This replaces the previous attempt at the fourth part of this story, which was going to be deleted, but has been kept since people keep voting for it. You can find it under the same ‘delicious’ tag.
You will want to have read the previous parts.
After a short while, having made a hopeless, helpless effort to repair my ravaged make-up, at cleaning the worst of the filth from my face and neck, I find myself trembling, desperately trying to control a new rush of tears, suppress my knowledge of what has just been done to me, the knowledge that these men— strangers, directed by the man I have just had lunch with in a five star hotel— these men who have beaten, raped and degraded me are standing, smoking, talking idly, just a few metres away, unconcerned, laughing— laughing at me, at the dirty whore … all this becomes too much.
Way, way too much, and I feel myself slipping into hysteria, hear my sobbing turn to yammering, get louder, more insistent, sounding crazy— even to me who is making the noise … helpless wailing, sobs, empty of anger, of pain, even, just shame; shame and fear of the unknown that I have offered myself up for— an unknown where the utterly unthinkable, for a girl of my upbringing, education, income bracket— of my style, even— the unthinkable of having been gang-raped by rough, brutish strangers in a dirty, wet alleyway, for it to be entirely my fault that this has happened to me— where this unthinkable is actually real— that I have been raped liked that, and that I have still to live.
Live with myself, and, too, live with the knowledge that this is my life, now, unless …
But no; I already know that there is no unless. I have tested myself this way with R, and it is hopeless, I know. I can’t escape this, now. This obsession has become central to my existence, now. This constant need to be pushing, to be being pushed, to the outer limits of what I can accept, the need for the intensity of emotion it delivers, that intensity which is unattainable through any other means, which removes all contradictions, transcends all concerns, which makes daily life seem both dull and tediously complicated at the same time— this need is something I have to know can be met— however dangerous, however frightening, however shaming. Intensity is what I cannot do without.
It’s all I have, any more. And I know that I have done this to myself. Of course I know that R has known what he has been doing with me, working on me, manipulating me, channeling my hunger, increasingly distancing me from my old life, from my friends, my family, my work, my old interests— I know that he is the one who has actually done this to me.
But it’s impossible to escape the knowledge that I am fully complicit. He hadn’t lied to me— had indeed been very open and honest about how he was treating me, and the direction of travel. He had made it obvious to me that I could step out at any time— almost forced me to, at one point. But, despite my fears, my shame at what I was helping him do, there had been that inside me, all along, which had worked with him, which had welcomed his pushing, his shaping of me, which had encouraged him, spurred him on— I had often thanked him, out loud, in halting, but huskily sincere tones, demanding that he listen to me— honoured him, recognising his achievements— making myself list them, out loud, with details— his success in getting me past my blocks, in requiring of me that I become more and more the whore he wanted me to be for him.
The whore I revelled in having become for him.
I would do this, in bed with him, naked, after he had used me, hard and wonderful— and taken himself to the limit, too, neither of us ready for sleep. I would arrange myself for him, wantonly exposed, deliberately sluttish, shamefully shameless, and go through all the things he had done to bring me on; how difficult it had been for me to accept them; how cleverly, how patiently, how ruthlessly he had worked on me; cruel at times, humorous at others, simply and brutally forceful not a few times, while at others dangerously, smoothly seductive; how he had reduced me and exalted me, defiled and refined me; how grateful I was, how ensnared I was, how much I knew myself to be in his power.
And I would do this, caressing myself for him, ignoring how sore I often was, how tender, displaying for him, deliberately, carefully showing him just how thoroughly he had made a slut of me, until, if I succeeded at last, he would reach out; lazy, slow, rough, hurting me, smiling at me as he did so; his hand in my hair, slow, twisting, then violently jerk my head down to the level of his hardening cock so that I could encourage him to plunder my throat, to use me again, to use me like a sex aid, without consideration for anything except his own pleasure.
And the times this worked, when I could get him to come inside me once more, were the best times, the times I felt most worthy of him, even though they were also the times I had debased myself most completely for him, made myself most wholly vulnerable to him, tellling him just what it had been that had convinced me to let him do some previously unacceptable thing with me, have me shame myself with. Telling him every secret I could think of, just to have him hard, inside me, one more time.
To be his best whore.
The whore I had now accepted I would be for this stranger, Lord D, who had already proved to me his character as a master on another level altogether from R— more impersonal, more relentless, uncaring, more demanding. Which proofs had entrapped me, fascinated me, flooded me with the desire to be, to work to become, whatever it was that he wanted of me.
Only now, after this tragic and degrading rape, this sordid, graceless, filthy ordeal, it is now impossible for me not to see that everything in my life that used to mean anything has receded— every joy, every hope, every ambition, every dream— all have been trampled on, rendered pathetic, become unachievable through my own behaviour, my own responses, my own choices; everything I once thought defined and validated me has been exposed as embarrassing, thin, tawdry, alongside the dark urges that have pushed and pulled me along the path to becoming this. This dirty, degraded whore, all but naked, snivelling helplessly, alone in a dark alley with her rapists, waiting to discover what they want with her next.
Any pretence, anymore, that this part of my life is just an aspect of me, my kinkiness, my secret alter-ego’s life; any comfortable story that seeks to minimise the damage I have done to myself by going so far down this path, any necessary lies I have been telling myself— none of that will work, any more.
This— this is the only way that my life can work, now, if I want to feel alive. Even though it hurts, even though it shames and degrades me, it is at the same time sharp, brightly coloured, intensely emotional, full of sensation, dangerous; impossible to be bored by. I have come, by degrees, to avidly hunger for this wildness, this excitement; only transgression, domination, only the insane intensities of coercive sex can deliver it to me.
My reality— that I have to allow myself to be humiliated, degraded, shamed and abused to achieve this has been harshly, coldly borne in on me through experience. I already know that I will be replaying the last half hour in my head for days, weeks; I already know that the further into the past that the physical pain, the agonies of shame recede, the stronger the erotic charge will grow, until— and this is certain to me— until I will find myself, I know, masturbating desperately to the memory of being beaten and gang-raped.
And that, inevitably, I will lose myself, now; lose my life— all those ordinary, obvious things that young women want and have— all those things I will lose, since this … this is going to overwhelm me, claim me, devour me, define me…
These thoughts, these dark and shaming thoughts whirl around in my ahead as I wail out my misery …
… until one of them— the first man, the one who had accosted me in the street— steps over, grabs the hair at the back of my head in a painful grip, shakes me and then slaps me, hard, backhanded, across the face, before grabbing my breast, hard, gripping it cruelly, hurting me— though I was so thoroughly intimidated that I dared not pull away;
“Control yourself, cunt. You wouldn’t want to disappoint your new lord and master, now, would you … ?”
He sounds no more than mildly irritated, almost bored, but he does take the time to grin, entertained, at the reflex expression that suddenly boils out of me, evaporating my shame and misery and despair with a white-hot flash of anger— the expression of outrage, of righteous fury, full of the promise of retribution, of harsh justice, the face that any strong minded, respectable woman would make in such circumstances. I stare at him, my whole being genuinely furious, now— rejecting being spoken to like this by some cocky young upstart, street lout— I am suddenly full of conviction, no matter what my condition, no matter what dreadful indignities I have suffered at the hands of these men; I am, after all, a well-paid and powerful city lawyer— people just don’t talk to me like that …
A surge of instinctive, incandescent defiance.
