Read the earlier parts of Sophia’s story before this.
Caught up in the extremity of her orgasm, she didn’t want it to end, desperately striving to prolong the waves of intensity, not to have to think, to face the reality of what she had just helped him do to her. Of what she had just done to herself.
It had been a standing tease between them for some time; he would say to her, after sex, when she would rub herself against him, against his hands on her body, still trembling, aching with the aftermath of intensity; he would say to her; You’re becoming addicted to me; and all because of these orgasms. That’s all you really want me for.
And she would giggle, and blush, and squirm, but at the same time she would arch her back as his hand grasped her sex, smoothly enough, but very directly controlling and invasive, and she would be thrusting herself hard against him, equally obviously; unable to speak, because what he said was at least partly true.
Oh, there were many things which she saw in him; he was a remarkable man in many ways. But it was the sex she dreamed about, the fucking she had missed when he had travelled away on business, when he had not found time to see her.
But then, that terrible, overwhelming orgasm, which had unravelled her, so that as it ebbed away she felt as if what was left behind was ruination, that she was having to remake herself from the wreckage, become a new Sophia; a Sophia who had driven herself to a shameful, hurting, crying, devastating orgasm for the entertainment of her rapist, and who knew that she would want to do it again; again and again; who knew she was grateful, who had once again had to accept that she had been shown something true about herself, something deep and dark and dirty, something which further diminished any claim she might have to be respected.
She knew, too— was certain of it, knowing him— that he had seen it; seen just how it was with her as she had, at the end, abandoned all restraint, all dignity, had found a way to have the pain, the shame, the cruelty, the fear and despair all feed her climax.
Knowing that he knew that about her made it certain that his appalling opinion of her as ripe for the condition of a slave; a sex-slave, to him and his … his gang of rapists … that his judgement must have been confirmed.
It became too much, the sensation of being torn apart inside by forces that were stronger than herself, stronger than me, even though they’re inside me, and tears overtook her— almost a pleasure, a blessed relief, at first, to allow herself to dissolve, to let go— but then, very quickly, it became uncontrollable, as deep, painful, wracking sobs took her, her shoulders shaking with the violence of them, wailing; an agony of shame and terrible distress demanding to have its way with her; she could not control herself, no matter that he hated crying.
His response, though, was masterful; even as he gently but firmly scooped her up, one arm around her waist, the other gathering her legs, to curl her against his chest; as he lifted her and turned to himself sit down into the heavy old chair; even as she gave herself into his warmth, his strength, the calm certainty of his hold, she knew that he was holding her, caring for her simply as a possession; that she was letting him have her in that way; that there was no love, no compassion in his embrace, only self interest and manipulation.
And still, still, she let him do it; gave herself to it, to him; gave herself in to his control.
In hindsight, it seemed always curious, that it was not the horrific driving of so many sharp steel pins into her most sensitive parts, nor the violent rape, but rather that act of comfort, of acceptance of her thrashing and crying, his patience as she beat at him weakly with her fists, covered his shirt with tears and the mucous which ran from her nose; that it was the way he had helped her to eventual peace, some long and terrible while later; that it was that act of apparent kindness which had confirmed in her soul that he did not care about her; that he had never cared about her; that, right from the start, he had identified her simply as a candidate for entrapment, as vulnerable, as prey.
As nothing more than cunt.
Curled in his arms, desperate, naked, lost, devastated, despairing; crying as if there could be no end to crying, letting him hold her, giving herself into his hold, accepting his warmth, his strength, his gentleness, his patience, she had had to accept, deep inside herself, that, she really was nothing more than ‘pretty cunt’ to him.
Complex, fickle, weak and confused cunt, surely still— not by any means ‘secured’— and thus requiring attention, care and sensitive treatment such as this perfectly judged holding— but nevertheless cunt, interesting only as a creature to be manipulated into slavery, into abandonment of herself into the control of subtle and savage abusers.
To realise that there was no outrage in her, no anger, no bitterness, even, at these dire thoughts was deeply disturbing. Somehow,though, it all made sense, seemed reasonable even— at the least straightforwardly justifiable; she was weak, she was vulnerable, sexually needy at the same time as being inexperienced; she had allowed herself, indeed almost launched herself into her addiction to sex with him. She had read the book, responded to it; she had cut her pretty clothes to pieces to present herself as a bimbo.
He had judged her correctly: It makes perfect sense for him to see nothing but cunt when he looks at me.
She was weirdly filled with respect for him, and— even more weirdly— felt some kind of pride in herself at these thoughts.
When, as she was still sobbing, the hand under her had worked its way towards, pushed fingers directly into her sex, she did not resist. Instead, shamefully, weak, slavish, she shifted herself to aid him in invading her there again.
He never saw me as anything but a girl he wanted to do this to; a girl he could bring along like this, to offer to his gang; to treat as cunt; to rape and hurt and shame at will. For simple pleasure; nothing more.
These thoughts were, bizarrely, those which helped her calm herself, as his fingers worked inside her sex, triggering real pain from her swollen clitoris, the pins still in her labia, pain which she suffered greatly from, but felt no resentment about, only soft, weak regret, humiliation at her weakness.
Regret, because he was right; I am, I have been, probably always will be weak, a needy slut, just as he judged I would be. There is, powerfully, within me, that which could accept this; which could abandon Sophia, poor little Sophia, to this terrifying future. More; could find some weird, insane pride in being made to be as O became; a nameless, degraded whore.
