherwise I would burn, and burn, for hours, possibly even die from it, the dosage was so strong, and the effect so varied on different girls.
“Master! Master??”
I was begging, spreading my knees, rolling my hips. I was begging to be fucked. Reduced, so quickly, to this abject, pathetic urgency to be penetrated. They would use a condom treated with the antidote, that was the way.
How could they have done this to me? It was not normally used for ‘genteel’ enslavements like this— more often for televised spectacles, or for women who chose slavery at a public brothel over prison.
Oh gods, it was so … so HOT!
“Masters? P…Please, M… Masters? Fu … Fuck me; fuck this slave c … cunt … p … please?”
The were laughing now, filming me— the schoolkids were, too, as I writhed helplessly, like a an animal on heat— hence the name.
Jenkins’ voice;
“You, boy!— Yes you, redhead— you wanna fuck her? Come on, big guy like you, bet you’ve got a boner like an iron bar— come and give it her— do her tight little asshole— we’ll put the treatment on the machine’s cock, and you can really hammer her in the ass; make her scream.”
“Come on boy— you think you’ll get a chance to do a newly enslaved gorgeous thing like this ever again?”
I could hardly pay attention, so completely did the churning HEAT in my belly, the neediness in my sex occupy my mind, but it seemed as if there was some sort of debate, the girl holding the redhead back, until the shorter boy, greasy hair and a horrible case of acne, suddenly lurched toward me.
More laughter;
“Ooookay, then. Redhead is bossed by his sister, Pizza face gets to do the new cunt. Heee’s a winner!”
I hardly knew what was happening by then, as Jenkins and the slaver lifted me under the arms, and manhandled me back onto the machine. Jenkins held me, then, so that my weight didn’t press down, while the contractor fitted a white condom over the dildo, and set it on its central rod, at which point Jenkins let me go, almost threw me down, so that my thighs spread rapidly and my weight drove me hard onto the big plastic cock, making me scream as I had never screamed before— the violent penetration meeting the terrible sensitivity of my whole vagina inside, so that my legs jerked and I almost lifted myself off the thing, before collapsing back down, to be rammed once more by the awful thing.
This repeated a few times, until I had no more energy and let myself go right down; took the thing, the full length of it, deeper than ever before, and all but fainted, bowing forward, suddenly knowing that I was going to start fucking it, deliberately, that I wanted to, however humiliating the idea of it, I had no choice; I had to do it, for the relief that would only come from getting the condom coating into every crevice of my sex.
And then he came in behind me— the boy— and his cock was indeed, like an iron bar as he clumsily, roughly, urgently found a way to force it into my poor asshole. Master had had me take him there a couple of times— but that had been in the context of eager, consensual, sexual arousal, with lubricants, slowly, carefully, stopping and starting, until I had, at last, begged him to start fucking me properly.
This was just awful— hurting the boy, too, I could tell, and then, having got far enough in to be sure of himself, he just pile-drivered into me, so that I squealed as if I had been knifed, then yelled and yelled, utterly abandoned to shame and pain and devastation, as he ploughed me.
It didn’t last long— he climaxed with a weird, sobbing wail of his own, his hands tight in my hair, pulling, excruciating pain there, too, and then he was done, and I was done; broken sobbing, shamed, hearing Jenkins and the contractor congratulating the boy, teasing him, too, about how quickly he had come. But it was carmaraderie, really, men talking to each other.
While I sobbed, softly, alone, disregarded, destroyed, all over again.
These days it is this; afterwards, hollowed-out, empty, hurting, ignored in my despair, while those who have enjoyed me laugh and talk, that hurts most. Much more than the whipping or the rough fucking. At least I exist when I’m being abused.