He’s completely unaffected— in fact, he’s amused; his grin widens; he’s enjoying this, waiting for the reality to hit me— the reality that that this has happened because I consented to it, accepted the promise of this, over lunch with a man I agreed to recognise as my owner— effectively asked for this— and far worse, probably— until, after only a few short seconds, he is proved right; weakness and fear and shame rise up in me again, washing away at my outrage until it is all I can do to keep my feet; slowly, awfully, I feel my strength, my self-righteousness, my fury, all ebbing away, until I am left, shivering, biting my lip to hold back the tears, cowering, desperately not wanting to be hit again— knowing that this time I would simply have to take it.
My bubble is pricked; my anger is gone, and I cringe, full of a raw desperation not to upset this man— this man who has just been inside my cunt, fucking me hard, against my will, who has used my mouth like a hole in a wall— spurted his come into my throat while some associate of his behind me— which of them I cannot even be sure of— had been readying himself to do the same to my sex, hand working at my pussy, readying me for his assault; this man who can thrash me, thrash my poor soft breasts if he wants to, who sneers at me for good reason— because I am, indeed, cunt.
Because he knows that I have explicitly accepted that this is what I am.
After all, less than a couple of hours has passed since I held out my arms, and meekly, intently, asked R to fix these bangles onto my wrists, with their imprinted letter D, proclaiming a man I had only just met as my new owner; since I had promised to do whatever Lord D asked of me, knowing that what he asked would be hard and degrading, even if I could not have imagined the experience I have just been through.
Helpless, all that energy evaporated, replaced by weak-kneed submission, I drop my gaze, strive to do as he says, control myself, stop the heaving of my chest, feeling his eyes on my nipples as they rise and fall, swallowing my sobs, swallowing my remaining, habitual pride, accepting.
Accepting.
Making myself accept my new reality.
That I am cunt. That I am going to be used as cunt. For real, rather than as a heart-stopping, but imaginary idea.
He watches this transformation, my collapse, my defeat, my acceptance; my work to make myself obey him; then, grinning, complacent, he asserts his casual mastery over me by putting his hand to my cheek, pressing hard, twisting my head and neck slowly, forcefully; first to one side, then back the other way. Next he puts his palm, flat and wide, over my face, and presses my head, hard, back against the wall, squeezing and pushing, moving me around slowly, under his control, showing me just how weak I am, flattening my nose, his fingers pushing into my eyelids, mashing the the ball of his thumb into my lips and teeth— not really hurting me but demeaning me, humiliating me; showing me what he can do to me, how defeated I am, what I will allow him to to, what I will put up with from him; what I will accept as my due.
For, apart from a weak wailing and the occasional shocked squeak, I do accept. I dare not lift my hands to defend myself, dare not even let him think I might be thinking of resistance; instead I press them against the wall, fluttering helplessly, out to my sides, making my weakness, my complete lack of defiance visible, showing him the depth of my submission; permitting him to maul me, while he chuckles to himself, hearing the others laughing.
“Better, girly, better. Learning how to control yourself— how to be the perfect girl for the man you’re with, whatever man you’re with— that’s your job now, so get used to it …”
“Oh, and by the way, for now, that’s me; the man you’re with. That thing I said about Lord D seeing you— that was just my little tease. He’ll never want you with him in this state— filthy, hair all matted, dripping with strange men’s come— not unless it’s him and his sort who’ve done this to you— dirtied you like this.”
“No, this is our job— and it is a job, mind— our job is to dirty you, to grind it into you that you are a filthy, helpless, dripping wet little whore— grind it into you so deep that you’ll never be free of it.”
“So try your best, now, while I take a couple of pictures so he knows we’ve been hard at it.”
Laughter again, from his two friends at his lame pun, and more waves of shame and despair for me, as I let him take pictures with his ‘phone, as I find that it is impossible not to try, try my best, even in such awful circumstances, to look good for the camera, to hold myself upright, to push my breasts out, to smile, even though I know that this simply proclaims my acceptance of myself as a whore, even though it brings more degrading commentary.
“That will do, girly. Now he’ll see we’ve taken you down a peg or two— shown you just what it means to be in his power.”
“And this is just the start— we’ll push you so deep that when you do see him as he’ll have you, as he wants you— all dressed up, fresh from the beauty parlour— delicious and sexy and alluring, in expensive lingerie, a sexy little dress, glossy hair, smiling and sweet and blushing pink— he’ll know that however elegant you seem, however much you look a million dollars, however beautiful your manners, you’ll do anything, anything at all for him, however degrading, do it for him and for anyone he gives you to as well— that you’ll do it gratefully, prettily, with a gorgeous smile, too, if they want it, and with a hot, wet and eager pussy, too— because you’re so damn happy you’re not with us, being dirtied.
“Whore— Delicious. Delicious— Whore. That’s your life now. A delicious whore for Lord D, and a dirty, crawling, frightened, eager-to-please, whip-broken fuckbucket for us.”
He’s looking directly into my face as he tells me this, and I can feel his sneer even though I cannot make myself face him, and I do— I do feel dirtied; foul, gritty, greasy and muddy from the muck water I have been grovelling in and from the sticky, smelly spunk of all these men in my throat, and I know this man is right, that Lord D will not want me like this. What man would? I’m disgusting; defiled, ruined, filthy, traces of their mingled, cooling slime on my face, my chin, my breasts. Sobs threaten to overwhelm me again, and it is only fear of his heavy, hard hand that keeps me quiet.
He stands, looking at me, while the others snigger and comment (without much excitement— it is made clear again that this is not a remarkable or rare event for them, but rather— as he says— a job— a workaday matter), and I know, deep within me, that this is a defeat— a real loss, a permanent degradation; that something more has been taken from me in this moment; that this feeling, this knowledge, this grinding diminishment is the real meaning of all the words that had passed over the table in that smart dining room, in those genteel, elegant surroundings, earlier— although it seems it was a million years ago, a million light years away.
That this is what it means, then, to have become cunt for real; to have become holes.
And the seal on this loss is, that however terrible it is— and it is terrible, it is horrific, it is shocking— however impossible it is that a woman in my position could be treated like this, could accept the idea that she has no choice but to accept such treatment from men like these— or indeed, any others whom Lord D should set loose on her— however impossible that might be, that I have to acknowledge to myself that I have no chance; no chance at all, of resisting it.
Not because I am weak, not because I am frightened, not because I can’t think of anyone who would support me, who would listen to me— none of these possible excuses can stand— even though they are are real and deeply felt.
No; the reason that I will have to accept this is because there is not, not in me, anywhere in me, any real will to escape.
Oh, I don’t want to be raped again, don’t wish to ever be whipped, don’t want to be shamed like this— not any of the details of all this are anything but awful and tragic and hateful.