It was surreal, to have such thoughts in her head, to be thinking them without strong emotion, without either horror or revulsion; rather, almost to be enjoying the sensation of imagining herself as nothing; nothing but a whore, owned by strangers who would rape and abuse her forever.
Stranger still, when he shifted, straightened his back, let her head fall away from his chest, so that she was looking up at him; it was, truly, stranger to see the ugly face of a man she liked, found herself smiling for; a tiny, quavering smile, for sure; a smile full of doubt and shame and weakness, but a smile which expressed her need to have him know that she accepted him; that she accepted what he had done to her, accepted how he thought of her, accepted that he wanted to do terrible things to her, that there were inside her nothing but good feelings toward him, the man who had destroyed her.
His answering smile made it clear that she had not given him anything with her smile; that he took it as merely an expression of her understanding of reality. He was not in the slightest grateful, simply satisfied, his certainties affirmed.
And when he leaned down to her, she had lifted herself toward him, opened her mouth to him, let him kiss her, even as his hand thrust even more deeply, greedily, into her sex, hurting her tongue and her pussy both (each still pierced with cruel pins). She had, too, opened her thighs for him, angled her hips, had kissed him back, though it brought a flush of new tears to her eyes. Tears, but no more sobs.
It felt right.
A helpless sexy toy; an eager, sweet and accepting plaything.
The words appeared in her mind, bringing both more tears and a simultaneous surge of warmth in her chest; a feeling indistinguishable from happiness, even though it was not possible that she could be happy.
“Just so, little cunt. Just so.”
“You should know, perhaps, that you are even more beautiful than before, with that knowledge in your eyes, in your body. Your vulnerability, your availability, your helpless acknowledgement, all add to your value. The others will see it too; I feel sure that they will want you— that you will be ours.”
“I don’t mind telling you that I am enjoying this very much indeed; ripping away your pretty dreams, showing how things really are, seeing that reality in your eyes; the pain, the fear, the shame; that you don’t fight; don’t even want to fight. Knowing that I have been privileged to have been able to do this to such a sweet and lovely creature as yourself; all this is a rare and special thing; it can only experienced once with each girl, after all.”
“I won’t thank you, pretty, because in reality, you did nothing; thus far, in your ignorance, you have done as you pleased, for your own reasons, thinking that you were pleasing yourself, so that there is nothing to thank you for. It is only now, now that you understand— a very little, at least— about what is going on here— only now that you can make choices which mean something.”
“And still, for those choices, when they are made, as they will be, I am sure of it; as you give us more and more of your life, of your freedom, for those choices there will be no thanks either. For as you make those choices, they become immediately our due. When a cunt chooses to diminish itself, no gratitude is required. Indeed, it is rather the other way around, since the cunt has absolved itself of a responsibility, and placed the burden of choice onto another. That those who will make choices for her will make them entirely selfishly, with cruel intent, is beside the point.”
“It will be hard for you, pretty Sophia. Very hard; unimaginably terrible in fact, to give yourself into our hands. But I have no doubt you will do it. Not after that orgasm, not after that pretty, sad smile, not after that surrender of a kiss.”
Powerful emotions gripped her, though she could not have named them, and her chest rose and fell as her breathing became heavy, disordered, her heart likewise thudding wildly, all rhythm gone. But she let his eyes keep hers, even though her smile had faded.
How was it that such terrible words, such heartless intentions had her swooning, so that the moment was a hundred, a thousand times more more certain to remain with her all her life, more than any other. She had thought something similar when Adrian had proposed to her, but this was as a starburst to a candle. The tears were gone; she was seized by a strange intensity, powerfully shaped by the grip of his hand in her sex, his thumb mashed into her tender clitoris, throbbing with pain, her hips thrusting at him— not for her own pleasure, but to give herself to his depredations more fully— the hurt, the knowledge that she had been so intimately and forcefully invaded, was possessed by him in that way all part of it.
I am offering myself up for destruction.
The unbidden thought intensified things still further, reverberating in her mind ever more intensely, until she broke, unable to sustain herself; her eyes closed, her whole body winced as she curled in on herself again, shutting down, her chest heaving uncontrollably, seemingly at random as she could do no more than wait for her body to process, to deal with the emotional rip-tide.
His patience was again weakly, needily accepted, again an obvious expression of his total dominance, rescuing her and cementing her weakness at the same time, his lazy, selfish manipulations at her pussy never ceasing.
Recovery was faster than before, though; something inside her was unwilling to test his patience, to court displeasure, and that time, she controlled herself, forced herself to calm down, made herself look up at him, made herself smile— an even more broken, sad version of her normal smile, but it made him grin. His voice was softer that time, even than it had been before, almost a caress; the intimacy of it sharpening the pain of his heartlessness;
“Just so again, pretty; you understand a litte more all the time, it seems.”
She felt herself blench, but managed to keep smiling. Why did he have to be so relentless, so punishingly specific?
She knew the answer, understood it implicitly. That there must be no letup; that since this turn of events had been so sudden, so unimagined— indeed unimaginable until only a short while ago, he needed to be consistent, pressing forward constantly, to deny her the slightest wriggle room…
“But we’re not finished yet; there is more, much more to come this evening. Cunt has three holes. For an effective initiation, all must be violated.”
Read the next part of Sophia’s Story.
