Candyfloss Pt 3

You will want to have read Part 2 of Candyfloss before reading this.

For the first minutes after the door closed behind him, for some while— I really don’t really know how long; time is not normal when you’ve been slut-shamed, terrorised, beaten, humiliated, spurned, drugged, then set up with a humiliating test of submission— for some while I was in a sort of a fugue state; not really thinking, but not unaware; not calm, but not hysterical, my mind not able to stay with anything long enough to have a coherent thought, but at the same time possessed by an urgent need to make sense of this confusion…

But what possible sense? What was the point of thinking? The situation was insane; decency, common sense, morality— none of these had the slightest purchase; I had been deliberately terrorised by a bunch of casually cruel and perverted old men who were going to gang-fuck me: I was badly frightened— trembling with fear and shame and despair— and everything about the situation was sick, degrading, and shameful. Somehow, though, I was trapped by it, trapped in that insane internal logic— a logic that made no sense, but which governed what I could do, even what I could think about.

The shameful thing was that it was obvious what I should be thinking, what I should be doing. I should be getting out of there. Everything that had happened was wrong, and dangerous (for me), and cruel. I should not be there. I should escape; it wouldn’t take much, even; all I had to do was take the bag off my head, put my dress back on and leave. I didn’t think I had heard the door lock. And if it was locked I could scream bloody murder until someone came to open it. This was London, a posh club; in theory civilised.

The insanity was that I knew this, but that I was certain I wasn’t going to do it. That something in me would not let me go. Something that was needful, something that needed him; Sir Oliver, to— what? ‘Approve’ of me? Such a limp desire. No; I made myself say it; I needed him to want me. To want to fuck me. I did— and not just fuck me, truly, but fully lose his cool over it, as Jason sometimes did, those times when I felt it the most, when it left me wrecked, but at the same time filled with peace; feeling as if I was useful.

That was what I needed from Sir Oliver.

Because it would mean that I had got to him, just a little bit. It was ugly to accept it of myself, but there was no hiding from it; it was raw and urgent in me, deep; I needed to stay. That was it. He had to want me. If, after everything I had just allowed to be done to me, offered myself for; if after that he was not wanting to fuck me, he didn’t need to fuck me, if he wasn’t driven to ravage my poor pussy, then something inside me would die. That was how it had me.

And once I had accepted that insanity, nothing else was worth thinking about; because I was not in charge. He was in charge. They were in charge. In charge of whether I woud be hit, would be stripped naked, would be fed drugs, would be raped by strangers, anything. And I would let them, because I needed him to need me.

And since that was true, in the insane world, the only thing for me to do was to try to please him, in the hope that there would be less pain and shame.

And this made no sense either, because it was horribly obvious that alongside sexually abusing me, causing me pain and shame was his main intention.

And there was too the dark heart of it; where it had always been; between my legs. The vulnerable, needy, tender centre of my shame; that for which he had called me. My pussy; what he had called my cunt. Called me cunt. Which I had not screamed at him for; had not rejected, had not resisted. Which I did not, even then, hate him for.

Because there was reason.

That part of me which I knew, by staying, that I was opening to devastating abuses. That part of me which I knew, by leaving, I would be disappointing. My needy, hungry cunt.

Chloe had always been defined by her head— her brains, her smartness, her way with words, her prettiness, too.

But now Chloe had been pushed aside, demoted, suppressed in favour of Candyfloss, whose defining features were her cunt, closely followed by her tits, her ass, her soft throat, all of which she had offered up for use and abuse, for stiff cocks, for hard hands, knowing that everything else about her would be degraded, demeaned and abused as well— just collateral damage.

And now the crazy logic began to demand recognition.

Candyfloss was about having her cunt abused. If I was not going to leave, it meant that I wanted to have my cunt abused, and so I should behave as if that’s what I wanted, if not for any other reason than that it might perhaps satisfy this crazy need to offer myself, my softest parts, my self-respect, to Sir Oliver, for him to abuse as he pleased. So that he would want to abuse me.

