Read the earlier parts of Sophia’s story before this.


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.

Yet again, Sophia found herself stunned into passivity by the horrible contrast between the brutal words and his steady, everyday voice; firm and deep-toned, yes, but calm and— honestly— gentle in its character.

It was as if she had become paralysed; even her smile stayed as it had been, while the ugliness, the mechanistic callousness of what he had said to her lodged like a jagged rock at the base of her throat, then expanding, tearing at her trembling but otherwise rigid body. Tears wanted to come but could not, pleas for mercy needed to be made, but there was no way she could speak as she stared, fixated, into his steady, mild eyes, as he watched her; crazy, that his expression radiated concern, empathy, interest.

And it was true, she learned from repeated experience; he was indeed most interested, most attentive, most seriously concerned to understand her feelings when he was being cruel to her, when he was degrading her, actively seeing to it that her selfhood was being assaulted, damaged; when she was being diminished, when an irretrievable defeat was being imposed upon her. From this understanding she learned, over time, to anticipate his cruelties a little; something hard to bear often followed after she happened to catch him looking at her in that way.

It was hard to admit to herself, but unmissable once it had been recognised, that the frisson of terror which would come upon her once she had seen that look had a remarkable degree of overlap with the shivery, delicious anticipations which built in her during sexual foreplay.

“I’d like you to ask for it. Ask to be violated. Ask for your mouth and your ass to be raped.”

She considered it evidence for madness, but it felt almost luxurious, delicious, being abused, being terrorised, being debased in such a masterful way; being manipulated so casually, yet so powerfully, so that each time it seemed unimaginable that she would not submit, not give herself to him, not make it easy for him to do these terrible things to her.

It was only a couple of hours— less, probably— since she had asked him to hurt her and shame her. Had she known just what that would mean; how hard, how cruel, how destructive his treatment of her was going to be, would she have asked for it?

If given the chance to go back, free herself, not to have become the girl who had allowed her lover to push sharp metal pins into her sex, her nipples, her tongue, suffered a cruel rape, been pushed into a humiliating masturbation— if she could undo all that, would she?

He is so patient with me; so accepting of my inability to cope. He’s not pressuring me in the slightest, just watching and interested; it is really true; I could tell him ‘No’, right now, and he would let me go. Help me to go, still be my friend and lover afterward. I believe it.

The taste, the opportunity to be let go, to have the threat of violation of her mouth, her near virgin ‘other hole’ removed (she was unable to say its name to herself, even in the privacy of her mind) … it was so desirable, so obviously what she wanted; an escape from this degraded state, naked and trembling in his arms, frightened, ashamed, horribly aware of her appearance, disfigured by the pins still stuck into her, stained with snot and dried tears and smeared makeup, come and blood, distraught, in turmoil …

Surely?

No! No! it makes no sense. It’s crazy.

Why is he smiling at me?

For indeed his lips had slowly, lazily formed themselves into a soft and complacent smile, which seemed to Sophia to radiate warmth, to add to, reinforce, make real that sensation of being so carefully, so perfectly held, understood, encompassed— that feeling which his question had brought on, so that …

Oh. Oh God. He knows. He already knows.

And suddenly, the paralysis had lifted, and her chest, which had been so stiff and tight, had heaved wildly as she took a great, ragged in-breath, noisy, her whole body quivering as she did the terrible thing which he had known, before she had allowed herself to know, that she would do (or had it rather been his smile which had tipped her over the edge?).

Something, something had rekindled the fire in her which had, only a few days ago, prompted her to beg him to name some special thing which she could do for him, something significant, meaningful— the plea which had prompted him to buy her the book, and, through the twists and turns of his manipulative conversation led up to that moment, that decision to ask him to hurt her, and thence to this moment, when he wanted her to ask him to rape her and violate her, in ways which must surely cause her terrible distress.

Perhaps it was his smile which had fanned the flames, so that, suddenly feeling as if she were indeed on fire, in a frenzy of desire to give him everything, anything he wanted, the only thing she could give him, in order to deserve that feeling, of being perfectly, immaculately managed, owned, ordained. To feel almost impossibly special. To be released from everything. Freed, by giving herself away.

It made no sense, but it was the only thing which made any sense of her doing it, of what she had already done, permitted, asked for; so that she held to it, as if it would be enough to get her through what was to come (even though every part of her knew that more would be taken from her than she could possibly give, ever recover from);

Her voice was shaky, overwrought, husky, but she looked him directly in the eyes (which itself cost her dear, so full of confusion and raging emotions as she was), and she made it very definite, so that there could be no doubt in his mind what she wanted;

“Thank … thank you. Please … I … I want you to … to … violate … me. Rape me. Rape my … my mouth and … and my … my ass … hole.”