It’s not even that I want to be treated like this (although I know now that my body is capable of responding shamefully to such usage); but rather, that I need whatever it is that comes with all this, whatever that is. The feeling I had had in the hotel earlier, sitting there, with D, with R, knowing that I was their whore, their slut, that they were interested in me because of the idea that they could have me degraded like this. It is that feeling, that specialness, to which I have become addicted, for which, it seems, I am prepared to throw myself away.
These thoughts have me breathing heavily, panting deeply, on the verge of hysteria, so overwhelming is the idea that I am not going to be able to resist this, not even in the immediate and tragic knowledge of just how crudely my neediness is going to be exploited, feeling as if my heart might burst with the enormity of it all, and it comes to me that I might as well die of this feeling.
But of course, no matter how much I am ready to feel my chest spasming, to feel my consciousness growing dim, to fade away, to be saved from having to accept these terrible things about myself, my heart keeps on beating; my poor body wants to live, and so must I live. Somehow, however impossible it feels, I have to be alive, have to live with myself, even though that self has just betrayed me— led me to this degradation, to the future promise of ever deeper debasement.
“So, here’s how it’s going to be, whore. You’re going to be seeing a fair bit of us— hurting you, degrading you, frightening you, shaming you; raping you if he asks us to— all-round dirtying you. Then, when he judges that you’re ready— we’ll be sending him pictures and video all the time— then he’ll give you a chance at acting delicious— meet you in public, with you dressed up all sexy, looking fine, showing yourself off for him; and he’ll test you— see how smoothly, how beautifully, how sweetly, how entertainingly you will whore yourself to him and to his friends. He’ll push your limits, then, and find them, too— because you will have them, pretty cunt, you will have many limits, no matter how sincerely you promise to give him anything he wants.”
“And then, of course, you’ll be sent back to us, for more dirtying, more abuse, more fear, more degradation. To be more thoroughly broken.”
“Until he’s ready to try you again.”
“And that’s it, now. That’s your life: Whore— Delicious; Delicious— Whore. The more totally you allow us to transform you into a whore, the more often you’ll get to spend time being Delicious— but always knowing that the only point of Delicious is to give the posh folks the fun of treating a sexy, smart, educated young woman of their own class worse than they would treat a street slut— and have her smile and ask them for more; have her take a beating, two, three cocks in her at the same time, and let them see how it turns her on, how she can orgasm from it, if they’ll let her. That you only get to be Delicious, because you are really a Whore— a dirty, degraded Whore.”
This was, in a different way, worse than the rape. That outrage could not have gone on for long, must have ended, one way or another, within a few hours. Whereas this future he had described for me— it was, simply, my future; everlasting, continuous, ever-present. My life. That I would find myself working to accept it, working to be good at it— just I have with R, at every stage, no matter how degrading I thought it at the start. Even though it was so much more than anything R had imposed upon me, even though it was beyond anything I could have imagined during that elegant lunch; if Lord D chose to impose this future upon me, I would be unable to do more than live it. And living it meant living it on his terms— meant becoming that creature— that Delicious, that Whore. To which my response, my only possible response, must be to do it well for him.
And I saw, too, how beautifully the trap he had described would catch me— how well it fit me. For I do. I do want to see Lord D again. I want to feel his eyes on me— on my body— knowing that he knows I have allowed this to be done to me, that I have suffered this— for him. I do want to be that … that Delicious Whore— for him. Dress up for him, present myself to him; allow him to present me to his friends— as R had presented me to him (was it only three hours ago?), when I had felt— just as this thug has said— felt like a million dollars. For Lord D to know that he has me like this. That he has done this to me. That I am willing, cooperative, eager to please, even in the full knowledge of how I am going to be treated.
I sink, slowly, to my knees; my tears are gone. I recognise the feeling— I had had it, a little, in the tattoo parlour, naked, degraded, R and the tattooist looking at me, but it’s clearer now, stark in its simplicity.
Everything has been stripped from me— not only clothes, but dignity, decency, rights, expectations, privilege, free will. I have nothing— nothing but my body, and the will of these strange men. I have nothing.
The gift, though— if only I can find a way to welcome it— is this:— that I have no responsibility.
None.
I can be empty. Entirely passive, simply waiting, simply responding to what is required of me. And in that way, I can become special. I can feel special. And, special in that way, I can hope that I will be fucked in the way that brings me release. Fucked like an animal, like a doll; fucked without restraint.
That this future is mostly shaming and degrading is is not— not really— should not be— a problem (even though, of course, it is). Because it is not me that is choosing, but them; the men. If they want to degrade me, then I will be degraded— if they want to rape me, make me hysterical with fear and shame before they fuck me, if they want to hurt me, humiliate me, see me grovel and cry, then that’s their choice, not mine.
And if I respond? If my body juices for them? If I find myself grovelling and crying in ways which I hope will sexually excite them? If I find myself actively wanting to please a cock that is raping my throat, if I feel an orgasm coming?
Well, that’s just a sign that I deserve such treatment, that I am just a sexual animal, with animal responses, being used like an animal, used for sex.
And bizarrely, this train of thought calms me.
It’s not that any of this makes me happy, or that it relieves me of one small part of my shame, my despair, or reduces my terrible, gut wrenching fear— still less that it reduces the pain, the many pains, across my body.
What it does is to help me see each of those as just itself. I feel shame because I am a helpless slut, because I respond to this treatment, this abuse. I feel despair because I know that this cannot end well— that I am throwing my life away. I am frightened because I am going to be horribly, cruelly abused. I feel pain because the men I am prey to, to whom I have offered myself— no, given myself— are heartless, greedy sadists.
I have asked to be used as a sexual plaything by cruel men who like to shame, hurt and degrade women. And so I will be hurt, and degraded, and shamed. And I will try— however humiliating, however pathetic, however it invites yet further abuses, I will try, try with all my being, to be special for them. I won’t be able to stop myself. Because it is all I will have.
And, in those few moments when I do feel special, it will be worth it— for in those moments I will achieve something that was impossible in my old life, something that was unimaginable, unreachable. Something remarkable and transcendent.
Will it be worth the price I have paid, will pay? It doesn’t matter. The decision was made when I let R put these bracelets on me, when I answered Lord D’s questions, when I asked if I could stay with him after he had told me how I would be treated. All I can hope for now, is to work, at all times, towards that special feeling, toward the conditions in which I might get there. That’s all I have, any more.
It is almost beautiful, how neatly it all fits together in my mind, and, while I am in no sense ‘alright’, I am at least outwardly calm and attentive when the main man, the one who had accosted me in the street, who had informed me, so casually, of the gang-rape that I was required to give myself up for, he who had led the gang in their terrible despoliation of me, when he reaches down and, casually holding the side of my head in a rough caress, tells me;
“Up, bitch. Time to move you on,” I comply, simply and immediately obedient; with a pathetic, fearful little attempt at a smile, I stand up and let him take my left hand and lift it, up and out, looking me over.
“Such a shame— that pretty dress— ruined. Looks expensive.— Veeerry expensivo. Too bad, though— can’t have you walking the streets like that, can we— you’ll attract attention.”
Casual laughter from the others. Something’s going to happen, I can tell— they’re watching, waiting for it.
The knife in his hand, suddenly— snickkkt — deadly looking; I wail, softly, flinch, but am too frightened, really, even to pull away— what if it enrages him?
