DISCLAIMER/WARNING:

This is a really, really disturbing tale of a woman turned into a living sex toy. Deeply disturbing. It is unsafe, insane, and non-consensual. Consider yourself warned.

Love, Juliette

:: :: ::

I came to visit you, my lovely friend in Canada, because you seemed so kind and true. I’d known you for several years and you were always so good to me. You listened to my strange fantasies, you taught me the difference between what can be done in fantasy and what in reality, and you remained both gentle and sexy at the same time. After a passionate first night of mildly kinky lovemaking, I fell peacefully and trustfully asleep in your arms, my limbs wrapped possessively around you.

I wake up in tremendous pain. The last thing I remember is the strange smile on your face and the needle in your hand. You must have stabbed me with it but I don’t remember it. My arms and legs are aching horribly and I can’t seem to move them. I look up at the ceiling where there is a large mirror. I see a bandaged naked woman lying on a bed. It looks like her arms and legs are missing, and the stumps are bandaged. What is this deformed woman doing in the same room with me? I look closer and the shock of recognition makes me so queasy that I turn my head to the side, preparing to throw up. It’s me. Those bandaged stumps are mine. My beautiful brown arms and legs are gone, and if they still exist at all are just pieces of dead meat, no longer having any connection to the rest of my body. Oh god, I want to die!

You walk in smiling with a tray of hot food in your arms. Steak and eggs. “Would you care for some breakfast?,” you ask me politely. I am hungry, despite the pain, and the breakfast smells delicious. I nod, then ask the crucial question: “What have you done to me?”

“Only fulfilled your deepest fantasy,” you say, cutting a bite from the steak and holding it to my mouth. “But that was JUST a fantasy!” I protest, my horror growing, ignoring the morsel of food in front of me. “It wasn’t meant to be fulfilled!” “Fantasies _are_ meant to be fulfilled,” you answer, “especially ones as intense as yours. Now eat.” I take the bite of steak into my mouth and start chewing. Despite my growing horror, it tastes delicious, actually more like pork than steak. “You like that?” you ask, smiling. I nod, my mouth full, and you cut another piece for me, along with a bit of egg. “It’s from the choicest part of your thigh,” you inform me casually as if you were talking about the tomatoes in the garden. I don’t understand for a moment, but then I do, and I barely have time to turn my head to the side before I throw up–this time for real. You laugh and laugh at my sickened response, then ask me if I mind if you finish my breakfast for me. I don’t answer. I watch you eat the steak made from my thigh with obvious relish. You get up, clean up the mess I’ve made on the sheets and then start to leave the room. As you do, I say, trying to appear extra casual about it, “Um, I’m in a lot of pain right now. Anything that can be done about it?” You smile broadly and kindly. “Of course.” Another needle, another prick, and lights out for me.

A Month Later.

I’ve learned to eat my own flesh as that is all you offer me for days, always eating the meal in front of me if I refuse. One day I finally broke down and wolfed down the meat from my leg faster than you could cut it. The pain is much better and I can actually move the tiny stumps of my legs and arms a little without wincing. I can even sit up, with much difficulty. It’s sunk into me now that I must rely on you for everything and that I no longer have the ability to run away or have any physical privacy, although a part of me still feels that this can’t be happening, that it is a dream I will awaken from. You keep me in diapers for the first few weeks, to my deep shame and discomfort. After I appear to have accepted my new station in life, you allow me the privilege of going to the toilet, but you must place me on it and you don’t go away no matter how much it humiliates me. I try to pretend that you aren’t there. If I have an itch, I must call you to scratch it. Sometimes you do, sometimes you sit there and laugh while I squirm in agony on the bed, trying futilely to rub the irritation away. If I’m too cold or too hot, only you can do something about it. Again, you usually do, but sometimes you say you want to watch my goose bumps or my sweat and you leave me in misery. Eating, drinking, shitting, every single personal comfort except sleeping is dependent upon you. I start to fear what will happen to me if I anger you.

Although you have not touched me sexually, I have not been permitted any clothes this entire time (except for the early diaper), and a camera in the ceiling is always trained on me. I think about escape through rolling off the bed and along surfaces, now that the pain has receded, but I wonder if I can avoid detection. You seem to have had the same thought because the next day a metal collar is welded to my neck and then attached by a chain to the heavy oak headboard. You tell me that you’re preparing costumes for me to wear when I’m more acclimatized to my condition, but that they will be worse than being nude. Great. Just great.