He had held her gaze, then, for a long, long moment, watching her, his grin gone, his face blank for the longest while. She was trembling, unbelieving, appalled at what she had just done, paralysed again, until, slowly, his smile had returned, stronger, harder, his eyes narrowing, and then, as earlier, things had begun to move very quickly.

Taking a firm grasp of a handful of her hair, close to the scalp at the top, then loosening his other arm’s hold on her body, he had simply stood up, tipping her from his lap so that she had landed in a tumble, half on her knees, her head forced up, its position dictated by his grip. When he immediately took a couple of steps forward, she was reduced to pathetic scrabbling, naked on the floor, in order not to have her neck wrenched or her hair torn from her head, making ridiculous little squeaks and wails and gasps, sounding like a child or an animal, trying to keep up with him.

He was not in the least careful with her, and she was immediately filled with shock and distress, already painfully regretting her stupidity, knowing though that there would be no mercy, until he was done. Knowing that she deserved no mercy. Grateful, at some deeper level, for that door to be closed to her; he would enforce her consent without relent. She had no choices, then, except in so far as she chose to make it easy for him to destroy her.

What had he said? Cunt has no initiative.

Everything felt bitter, then; bitter and frightening and despairing. It was truly awful to be naked, dragged around on the floor by her hair by a fully clothed older man who gave her less consideration than he would a sack of potatoes. Her hands wanted to defend her, pull at his hand in her hair, beat on his legs— anything, to signal that she could not bear to be treated so, that she wanted to change her mind, but she would not let herself.

His point that denying oneself modesty could be a back-handed access to dignity for a naked cunt applied there, too, she saw; to deny herself any resistance was not only freeing, it was a perverse kind of dignity; she could try to be strong enough to accept his abuses, rather than pointlessly, uselessly resisting.

The outcome of this, though, was that her hands became a terrible problem; if they were not to do what came naturally, not act to save her, to deter him, what should they do? Where should they be? It was bizarre to be disturbed by such things in the midst of violent intensity, but having her hands not do what they wanted to, not do anything, turned out to be extraordinarily miserable, made her feel terribly stupid and awkward.

She could not contain a shriek, though she quickly stifled it, when he first threw her forward, on her knees, towards the full-length mirror on the wardrobe, then yanked her head roughly back, squatting behind her to pull it down. She was on her knees, legs bent double underneath her, head back, almost lying on the floor, her hands awkwardly out at her sides, arms splayed.

He leaned forward to grab at her knees, wrench them outwards, then her ankles, too, until her thighs were splayed, her feet strangely at either side of her chest, then forced her shoulders back, until they were all but flat on the floor, driving another screech from her as her hips were stretched beyond what seemed possible, her noise stifled that time by him stuffing his handkerchief into her mouth.

When he let her go— he was kneeling or squatting behind her, she realised— she made every effort to lift her shoulders up, to sit up, every inch or two an improvement at her hips, and he had laughed at her;

“Just so, pretty cunt, just so; only, let your head fall back a little.”

He didn’t wait for her to comply, though, but simply grabbed her hair again, and forced her head right back;

“Open up, pretty, time to get those pins out of your tongue, since my cock is going into your throat.”

One hand roughly pushed open her mouth, fingers and thumb from the other matter-of-factly removed the handkerchief, then gripped her tongue and pulled it out, so that she felt it might be ripped from its root.

The pins were unceremoniously dragged from her bloodied, swollen tongue, leaving her in tears from the pain, her mouth filled with fresh blood and then, almost immediately, his hand was in her hair again, her head forced right back, so that she first saw his cock, monstrously stiff, from the strangest angle, upside down, and then almost nothing as his tight ball-sack covered her eyes and his cock pushed directly into her throat, he leaning forwards over her body, one hand, then two mauling at her breasts.

She had learned, over the months, with him as a patient and relaxed tutor, how to take him deep into her mouth, into her throat, how to control her gagging just enough, how to make swallowing motions, how panicking about breathing made everything harder, that the best thing to do was assume that you were not going to be able to breathe, not to try, until a chance came to gasp some air in.