He watches me, smiling, holding the knife, while I quiver, forcing myself not to do what I so urgently wish to do— to cower and cringe and wail and beg. From somewhere comes the knowledge that this is all training; that I am to learn how to be ‘delicious’. And what will Delicious do, should Lord D or one of his friends pull out such a knife, hold it so close to her?
It’s obvious: somehow, by some grace, some acceptance— something, somehow— she will stand, beautifully, make no move to defend herself, and, simply, await his pleasure— allow him to do just as he desires with her body; whatever that might be.
I don’t manage this level of grace; but, as far from beautiful, meek acceptance, as far from the special I aspire to be; as pathetic and despairing as I feel, as unworthy as I know myself to be, I do, just about, manage to hold myself still, to keep my hands low and my arm muscles loose; I am trembling and my breath is uncontrollable, gasping; my shoulders shake, but I do … I do manage to control myself as the knife moves in toward my belly, until it’s pointing directly at my sex, where the skirts of my dress were ripped open to give the rapists easier access to my poor pussy, and my whimpering turns into a keening moan as he moves in, but I must be mad with all this because I stand there and let him slide the back of the knife up my spasming belly as he cuts the rest of the dress away from me, the noise from my mouth bursting into stupid, panicky, high pitched hiccupy crying-laughing sounds as I realise I am not to be hurt, not this time (not hurt, just frightened, shamed, degraded, stripped); sounds that it takes me a good few seconds to suppress, by which time I am completely naked, bar the remains of my stockings, the half cup cantilever bra that R had made me wear, the choker and the corset.
Ridiculously, after all I have just been subjected to, the loss of the last shreds of my beautiful and expensive dress is terribly upsetting, and I am suddenly swingeingly, hopelessly sad.
Defeated. I have lost. I am lost; and I will not be able to find my way again— because I have given myself to these strong willed abusers, who are going to break me— brainwash me, pervert me. And I’m going to help them do it to me.
Overwhelmed by these feelings, I am weakly, softly compliant as he wraps me in a translucent plastic rain cape, of the kind they sell to tourists; It’s short— above mid-thigh— and open fronted, without ties or fastenings of any kind. At first glance, you might not notice that the colour that comes through is naked flesh, but a second, careful look would make it obvious.
I’m confused— what is the point of this?— these men have seen me naked, stripped me and raped me— this is meaningless as far as they are concerned, and equally useless for walking through city streets, if attracting attention is going to be a problem.
And then I realise it’s just another mean trick, another humiliation.
“Ho, guys, time to go,” says the leader, and, after taking a couple of quick pictures of me, looking confused and lost, they walk off, with what little I had with me, including the remains of my clothes, in a carrier bag.
They’re walking away from me, at a smart pace, chatting, laughing, as if all this was normal, a minor happening in an ordinary day.
And they’re leaving me, all but naked under this ridiculous, skimpy piece of near see-through plastic.
Over his shoulder, the leader says; “Keep up, whore, if you want a lift to your place.”
And then they turn a corner, out of sight, heading back toward the main street.
I’m hyperventilating; I have nothing, now; no door keys, no money, no ‘phone, no ID— nothing but my body, tattered stockings, a corset, choker, some bangles and a translucent plastic fig-leaf.
Suddenly, I’m trotting— the closest thing to running possible in the ankle-strapped high heels. Trotting as fast as I can in the direction they went, having realised, with a sick lurch, that the men who have just raped and degraded me are the only thing that looks like safety to me in the wide world.
Because my only other option would be to throw myself, naked and dirtied, onto the mercy of strangers— admit my nakedness, admit my nothingness, let it be known that I have been raped and humiliated. And beg for help. But what would I, could I, say, when asked how I had come to be in such a state?
Nothing. Not, at least, without losing everything. Losing my status, my job, my standing— and also, losing any chance of anything with D.
Insane, to be thinking that what D offered was ‘anything’ other than a future of degradation.
But now, like this, there is no way I can escape from this predicament without it becoming news— in which case, absent a claim of random rape— which would immediately be exposed by any witness who had seen me, willingly, walk into a dark alley with the man who had raped me— I would lose my job, my life, my reputation, as well as Lord D.
Anguish, despair, urgent desperation.
It is such a cruel, such a simple, such a beautiful trap, that has me scurrying along behind the three of them, my rapists.
Even when they exit the alley into the busy avenue, there is nothing for me to do but clutch, as best I can, at the open front of the cape, keep my head down, strive to be as unremarkable as possible, and try to keep up with them. They never, not once that I see, look round; never give one sign that they care if I follow or not; casually laughing, joking with each other, enjoying a stroll down a fashionable city street, looking at pretty women, remarking at a passing flash car, slapping each other on the back at a funny remark, not walking fast, but not slowly, either, so that, in the high heels, I am always having to trot to keep up, never able to actually catch them; always, in my shame, wanting to keep to the side, not attract attention— any more than is inevitable, at least; there is a steady awareness that people are noticing just what I am wearing, how my breasts move — uncontrollably free inside the cape— how a flash of a gap opens up in the slit at the front of the cape, how a stray gust lifts it to expose a lot of naked thigh, my shredded stockings, my desperately clutching hands, my dishevelled hair— a thousand things which mark me out from the well-groomed shopping crowd.
And yet the speed of movement, in the fast moving late afternoon flow of people, in the press, seems to ensure that I am no more than a momentary surprise, gone before people can really react, and I seem to be able to trot down a busy shopping street, naked but for a translucent scrap of plastic, and cause no more than a minor, transient stir. No uproar follows me, no-one accosts me (no-one asks if I am alright, either).
I’m all but hyperventilating, near hysterical, when I see them turn into a side street, then, soon after I round the same corner, into a narrower passage. My heart lurches— am I to be raped all over again?
It doesn’t matter; what will be done to me, will be done to me; I dare not, can not bear the thought of interacting with a ‘normal’ person in my current state— and so I follow them into the shady, grimy jumble of the narrow lane.
They are nowhere to be seen, and I am quickly panicky again— worse this time, as it occurs to me they may have simply led me here to abandon me, naked, with nothing, in the middle of the city, and I stumble forward, desperate to find them, horribly conscious of my vulnerability, terribly needy, despair threatening to claim me, so that when I do see them, through an open door in a boundary wall, I cannot control a weak and needy cry of relief that is unmistakeable, so that the black one laughs at me;
“So, now you’re pleased to see us, huh?
He is grinning widely, seeing his jibe hit home, as I realise just how lost I am, that it is true— that seeing them had made me feel safe, however insane that is, given what they had done to me half an hour ago.
It hits me then— hits me hard— that I have been reduced to this, already dependent upon the whim of heartless strangers, known abusers, my safety, my emotions all dependent on what for them is no more than casual entertainment.
Tears well up as I sink to my knees in that overgrown, wreckage strewn little yard, dismally overlooked by the boarded up windows of some condemned building, my only, pathetic hope that these cruel men— my rapists— might take pity on me; full of certainty that they will not, feeling the awful vulnerability of my naked body, my sex parts, to their desires, fighting desperately not to lose control, not to break down, not to start screaming and crying, which I am certain could bring nothing but worse treatment, worse despair; knowing that I need, somehow, to find a way to be— even a little bit, to try to become more … more Delicious— in the hope that they may begin to value me, at least, as a whore.