Most of my days are spent in empty boredom with nothing to do, although sometimes you leave a TV on for me or read to me. I love the reading sessions–I almost feel like I like you a little then. Being left to my own thoughts a lot, I find myself running over in my head many times what’s happened to me and how horrible it is. I think of all the things IÕll never be able to do again and how people will always see me as a freak and then, usually, I cry. After that I fall asleep.

Three Months Later.

The bandages are off and have been for some time. I’m as healed as I’m going to get. You’ve now begun sexual relations with me. It started very simply but it had a profound effect on me. You said quietly, “I want to touch your nipple.” You then placed a thumb and forefinger around my left nipple, and stared directly at me as you held it, occasionally rubbing it back and forth between the two digits. My reaction surprised me: I was instantly enraged and terrified at the same time and I snarled at you to take your filthy fingers off me. You only smiled and said, “No.” I then began to furiously roll back and forth on my bed, trying to dislodge your hand. You just gripped my nipple more tightly, which hurt. Finally, I stopped that and lifted my neck up in an attempt to bite your hand. Your other hand instantly slapped me hard across the cheek as you said firmly, No!” Nevertheless, I tried it again. This time in response you pressed your hand against my neck with such pressure that I could not breathe then pressed your fingernails deep into my nipple. It exploded with pain but I could not speak or even breathe. You held me like this for almost a minute, then let go of my throat. After I took in a deep, ragged breath I started to scream. “Screaming is OK,” you said, still digging into my nipple. I donÕt know how long you held it pinched that way, but my voice grew hoarse long before you stopped, and I was reduced to begging you in whispers and tears to please stop.

Sometimes you come in and just stare at me for long periods after propping me up with pillows in some obscene position. Sometimes you touch me, and your touch is always deeply humiliating. Once you came in to read to me and spent the entire time as you read with one finger shoved deeply up my ass. What I hate most is when you shave my cunt, as you talk about the shape of my lips, the size of my clit, the hairs in my asshole, my skin coloring, a pimple on my ass, everything deeply personal and humiliating, as you do so.

Three and a Half Months.

Last night was horrific. You came into my room where I was lightly dozing and, without any notice, rolled me on my tummy and began raping me. No warning, no lubrication, no foreplay. I realized even more deeply than I had before how utterly helpless I was. Nothing I did, no squirming no screaming, no pleading, made any difference to what happened to me. You knelt on the bed pulling my ass up to your groin and fucked my cunt ruthlessly and soundlessly (except for a couple of grunts) as you groped my tits. I have never felt more like an object in my life. In fact, I’m sure that’s all I was to you that night: an object to use. My humanity has been stripped from me and the life I now face is one of fear and dependence and abasement and, most of all, doing my best to avoid pain. When you finish with me, you just drop me on the bed and leave the room, shutting the door behind you. I cry myself to sleep.

You rape me regularly now, always in that soundless, abrupt way. When you take me up the ass it hurts so bad that I feel I will go insane from the pain. But nothing stops you, although sometimes, when the pain is the worst, you smile and rub my clit (another thing I can no longer do for myself!) with your fingers or a vibrator until, in spite of myself, in spite of my desire to resist this more than anything you do, I orgasm. When you feel my sphincter contracting from the orgasm, your cock gets more vicious and hard and as my orgasm fades, the pain blooms so brightly that I sometimes pass out.

Five Months.

I’m learning to love pain as you always bring me to orgasm during the worst of it. You’ve started using toys on me: clamps, clips, needles, whips, paddles, cigars, cigarette lighters, and electric probes. The electricity is by far the worst, but you are clever and have a milder electric probe on my clit which sets me off in orgasm after orgasm as I feel the rest of my body being burned alive from the inside out. I wonder if anybody else alive has felt this horrifically intense combination of sensations: pain so bad you’d choose hell over experiencing it again, intense pleasurable orgasms, and always pervading everything a sense of utter helplessness: nothing I do affects what you do to me, I must simply endure it with the knowledge that eventually it will end.

Five Months and Two Days.