But that position, on her back, head hanging backwards, his inflamed cock thrusting directly, so deeply, into her throat … all that was shockingly new, never even imagined, and his violence, his vigorous ramming of himself, deep into her, his hands gripping her poor breasts hard, using them as handles to lever her back against his cock were, frankly, terrifying.

She felt as if he must kill her, so impossible was it for so long, so much pain at her hips (he had forced her shoulders back down), her tongue, her breasts, her convulsing throat. Without him seeming to care about anything but his own desires with her, though, she did manage to catch occasional gulps and gasps of air.

Somehow, she did not black out, though several times she felt as if she must have.

And then he had pulled out, let go her breasts, and sat back, leaving her panting, sobbing, choking, gasping for breath.

“Excellent! I’ve been dreaming about doing that to you, girl, and it’s better than the dream. There are things I need to tell you, though, so we’ll maybe alternate a bit, spread out the fun, until I’m ready to rip you a new asshole.”

“Up with you, girly. Look at yourself in the mirror; see what cunt looks like. Used cunt, hurting cunt, despairing, frightened cunt. Gods but you are gorgeous like that. Fuck it, back down with you, I need another go.”

And just like that, she was dragged back down and invaded again by his cock, her whole being overtaken by the sensations of it all, all higher reasoning obliterated, reduced to nothing more than a survival machine.

When he pulled her up next, he was breathing hard, talking into her ear as he pointed her head at the big mirror;

“You said you wanted me to have something from you, girly; well this is it; I think you’ll be surprised by how well you take to it, but honestly, I don’t care, because I get to fuck you like this anytime I feel like it.”

Later, when this came back to her, she could not help but hug it to herself; a small warm candle in the grey of her despair. It was shameful, but it was real; she had given him something which he could not have easily gotten elsewhere.

“Look at yourself, pretty. Take a good look.”

He was kneeling behind her, hands a tight collar at her throat, pointing her head at the mirror; she could feel the throbbing pulse in his cock at her lower back, she could see the new Sophia, naked, tear-stained, ruined. She didn’t see the beauty he had described, but she saw something else. Something that she saw a man might want, that he would understand was intended for fucking. Something that meant nothing but fucking. Her first meeting with the new Sophia.

Sophia the degraded slavegirl. Sophia the cunt. Sophia the sex-toy.

Tears came to her eyes, but they were surprisingly soft. It was hard, terribly hard, to be treated so. But it was surprisingly easy for her to accept herself as the creature in the mirror. A girl from whom nothing would be expected beyond sex, beyond submission, beyond suffering. It was impossible not to acknowledge the attraction inside her to such simplicity, such promise of intensity, of fucking; hard fucking.

Diminishment made sense, in the mirror. What if life could consist, very simply, of being naked, being fucked, being hurt, sometimes a massive, shameful orgasm?

“You need to understand, lovely Sophia, that being that girl in the mirror is always a choice. That there is always a choice— the choice you have made— made and made freely. You are being abused because you asked for it. You made the choices which results in this.”

“Your abusers make choices too, of course— how brutally to fuck you, what to hurt you with, and how mean they are— but our choices are secondary choices. Although we call it rape, you have already consented, so that although the fucking will often, should mostly feel like rape, the reality is that you have explicitly asked to be fucked like that. Like this;”

And he had dragged her back and down and his cock had been harder than ever when he guided it deep into her throat. At the same time, she was less panicked, less terrified, and, without thinking about it, her body had begun to work for him, with him, just a little, as he raped her mouth, if for no other reason than that it increased her chances of catching a breath.

Upright again, and her eyes were full of tears, retching helplessly; he had hurt her so, so that she could hardly see her reflection in the mirror. But she had heard his words;

“Notice that, despite you having consented, there is no pretence that this treatment of your soft little body, your poor vulnerable mind, is anything but the most heinous abuse. We are monsters, and we know it. And you know it too. Simply by choosing to be with us, to allow us access to you, you invite abuse, because you know we are abusers. But you, you cunts, you go further, and offer us control over you, freedom to do as we like with you.”

“Yes, it is always your choice, and yet, and yet, you have chosen to offer yourself fully, explicitly, in detail, to a gang of self-identified cruel abusers. What sort of a degraded creature would do that? What does it say about you that you did that?”

“This is your shame, pussy. This is your deep shame; that you are offering yourself to people you know are sexual sadists. People whom you are certain see you as nothing more than a vehicle for their perverse lusts, their cruel disrespect of the young and pretty women over whom they have power.”