Somehow trying to find some higher purpose in this, I dredged up the idea that perhaps I needed this to help me break up with Jason, to break out of the sick relationship with him which had led me to this insanity?

Deep down though, I knew that I was being dishonest with myself, making excuses— my experience with Jason had not been that allowing further excesses, further liberties, further assaults on my dignity would shake sense into me, but instead that each time it would reveal in me a vulnerability to more and deeper transgression, more pathetic, shameful submission, yet more acceptance of cruelty and abuse.

Such was the raw and distressing train of my thoughts, round and round, vainly trying to make sense of anything that wasn’t submission to that deep hunger to be fucked, as evidence that I was wanted by Sir Oliver.

Eventually, the endless whirl became both exhausting and unbearable; my mind gave up, and I was left with my body.

That body which knelt, obediently, on the little table, alone in the clubby lounge, the bag over my head, jaw forced open, my knees spread wide, my hips involuntarily shifting; rolling, slow and needy, thrusting softly but obviously, my cunt in charge. My needy cunt, that did not think, was not interested in thinking, but only in being filled, being rutted, being used, to make me feel as if I was something.

That was it. Candyfloss was defined by her need to be fucked. And I was Candyfloss, would be Candyfloss, would suffer for the chance to be Candyfloss…

Perhaps it was the drugs, I don’t know, but this feeling, this resolution of all the conflict into a single, powerful reality offered some promise of peace, for the moment, at least, and my suffering self took it; allowed it to suffuse me, gave in to it, to the experience of being Candyfloss, of being someone who existed to be fucked, and I began to inhabit my body, then, to let it find its way into this reality, even if the peace was inevitably to be fragile, even if it was a shameful surrender; to let all inner conflict be absorbed into the experience of being Candyfloss.

I let my hips take control, followed where that led, as they began to work, really work, then, towards increasing the warmth and readiness of my soft and tender sex for what was surely to come to it, to let its need build, to let that need permeate through me, to give in to it, feeling my tongue, unbidden, push out to wet my lips, feeling myself arch my back, my body rising and falling as my thighs flexed, soft and slow, preparing to be stretched, spread, forced apart, pushing my breasts forward, accepting— anticipating, welcoming the knowledge that they would be mauled, twisted, grabbed, bitten, putting my head back, baring my throat, which, if anyone here was like Jason, would be grabbed, choked, twisted and filled with cock, so that breath became impossible, rare, precious, so that consciousness, even, might be lost, given up on, my body relinquished by my mind into the hands of those who were fucking me.

It wasn’t that the fear and shame were lessened, but that they were part of it; it had to be frightening and shaming, to be real. It had to be real, to mean something. Fear and shame were part of Candyfloss. I was trembling, but my pussy was wet, too. I hated myself.

I needed him to fuck me; with a desperation which was both harshly bitter and softly yearning.

And into this reverie, the sound of the door opening was like a sign, a revelation; that everything I had been preparing for was going to become real, and hard, and physical.

And that, indeed, is how it was.

The dreamlike mood was violently ended, and within seconds brutally effected my transition from revery to desperate, scrambling, frightened cunt, with only one thought in her head— that to be fucked was better, infinitely better, than to be hurt, but that hurting, here, was an obvious prelude to fucking, so that her response to hurt must be to offer herself more blatantly, more seductively, more submissively, offer herself up for fucking, even as it opened her just as surely to more hurt.

So that when two hands grabbed my head and violently yanked me off the table and into the floor, I strangled my scream to make it as soft as it could be, I accepted the pain at my knees, the wrenching of my neck, I made myself spread my thighs, I kept my hands from grabbing at my assailant and instead clasped them behind me, feeling the tears spurt from my eyes but not permitting myself to collapse into sobbing, but rather focus on my hips again, making them flex and roll as my cry broke up into panting, breathy moans of fear and submission, and— yes— need.