I underwent surgery again last night. You told me nothing about it, you just did it. I can see the bandages on my body in the ceiling mirror. My tits hurt, my ass hurts and my mouth hurts terribly. What have you done to me now? I’m very relieved, however, that while I’m healing your sadistic sexplay stops completely. Eventually the bandages come off and I see what you or your hired surgeon has done. My tits are enormous, grotesque balloons. I’ve seen a few porn stars with tits this large, but not many. You’ve enlarged the nipples as well to width of quarter and length of…it looks like two inches! They are always hard and erect. Likewise my ass cheeks have been enlarged outward to an extreme and obscene degree. They’ve also been pushed together so that unless I’m spread in someway it’s hard to push something between them. I think of how, lubricated, they’ll make a wonderfully tight hot tunnel for a cock. I felt the most horror when I found that all my teeth had been removed from my mouth. I can still talk but I sound retarded as many of the sharp consonant sounds are now impossible. My lips have been enlarged and reshaped, too, into a thick round doughnut with a permanent small hole in the middle which expands when something large is forced into it. The muscles of the lips hug the hole, however, which I assume makes it a perfectly tight and delicious-feeling entrance for a cock. Finally, I notice that soft plastic pads have been fitted to my stumps. They are not mere aesthetic coverings, although they do make me look a lot better than when I had raw stumps. They seem to be somehow melted into my body; they cannot come off. These pads are firm enough on the bottom that I can be stood up or placed on all fours (because my arm stumps are so much shorter than my leg stumps, however, my all-fours position almost places my head on the ground and raises my grotesquely large ass into the air. My tits, of course, drag on the ground, but I can crawl a little. It must look pretty obscene when I do so.

Six and a Half Months.

I appreciate the fact that so far you keep me appraised of the date and the time. There is a large wall calendar and a clock in this room. You routinely carry me around to other parts of the house now. You show me the secret dungeon room and when I see what sort of equipment is in it I shudder in terror. The other day you pierced my body. There are two very heavy gold rings in my nipples. Each is the size of a small bangle and very thick. They drag my huge fleshy balloons downward. A ring almost as large has been placed in my lower lip, or rather, at the bottom part of the donut. I also have a heavy gold ring closing two of my pussy lips and one through my nose that makes my face look bovine. You made the piercings with a thick, red-hot needle very slowly pressed into the skin and twisted around and this time the incredible pain wasn’t softened with orgasms. I can’t describe pain like that–I don’t even want to think about it.

8 Months.

Today you branded me as you raped my ass. Four brands: one on each buttock, one under each breast. When I saw you wheeling the brazier into the bedroom I started to scream nonstop. You tied me down so that even my slight ability to wiggle wouldn’t ruin the brands, and held each iron to my skin for a very, very, very long time. I passed out after the first one, so you gave me a shot and then I didn’t pass out anymore. To my deep shame I did loose control of my bladder and bowels, however. You just laughed. My world seems to consist entirely of pain these days. I wish I could figure out a way to kill myself.

9 Months.

Today you moved me to a room without any windows, no calendar, no clock. The floor is cement, and the bed I sleep on is simply a foam pad and blankets inside a steel cage that hangs from the ceiling. A lot more of my time now is spent in this room, often in complete darkness. When you come to see me I am so eager to see you. Although your visits often mean horrible pain and humiliation, even this is better than the sensory deprivation I experience in this room. I’m losing complete track of time, sometimes it seems you visit me every few minutes, sometimes it seems days before you come. I tell myself, in an attempt to stay sane, that to keep my body alive you have to feed me and give me water and let me use the bathroom at regular intervals, but my subjective sense of time has vanished and the visits don’t seem regular at all. I see and hear extraordinary things in the dark, and at first I know it’s just my mind “filling in the blanks” but after awhile I cannot tell what is real and what is illusion.

Sometime.

I had been in the dark a very long time this time. Years, I think? When you came into the room and gradually turned up the lights I whimpered in happy gratefulness and licked your palm to show my gratitude. You picked me up and took me into a big bright room. I think I’d been in it before but I’m not sure, with lots of windows that looked out onÉ on things outside. I recognize those things but I donÕt remember their names. In the room were dozens of strange people I’d never seen before, all with full legs and arms. All were men. I squealed in terror and tried to bury myself in your chest. They all laughed at me. They laughed even more and applauded when you set me up totally naked on a tall narrow pedestal in the middle of the room and asked them, “What do you think of my new sculpture?” You then said, “Feel free, make yourselves at home, just don’t cause it any severe damage.” I wondered what you were talking about. I found out soon, to my mortification, that you were talking about me.