Something has been underlined, sealed, settled, during that panicked run through the busy streets— somehow the violation of the rape has been normalised, by that demonstration of my complete dependence upon whatever these servants of Lord D’s will choose for me to experience.
I had been raped, gang-raped, brutally and violently gang raped, yes. But what of it? It is just what happens to cunts, stupid cunts who refuse to take even one of the many opportunities to escape available to them.
I am going to be shown what ‘being cunt’ really means. How well it fits me. Have it brought home to me how neatly I have allowed myself to be trapped.
If they should choose, now, to rape me, all over again (and my knees turn to jelly as this occurs to me), then isn’t it me who has followed them, chased them here, sought them out, offered myself to them?
I am falling apart, falling onto a whirlpool of madness, desperate, desperate for anything, any small scrap of purpose, of meaning, of human interaction— even if, as seems likely, it will be cruel.
Luckily for me, feeling myself about to dissolve, they have a plan. The leader speaks;
“Close the gate would you, Jakey? And you, girly, stand up and let us get a few more pictures, then take that thing off— you don’t get to hide your pussy or tits from us, even with that.”
Oh, terrible to find it welcome to be ordered about so crudely! To be relieved at not having to decide for myself what to do next, in this madhouse situation. To obey so meekly, again finding myself posing for the pictures, even as the shame of it breaks my heart.
But there is always more, always another thing, and now, I am to remove the thin scrap of plastic— which, when I had been given it, seemed more shaming that protective, but now, as my only covering, my veil, that had allowed me to get through the street ordeal at least imagining I was not naked, seems almost precious to me. He is still taking pictures, and it feels like a striptease, so I try, as best I can, to be elegant as I strip myself of my little pretence at modesty.
And the turmoil, the inner conflict is still just as real, when, having reluctantly pulled it from me, had it taken away, I find it urgently necessary for me to make myself stand well— stand as I would stand for R— simultaneously displaying myself and deliberately emphasising my vulnerability, horribly unable to know whether they even find my naked body attractive, making myself stand straight, push my chest out, move one foot to open my thighs a little, keep my head up, neck straight, but my eyes deferentially downcast, just desperate not to be considered ugly, undesirable; old insecurities about the shape of my tits, the tautness of my buttocks, the way my labia look all raising themselves in my mind as I present myself for them; present myself as— there really is no other word for it— a whore.
More pictures, more laughter, more comments.
Why am I here? Why, oh why is my breath catching in my throat, my belly fluttering, anticipating sex, anticipating being fucked? Why do I want them to want me, these rapists?
Why is this toxic cocktail of emotions— fear, shame, arousal— why is it so addictive, so welcome and at the same time so hard to bear?
He has me stand there, with them around me— the young one, Jakey, somewhere behind me, the tall black guy to my left, the leader to my right;
“Now, pretty, time for you to do what you forgot to do before. You see, R told me he had you well trained— that you know very well what your duty is after someone’s been good enough to fuck their cock into one of your needy little holes— that you know it’s your job to clean them up with your mouth when they’ve done with you.”
“You can’t say we didn’t give you time to offer your services before, but somehow you seem to have forgotten a basic requirement of a piece like you? Or, perhaps you don’t think it applies after being raped?”
“No-one cares, anyway, what you think, anymore; or about anything at all that goes on inside your pretty little head, in fact. All we care about is making sure you’re up to scratch for his nibs when he wants to use you. Which is why we have to insist on the proper service from you, right now.”
A part of me is wailing and screeching, urgently, desperately wanting to reject the idea that I have been ‘trained’, of the idea that I have a ‘duty’ to any man that sticks his cock in me— still less when that man is a stranger who has just beaten and raped me.
Still another part is thinking OK, I can handle this. I’ll hate it, but I can do it, and another part of me is actually yearning, yearning for the simplicity of it, of kneeling before a man and focusing myself completely on delivering to him the understanding that his cock is being worshipped. That I have only ever done this for R makes me tremble, but at the same time, I know I will try.
That I had been willing to fight, spend every ounce of energy and willpower I could access in resisting having to suck these mens cocks, less than an hour earlier, was not forgotten, but, now; naked, shamed and beaten, helpless, at their mercy, the knowledge that I am good at pleasuring a man that way, that while doing that I could be fully occupied, forget everything but the moment, is horribly, shamingly attractive.
Once again the sane me, the self-preserving me, the ‘good’ me, is what gets suppressed, submerged, ignored, silenced by the crazy but self-reinforcing logic of it all.
Blushing, woozy with fore-knowledge of the sickness I will feel later at having been so easily suborned, I make myself straighten, consider my posture, work to improve it— flex my hips, shoulders back, breasts forward, and them, hating myself, doing as R likes me to, advertising my willingness to have my mouth invaded, inviting them, I push out my pink tongue, let my jaw drop, put my hands behind my back, linking the bracelets, hearing them snikk together,, feeling yet another dam breaking inside me, another defence destroyed, another red line crossed.
They are laughing again, and I feel my cheeks get hot, but there is nothing at all that I can do about any of that, not now; I just have to hold on, and try not to let despair overwhelm my ability to give them what they want of me.
I am shaking, each breath a tight, catching moan, raw and desperate sounding; a sound I would dearly love to suppress, but cannot.
“So, pretty, here’s how it’s going to go. If we’re to forgive you for your lapse— rather than violently punish you for it— you’re going to have to convince each one of us that you really, really want to be given the chance to make it up to us.”
“Starting with Jakey, here— come around Jakey— you’re going to kiss him, all sexy like, and tell him just how sorry you are, how eager you are to make amends, how good you’ll be to his cock, tell him with your words, but with your body too, and with your mouth in particular, since that’s the hole you’re wanting him to use.”
“But right now, nobody would want to kiss you— mouth full of dirty scum water, plus leftover spunk from three different guys, all dried up by running in those heels. I think you need a little mouthwash.”
He steps forward, a shiny silver flask in his hand, releasing the cap, then grabs a handful of my hair, yanks my head backwards, hard, and forces the spout between my lips; some strong, harsh tasting liquor has me coughing and snorting, but he just forces another dose into me, holds my head back so I can’t spit it out, waits until I manage to calm myself, pointing out to the others how my breasts move above the corset when I cough, running the cold metal curve of the flask along my tenderised pussy lips, making them laugh.
And I take it. I take it and try— try my poor, desperate best to smile at him when he releases me, to nod my head, shamefully meek, when he teases me with;
“All better, now?”
It is such a feeling, to be naked in front of these men, to be offering myself as a sexual plaything, to keep my thighs parted, my lips parted, to be thinking about how my breasts are moving for them; to be letting myself be— no, more— to be offering myself as— their toy, without reserve; wanting— no, needing them— to understand that I want to please them, that I understand myself to be subject to their whims, that I know I must please them or suffer; that I am not fighting it— not any more.
To be naked, cuffed, outside, in this dismal yard, defenceless, helpless, frightened, panicky … and at the same time knowing that, if I let myself, I can get turned on, can invite the part of me that has watched too much violent porn, that has learned to like R to fuck me as if I was nothing but a sex doll, trained myself to respond to that, learned to love to respond to that— that I can let that part of me get turned on now.