Filled with fear and shame and hurt, the only noises I allowed myself to make were breathy, desperate little cries of defeat and weakness, as I was bodily lifted and thrown backward onto a leather-topped bench, my arms dragged until my head lolled over the side, hanging down. Different men held each leg, splitting me wide open, my cries became panicky, but I was still desperately controlling them as best I could, for fear that the horrified screeching and wailing which wanted to break free would earn further violence.

I made it easy for them; I showed them how eager I was to please them, and they laughed at me and hurt me anyway.

They were talking to each other, quite calm, almost businesslike as they destroyed me;

“Spread the little whore out; stretch her cunt open; make it hurt.”

“Twist her arms till her shoulders lock, that’ll keep her docile.”

“Bit of ultra-violence from the off; sets the tone very nicely. It’s good for them in the end.”

“Yank those nipples harder, now— make her really feel it, like they’re going to be ripped off her. She needs to know we’ll ruin her if we want to.”

This to the man whose cock had suddenly forced its way into my cruelly distended mouth, and straight on into my throat, whose balls were banging onto my eyes through the hood, the man who was pulling himself onto me with my poor breasts, even as another cock lunged between my legs, causing paroxysms of callous laughter as its owner failed again and again to gain entry to my pussy as I was jerked and pulled in different directions.

They were deliberately disorienting me, my body continuously yanked around in opposing ways, wrenching my joints, hurting me, making me understand how powerless I was, how helpless in heir hands, until I became so utterly destabilised that I began to buck and jerk, pointlessly, helplessly, out of control until I was suddenly stilled with fear and pain and horror as the man between my legs finally caught the tight ring of my asshole with his cockhead, then went into a spasm as if electrified, so sharp was the hurt as he plunged further into my guts, so visceral my body’s rejection of this shame, this violation, this ruin.

And yet it was unstoppable as he forced himself fully into me with a crude grunt of triumph.

The ravage continued from there, endlessly brutal in so many different ways, while they laughed, one replacing the other, in my mouth, my sex, my rear, pulling my hair, choking me, biting my nipples, slapping my ass and my pussy at every chance they got, violent, uncaring, greedy, intentionally degrading; hymns of praise sung to the ’little blue pills’ which they all seemed to find so effective;

“Was never this hard this long, even in my prime; bloody remarkable, modern science.”

Every now and then they dragged me to a new position— bent over the high back of a heavy leather chair, brass nail heads grinding onto my hip bones as the fattest of them— hugely heavy and tall with it — plundered my pussy; then twisted, upended, head hanging from the seat, body painfully twisted so that my ass was on the armrest, legs held open to have two of them at me again, pulling and pushing at my with different rhythm, so that I felt as if I must come apart. Later, back on the bench, a straight and vigorous missionary fuck, then abruptly folded in half, knees at my ears, shoulders and hips screaming, raped in the backside again, until, bizarrely suddenly, it was over, and I was simply abandoned.

They ignored me, left panting and moaning in pain and horror and shame as they fetched themselves drinks and laughed together, recalling moments when I had looked ridiculous, when I had squealed like a stuck pig, when at one point I had all but wrenched free of them and stupidly, futilely tried to run— “no idea which way she was going in that hood— straight for old George of course, stuffed his cock straight into her mouth through that ring gag— priceless! Like a scene from a Buster Keaton movie— couldn’t have planned it better!”

They were happy, relaxed, jovial, and then they were leaving, talking about train times, the advantages of a new bypass in the suburbs— bland man talk, as if nothing, nothing out of the ordinary had just happened; as if I wasn’t lying there, naked, defiled, desperately trying to keep myself from losing my mind, from becoming hysterical, screaming my hate and fear and shame at them; shutting myself up, shutting myself away, so as not to interrupt their banalities. They were all still fully dressed, while I was naked and smeared with come and sweat and spit; they had simply opened their flies to despoil me, to rape and shame me, then zipped themselves up again when they were done, to get the 8:15 express back to their wives.

And then it was quiet, and I was left alone. Alone and humbled, wrecked. Alone with Sir Oliver. A ruined husk of a girl; trembling, realising slowly, but fearfully that what had been done to her thus far had been simply some kind of prelude.