As the tears fell from her closed eyes, as her mouth twisted in despair and fear and shame, he had pushed her back down, savagely, so that her shoulders did actually go flat to the floor, all his weight on her as he worked to get his cock completely into her spasming mouth, his wiry pubic hairs scratching at her lips, then rocked his hips, hard, grinding into her, until she thought her jaw must break, until she saw the blackness rising in her eyes, until he had to catch at her wrists and restrain them as her body uselessly, desperately attempted to save itself from what it was sure was imminent death.

“GAAAaagh!”

He pulled out of her with a soft shout, and pulled back from her, gasping, breathing hard, seemingly trying to calm himself down while she sobbed and hacked, her airways fouled with thick, sticky mucous;

“Saving my come for your tight little asshole, girly; for when you are screaming and crying and begging me to stop.”

It took a while, that time, for him to be ready to give her the next instalment of his cruel, hateful speech, for her to be in any state to hear him.

“So, cunt, although we will expect you, over time, to invite layer upon layer of formal control from us, over increasingly intimate and complete aspects of your poor little life, this consent is mostly a formalistic method of intensifying your shame, rather than giving us any new freedoms.”

“We will always do to you what we feel like doing— without reference to anything you’ve said. You’re likewise free to resist, too; any way you like.”

“When you tell us we have control over some part of you, what you are really saying is that you will deny yourself the option to resist. You’re not really granting us anything; what you will really be doing is guaranteeing, out loud, that you won’t resist that kind of abuse.”

“You must understand, pretty, that you offering us some control over some part of your life— say what can be put in your throat, by whom, and when, to take an active case in point— this offer of control changes nothing for us; nothing at all. What it changes is you. You who will, through such consents, ever more complete, ever more invasive, be gradually, voluntarily repudiating all of your human rights.”

“For instance, when I grab your tits as I’m stuffing myself into your silky little throat, ramming myself deep there, it doesn’t matter to me whether you asked me to. If I feel like it, I’ll do it. That’s why we call it rape. And you, too, you always have a choice; you can say ‘no’. And if you should say ‘no’, I would expect myself to stop, to cease and desist. Perhaps.”

“However, if, as you will, one day— not too far off either, if I am not wrong— when you have given us control over what may be pushed into your mouth, made it clear to us that we are to be completely free in our use of your throat, then it is you who has been constrained, not us who has been freed. You have agreed never again to expect that your views as to what can be shoved down your throat are taken notice of by us … by anyone, really.”

“If you meditate upon this— and you will have plenty of time for such, I imagine, since I am confident that, quite soon, you will offer us such complete control over your time that it will make no sense pretending that you can aspire to maintain any sort of a career— if you meditate upon this, then you will understand what I have said about formalised consent as primarily a means of intensifying your shame, your recognition that it is you who has fatally undermined yourself, you who has paved the way for yourself, in your degraded state, to no longer consider yourself a full human being.”

He had leaned in, then, from the side, and made it clear that he wished to kiss her, his hands on her poor breasts playing with the pins, and she had all but swooned at the chance to lose herself in his embrace, and it was indeed glorious, even though she could not stop the tears, even if her tongue hurt badly and felt as if it must be terribly swollen.

When he pulled back, smiling at her, she blinking to see through tear-matted eyelashes, he had said;

“Use your skills, now, pretty cunt, to get me as hard as you can, so that I can ram myself into your littlest hole in one hard go. Forgive me, but I will almost certainly do you some terrible damage this way. It will heal, of course, but I aim to make it impossible for you to forget this night.”

And indeed that was the way of it. If she had not been gagged beforehand, her screams would have brought the whole crowd in the bar up to see who was being murdered.

Mercifully, at least, she had brought him to such a high peak of excitement with her lips and tongue that it lasted only a few minutes, but he had achieved his aim.

She was never able to forget how it had felt, with her head tied into the stuffy, hateful embrace of a rolled-up pillowcase, held in place with a dressing gown cord tied horribly tightly around her head, cutting into the join of her lips, pulled tight to the back of her teeth between opened jaws, the other end of the cord painfully forcing her wrists high up behind her back, flung, face-down, over the arm of the heavy armchair, her ankles again sharply kicked until she had spread her legs wide apart, lubricated with nothing but a pat of butter from the sandwich tray, buggered with as little care as if she had been an inflatable plastic sex toy.

He had split her, and she bled, and, although it had healed (with the help of stitches), from that day on, whenever she was assaulted with sufficient vigour, by man or by implement which was notably wide, she would tear in the same place, and remember Duncan’s ruination of her, that first night of her enslavement.