To realise that there is no longer any resentment, any anger in me at being treated this way— that I have accepted their power over me, their rights over my body, have accepted that I need to work to please them.
It is quite something to be this girl, bravely trying to smile through the tears the coughing has brought on, the fiery liquor burning still in my throat.
It is quite something to know that I have agreed to be this girl, forever. Quite hard to contain the intensity of the emotions that chasing each other through me, one after the other.
The only way out is to forget me, and concentrate on them. It’s so much simpler. Concentrate on their pleasure, making them happy, concentrate on getting myself fucked, and to make myself really smile (appear to really smile), since he was looking at me, wanting a proper answer, and hear my voice, husky and rough and full of confused emotion; to hear myself say, meek and eager to please;
“Yes. Yes .. Sir; thank you, Sir.”
And quite something too, to find it so terribly, shamefully rewarding to receive even a brief half smile and a casual nod in return; an affirmation of a kind, however curt; to feel a rush of relief and gratitude in me for such a small, cheap thing; to know that it feels huge to me; to know that I will work for more of that; work hard, work carefully, even … even at this business of becoming a dirty, degraded whore, if only I can get a tiny scrap of that, just occasionally; to know that he isn’t really approving of me; that he’s just a trainer, like the man who had trained my dog for me; the spaniel I’d given up because R had asked me to; to know that I’m being trained like that, with just enough reward, doled out to manipulate me, just when it will have the most impact; to know that it will work; more, that I am so, so desperate for even small scraps of humanity that I will work with him, even though I know what he is doing to me;
I see then that he is not just a cocky upstart, a crude and grinning rapist, as he lifts my chin, looking into my eyes, grinning broadly at me, and I know that he knows some of what has just been in my head; that he knows he has done something to me, something that has taken me yet further down, and I cannot suppress a pathetic and very obvious quivery wriggle then, like a puppy which fully control its emotions, as I realise that he understands me very well, that I am in his hands, that he has the measure of me, and that I canot deny to myself that it is a good feeling— however frightening— a good feeling to know that I am going to be trained by someone who is a professional, who knows how I work.
A professional whose job is to train me to be an immaculately eager and compliant sex slave for a rich and powerful sadist, a man who is a virtual stranger to me, whom I gave myself to with an hour of meeting him, who had me violently gang-raped in a public alley an hour later.
It really was quite something, to kneel there in a dirty yard, naked, thighs splayed, tits offered, holding myself as provocatively as I could. Quite something, to have it open and understood between us— the foolish, naked slut and the professional sex slave trainer— to acknowledge that I will help him do this to me.
The quiver took me again, then, took a real hold of me, and I let it; let them all see it, let them see me letting it have me; hear me whimper, see how weak I was, let them see it pass through me, my hips and breasts moving, helplessly, eye-catching, obvious, until it passed, then made myself attend to my pose; reset myself, for them, settled; accepting; in my place.
All better, as he had said, because I had accepted my defeat, accepted him as having control of me, accepted that he would manipulate me, and that I would lean in to those manipulations, that he would find me as easy to manage, as easy to mold as a puppy.
It was terrible; a searing, gut-wrenching defeat, an eternally shameful thing to have allowed. And it was such a relief to have been defeated. I was lost; lost forever; but I would be taken somewhere by someone who knew what he was doing. Better to be taken somewhere dread where there were people that might value you for something— even as a sex-toy— better than to be lost, abandoned, adrift, alone.
He grins again, self-satisfied;
“Just so, little girl; off you go, now; give yourself to Jakey, give him everything; get him hot for you, so he knows he can push you to your knees and let you lick his cock and you’ll do everything you can to make it good for him, just like you do for R. Should be easy, for a slut like you.”
Oh, but thinking about it and actually doing it are such different things. I manage to start walking, somehow, and then, quite quickly, something takes over, and it becomes inevitable. Walking toward him, I can only manage tiny steps, and my chest heaves with emotion; this, this, now, is truly becoming a whore— working hard to get a strange man, for whom I feel no attraction, no kindness, no interest ; a man who has raped me violently, hurt me, beaten me, laughed at my despair— working to make such a man want me, to walk, as best I can manage, with a sexy swing to my hips.
Then, hands locked behind me, to walk right up to him, carefully, thoughtfully, press my nakedness against his jeans, his hoody, making myself mold my soft flesh into his hard muscle and bone, open my thighs and slowly work my hips to grind my sex into the rough fabric of his jeans, then tilt my head back and seek his lips with mine— this man who has had me grovelling at his knees in a filthy puddle, forced me to beg him to hurt my breasts as the price of being raped rather than thrashed— this man is just one— the first of three, to whom I must offer my lips, carefully soft, submissive, entreating him to let me show him just how docile I have become, how willing to demean myself for him, while the others watch, and are not shy about commenting on my performance.
He plays with me a little; moving his head from side to side, making me follow him, and it’s mean, and degrading, and suddenly I really give in to it, feeling a wave of heat come over me at the same moment. I’m their whore. They’ve been given the right to use me, and they’ve enforced that right, violently, defeated me, then shown me, viscerally, just how dependent I am on them, and … and it’s their right to have me, just as they want me, and I want to give them their rights, and I become soft, and warm, and melt against him, and smile, weak, acknowledging that he is teasing me, playing with me, acknowledging that I am powerless, naked, cuffed, willingly submissive, and he laughs at me— the others too— clearly, the change that has come over me is visible— and then he leans in and kisses me, hard, and I give myself to the kiss, give him my mouth, and I’m suddenly so hot for him that it makes me cry and shiver, all the emotions of the rape, the panic of the run making themselves felt in my neediness, as I surge against him, suddenly as urgent as I have ever been with R, holding in my mind the idea that the others are watching me, will be expecting the same of me, simultaneously dying inside and revelling in the abandon of it, hearing myself whisper to him;
“Please … please, may I … may I clean your cock for you, S-Sir? I … I’m sorry I didn’t do it before and … and I promise I’ll make it good for you, please?”
Gods but I like myself saying that to him; there are tears in my eyes, but I’m losing myself in the heat now as his hands are in my hair, pushing me down, then his cock is free and I’m on my knees in the filth, hands cuffed behind me, and making myself pretend he’s R, so that I can overcome the wave of panic that rises up in me at the idea that I’m really doing this, and then it’s too late, his cock is in my mouth, my tongue is exploring him, soft, gentle, learning him, tasting him, and myself, the taste of his rape of me, and I manage something that works for him, feel his stiffness surge, his vein throb, his hand pull in my hair and I’m his, working at him now, knowing that he has it in him to fuck my throat again, and wanting him to want it, giving him everything I can, using my skills, this time, rather than simply being pile-driver throat-fucked as before, and he lets me do it my way, doesn’t pull out to come on my face, but instead grabs my head with both hands as if trying to push his cockhead through the back of my neck, so forceful is he, and I go with it, offering myself, happy; happy for a moment, at least, to have made him make those incoherent noises, to have called me a “dirty … fucking … BITCH!” as he jerked himself deep inside me.
The shame creeps up on me as I kneel there, cleaning up the new stickiness as best I can, hearing him joking with the others about how quickly he has tamed me, feeling my breasts sway, my hips move, knowing I have to try and give myself to each of the others now, as deeply as I have given myself to Jakey, a dark chasm of fear opening up in me at what I must become to live like this, at the knowledge that they are finding their work easy.
That I am easy. An easy woman.
That I have not been fully tamed, though, becomes clear when I present myself to the black guy, whose name I have not heard; the shame cannot be suppressed, nor the fear, and, although I try my best with him, I am shaking and crying, as I lean into his body, as I offer him my apologies, my promise of service, as I open my mouth to kiss him. I know I am failing, failing him, failing myself, I suppose, but I cannot control myself, until he throws me off, unsatisfied with my efforts, though not angry— laughing in fact;
“Little slut needs to build some stamina now that she’s no longer a one man girly!”
He squats down to where I have fallen, my hands painfully beneath me, and pulls me up by my ears, squealing, doing my best to please him, until I am on my knees, face to face with him, and he’s talking to me, almost gentle, almost kind;
“We know, pretty— we know; what we’re asking of you is hard; hard and cruel, we know. But we aren’t going to stop asking it of you. You did well with Jakey, then, really well, and in time, I reckon you’ll get it— that you won’t just be another sad reject.”
“Look at me— look at me now; I know D doesn’t want you looking at men like an equal, but there are no illusions between us, are there, pussy? You’re a naked slut cunt, cuffed and on your knees, and I’m a free man. You’re looking to me as the man who will be breaking you, and you know it— so I doubt you are at all confused about who is superior here, so look at me while I give you some important news— let me see in your eyes that it is sinking in.”
“It’s OK. That’s the news. The truth is that even the best girls, most completely broken girls aren’t always fully into it— sometimes what is demanded of them is just too much, or at the wrong time, or they’re caught by surprise, not ready. What those girls do— what they have learned to do— what you will have to learn to do, is to fake it. That doesn’t mean you’ll fool us. It just means that we can see that you are pushing yourself to the max, even though we’re breaking your heart. You see, we enjoy that, too— watching you break your heart; you giving yourself fully even though you can’t bear it.”
“So, I want you to try again, now. Try for me, give yourself to me even though you can’t feel anything but pain and shame and fear. Give yourself to me beautifully, give yourself to me completely. One thing might help; it’s ok if you want to cry while you do me— as long as you make yourself smile a little, as long as you don’t sob, as long as it doesn’t stop you doing what you know you have to, I’m going to be OK with tears.”
“But there’s something you’re going to have to to endure, first, since you failed me. John’s going to give you a few with the belt, across your arse; and you— you’re going to hold your position, keep your arse up in the air, keep still for him, until he’s done, and then, when he says so, you can come to me again, and do it right, even though you feel like giving up. But you won’t give up, because you will know that the next thrashing is going to be twice as bad.”
“OK? OK? You good with that? You going to try, pretty girl? You going to try for me?”
He’s right; my heart is breaking. It seems that it is never too broken to be smashed all over again. But there is something in his soft, gravel-pit deep tones that is reassuring— insane to allow someone who can say such words to me to reassure me— but there it is; he has convinced me that it is worth trying to please him, worth taking the pain that is coming. It is terrible, but being offered such cruel, heartless guidance feels like human kindness at this point, and I smile at him through my tears, just as he had told me I must, making a small nodding movement. I’ve said yes to being beaten, said yes to giving him my best efforts, putting my body at his service, even though I am dying inside.
He holds my shoulders as John (I know another name now, somehow this, too, feels like treasure, so low have I sunk) beats me with his belt— more shocking than painful, but painful enough to have me yelping.
Then he stands, backs away from me, to sit on an old packing crate, and, after one last zinger that forces a sob from me, which I instantly work to suppress, John says;
“OK, pretty, off you go, try again. And then, of course, it will be my turn, so show me what you can do, pretty; show me what you can do.”
It is, to begin with, unbearably hard— John’s final blow had been harder than the others, hard enough to spark some righteous resentment, which I had actively to squash, which costs me dear, so that it is with a bitter taste in my mouth that I make myself smile again for the black guy as I step in toward him for the second time, feeling his hands taking me, my nakedness, opening my legs to sit onto his lap as he shows me he wants me, my chest heaving with conflicting emotions, and I lean in to offer him my lips (he already has a hand on my breast, moulding and kneading it softly. His other hand is holding my sex, as if of right, utterly uninhibited, and the tears run free as I make my thighs open for him, push myself onto his invading fingers, as I receive his hot tongue into my mouth, as I make myself move for him as if I wanted this, as if I was hot for him).
He is gentle with me, not rough, and responds to my movements, paying attention, making it a strange dance— where one partner is acting as if she is aroused and desire-filled, when in fact she is wondering why she can’t break out of this nightmare, and the other partner is acting as if he were a gentle, caring lover, when in fact he is a paid sadist, working to trap the girl even further in the snare she has been helping to construct for herself.
And it works; although I am sexually cold, it is the submission to his will, to the circumstances, to my fate which has me able to stay soft for him, open to him, which makes my kiss real, all the fear and stress and pain and shame seemingly resolvable if I just— if I just submit, give in, be what he wants of me, or at least appear to be what he wants of me— the open, eager whore, the slut for whom it makes sense to writhe against his heavy, solid body, to thrust herself against the hand between her legs, the stranger’s fingers working working inside her sex.
My tears still fall, for I am deeply, deeply emotional about this willing surrender, but I find it entirely possible to make my mouth smile at him, as his fingers move inside me, and look up at him and ask him, in a halting, wondering voice, whether he will grant me permission to lick his cock clean. I’m trembling with intensity at this, even though it’s not sexual, until I suddenly discover that it has become so; that the quivering, the hand in my pussy, the other on my breasts, the warmth of the kiss, are real for me now, and the tears flow more freely as the shame hits me at how easily I have been taken, how helplessly I am responding, how complicit I have been in whoring myself.
The shame inflicts a terrible, crushing shyness as, sinking to my knees between his thighs, I lean in, arms still cuffed behind my back, to seek out his thick, semi-erect cock between his thighs. It is as if I have never done this before, as if I have no idea what to do, as if I am an inexperienced teen again, such is the gaping emotional vulnerability his manipulation of me has exposed. But there is nothing, nothing to do but go with the flow, and, weak almost to the point of collapse, I let him guide my head in, and take him into my mouth, as far as I can, with the same softness he had used with me, trembling, tears still coming, knowing I want to please him, want him to get hard for me, but finding myself gripped by nerves, so that all my movements are small, weak. He helps me again, then, taking my head in his hands and beginning to move it in time with movement of his hips, slowly, gently, beginning to fuck my mouth, and I’m grateful. Pathetically grateful to this slick emotional manipulator, this cruel trickster, for saving me from failure, and I make myself look up, and into his eyes, wanting to show him my gratitude, my weakness.
His easy, contemptuous grin dashes me on the rocks again, makes it doubly clear that he knows just what he has done to me, but this time there is nothing but submission left, and I move for him, abjectly compliant, working to try to move just as I hope he intends, to serve his now stiffening cock, feeling like a little girl, wanting only his approval, his care, his control, to make everything alright, and when he announces;
“I’m going to put this in your tight little ass now, princess”, there is nothing but acceptance and weak fear as I let him position me, face down over the crate, splinters scratching at my breasts and belly, and then, with nothing but the moisture of my pussy smeared from his hand as lubricant, he begins to push himself into me.
I squeal, and buck and pant (appalled at making it so obvious just what I am going through, but I cannot, simply cannot control myself), but I don’t pull away from him, and I tilt my hips for him as often, and as much as it takes, for him to gradually force himself inside my poor little backside, for I am lost, now, lost in a fog of helpless compliance, and when he puts his hand on my pussy and says, very simply;
“Get me off, now, princess,” I move my hips, exaggeratedly, making up for his deliberate stillness as I fuck my ass onto his cock, making sure to push myself hard against him, to take his full length into me, then pull back again, over and over, knowing the others are watching me, knowing they can hear the shameful, weak, gasping moans that come from me whether I want them to or not, the tears slowing now, as I concentrate, concentrate on interpreting the signals from his body, from his hands, from his voice, letting those guide me as to what is working for him or not, using my own sexual heat to drive my service to him, now, just as I have learned to do for R, my eyes closing now as I work for him, so that it is a total surprise when hands lift my head, a thumb pushes into my mouth from one side, wedging my jaw open, and a cock-head presents itself to my lips, presenting me with a shocking novelty.
Of course, R has had me look at porn where girls have taken two, three, and even four cocks at the same time, and D just a few hours ago, had told me this would happen, but never had I prepared myself for the reality of such a thing— except that now, here it is; and it is also, I discover, completely, appallingly, unacceptable. The reaction is visceral, uncontrollable, instinctive, and violent as my whole body simply rejects the possibility that this can be done to me. I wrench my face away, letting out a shriek, shaking my head, wild; and then I reap the whirlwind. The black guy’s strong hands take full control of my body, and suddenly it’s him that’s fucking me, not me moving my hips, and he’s fucking me hard, driving into my backside, hammering me, and John, with one hand hard in my hair, has wedged the awful ring gag behind my teeth and he’s raping my face again.
It seems to take forever, but also it runs together into one single scene of me being jerked about by two hard, rhythmic fuckings, simply being used, until first John, then the black guy, grunt as they squirt themselves inside me and step back, leaving me squeaking and sobbing and thrashing, hysterical again, sounding more pathetic than ever through what the ring gag does to my mouth.
That is cut short, dramatically, by a splashing of the spirits from John’s flask into my face, and by being pulled right up by my hair, swing around and placed, on my knees, back in the dirt, being slapped hard— backwards first, then, harder, forwards.
“Cleaning time, pretty”
John steps behind me and the black guy just pushes his cock into the hole that the ring gag makes of my mouth, waggles it around a little, then pulls out, swapping positions and handhold with John, who does the same. No real cleaning happens, but it seems honour is satisfied as they high five each other and zip up.
“Nice one Denver— you really had the bitch going there— she won’t forget that in a hurry.”
I’m broken, desperate, panting, pathetically grateful to have the ring removed from my mouth, totally submissive, terrified, not daring to move, despite some sharp agony in my knees from whatever it was under them.
John drops to his knees, his voice normal again, holds my head, gently enough;
“You did well, pretty— very well— three more doses of come for you, that’s what I call productivity. You’re a hot little fuck, for sure, girly, and proving very biddable, too. I think you’ll be a pushover; easy work. Not that we’ll let up on you, mind— just means we can push you further, and faster, down the road. Going to be fun, ruining your world, as I said before.”
“Now, clean yourself up again. The van is just around the corner, so you’ll need your little cape again, and your face— let’s just say its a mess, shall we?”
Laughter all round as he smears sticky drops of come across my cheek, still tender from the slap.
Fishing in the carrier bag produces no wipes— all used up, but there are scraps of my lovely dress, which I had been so happy with this morning, and Jakey has a half bottle of drinking water. A broken shard of mirror propped on the crate, and I’m on automatic pilot, my hands jittery, heart pattering, head full of the knowledge that, if they hadn’t finished with me when they did, I would have been working myself towards an earthquake of an orgasm. For, once the reality of two cocks moving in me had become a thing, I had discovered that they had taken me past all limits, that I had become pure need, pure urgency, pure hunger, overwhelmed by the fact of being used like that, lost in the frenzy of it, the dirtiness of it. I have been fucked by two men— two rapists— and I nearly came because of it. I wanted to come because of it. I still want to come.
The knowledge half horrifies me, half exalts me. I can feel like that! They’ll do it to me again— I’m going to get to feel that again. I’m breathless with the contradiction of it, the shame and the wonder of it, the shock of my certainty that I want it, the dirtiness of it.
The next hour is like a dream, one of those ones where you find yourself moving from one scene to another, almost without reacting; just one thing, then another, then another, stranger and stranger; completely without agency, but subject to all the emotions resulting from the weirdness, all turned up to 11 on the dial, exhausting and debilitating.
Putting on the cape, them telling me to count to sixty before I come out of the yard, the desperation as I try to I figure out which way they have gone, the heart-stopping sensation of walking, trotting, naked in a public street again, the awful vulnerability of it, the neediness, the fear when I lose sight of them, the relief of a final turn into a normal, clean, functional underground parking space— a small, private one; the black people-carrier with smoky windows, the side door— most of the seats removed, a bench running fore and aft in the centre. On my back on the bench, black silk bag over my head, arms and legs tied with straps leading up and into the corners of the van, so that I was spreadeagled, my back on the bench, John explaining how all my holes were conveniently at ‘cock-height’. The drive through the city, my head lolling back, John playing with my body, putting his fingers in my mouth, then my pussy, then my asshole, showing me how open I was. Not cruel, not laughing, just matter of fact. Then stopping, released, given a large grey raincoat to put on, a shawl to cover my mussed hair, and then walking, surreally, to my own front door, up the stair, to the apartment door, and in. The three of them, my rapists, in my apartment, the raincoat stripped from me.
They have me, up, kneeling on the small dining table, while John tells me what I need to know.
“We have keys to this place. You’ll be ready, every morning at 6:30am— every single morning— ready with coffee, rolls, pastries, bacon, scrambled egg. Naked apart from heels, corset, stockings, garter belt, choker, pussy freshly shaved, immaculately presented— hair shining, make-up perfect— the works. You’ll have the door half open. One or more of us will come and you’ll serve breakfast. Then you’ll be tied up and whipped until you lose control— made to scream and cry and beg; to become pathetic, despairing. Sometimes other things. But that will be the way of it, every day, until Lord D says otherwise. There’ll be some changes made with this place, too, some you’ll notice, others you won’t.”
“And that’s it. We’ll see you tomorrow. Make yourself beautiful for us. Maybe we hurt sexy, sweet girls less. Or maybe it gets us hot and we hurt them more? Who knows? In any case, we’ll be keeping score as to how much effort you make, and a low grade effort score will turn into extra pain. Goodnight, little slut, see you in the morning.”