The men gathered around me and began to squeeze my breasts, play with my nipples and suck them (sometime ago you had induced lactation in me and if I wasn’t hooked up to a painful suction device which removed the milk each day my breasts ached). When they discovered the milk in them, they had fun aiming my tits and squirting it all over each other and into their mouths. My ass was likewise pinched and groped and prodded. Each guest seemed extremely pleased when he discovered how tight my ass crack was. Some were likewise turned on when they put a finger in my mouth and found my teeth removed. Others seemed a little grossed out by that, but they got over it soon enough. Pretty soon I was off the pedestal and on the carpet with dicks in all of my holes and rough hands groping and pinching me everywhere. I was carried around the room while being fucked, set on tables, held between two men at groin level and placed on or in various objects while being fucked. My holes began to feel scraped raw from all the unexpected activity, but even more raw was my pride. I’d never been in a situation before where strange men, most of whom I found unattractive, could use me in this deeply intimate and intrusive fashion. While submissive, I had prided myself on choosing my partners. My feelings of outrage and violation had nowhere to go: these men did what they wanted with me and the futile but energetic waving of my stumps and my facial contortions only made them laugh and fuck me harder.

I was taken to your dungeon and my limbs stretched by hooks attached to the plastic pads and chains to the hooks. The men fucked me on this makeshift rack as I felt my muscles strained beyond belief. One man stuck the electric anus probe up my ass but he didn’t put any conducting lubrication on it. He and his friends laughed so hard at the way I squealed and jumped and rolled and wiggled when he’d bump the juice up to maximum, not realizing (or maybe they did–shudder) that they were giving me terrible burns inside my colon. Two men eventually took me into the backyard and, to my complete terror, threw me back and forth between themselves while on the cement patio. One fall to the ground would have cracked my head open like a melon. One fellow almost dropped me which caused you (you seemed to be lurking everywhere I was although you did not touch me or speak to me) to stop that game. Another man took me over to the swimming pool and pushed my head and shoulders underwater while he viciously fucked my ass. He let me up for air, but always at the last minute, just before I felt I would have to breathe in water because my lungs hurt so bad. You either allowed him this fun or you weren’t around. No one interfered with this terrifying game. Later I was thrown into the middle of the pool to see if I’d sink or swim. I wiggled my stumps frantically underwater but, to a crowd of laughter, sunk like a stone to the bottom and nothing I did caused me to float. Again, just before I felt my burning lungs would burst, someone brought me to the surface.

At one point you demonstrated my daily milking to your guests. First my four pads were secured on the tops of four raised poles so I was about chest high and my tits hung straight down. Then the teat cups were placed on my nipples (you removed the nipple rings first and then tried your best to stick as much tit as you could into the narrow glass tubes.) When the machine was turned on, the cups, with an especially strong suction force gripped my nipples and the skin around them and pulled them almost all the way to the end of the tubes, about four inches. The machine worked by holding one tit under milder suction while the other tit was sucked hard. This alternating suction made my fat breasts look particularly ridiculous, first one dragged down, then the other, then the first one, then the other, over and over. And, naturally, it hurt like hell, too, causing me to cry and beg to be let off it. This caused laughter all around. Several men, amazingly still horny, jacked off to this sight and almost all of them tried the milk later. While I was immobile on this hellish machine, one man slowly injected the skin around my anus with saline. The long needles hurt like hell and later he showed me the results in the mirror just before a new round of sodomy began: a round, red, tight doughnut shaped ring of skin surrounding my tiny asshole: a plump cushion for a dick to insert itself into. I looked like a baboon in the back, and, with my tit ends elongated and distorted by the milker, like a cow in front.

When it got dark, someone started a barbecue on the patio and of course lots of jokes were made about roasting me on it. To the men’s savage delight, you placed me briefly on my back and bottom on the grill when the coals were hottest, with my screaming NO! the entire time. You probably only left me on there for ten seconds but those were the most painful ten seconds of my entire life. I sobbed and screamed from the searing agony. You had your cock pumping in my hips which hung over the edge of the barbecue the entire time and, although the period was relatively brief, I think you came. After lifting me off this burning hell you walked me over to a large cooler full of ice and laid me into it. As the ice did its work causing me almost as much agony as the flames had, you stared me in the eyes and asked, “Do you understand now how utterly helpless you are? I can make your life a living hell, as I just did, and enjoy it as much as IÕd enjoy making it a very happy place. If you want less torture and if you want less sensory deprivation in the dark room, I expect you to constantly express your gratitude to me in whatever creative and clever and demeaning ways you can find. I am a god to you, my dear, your god. Worship me well and all will go… more or less… well for you.

The burns on my back had pretty much ruined me for further play that night and after these were treated, you soothed my burning and bleeding cunt and ass with some of the burn lotion. Later I was left with grill stripes on the skin, which eventually faded but all you had to do was touch the raised scar tissue of a stripe to remind me of the horrors of those moments. That memory instantly stopped any rebellious or obnoxious activity on my part.

Later.

You’ve started taking me out in public. Sometimes you push me in a baby stroller; sometimes you carry me. Everybody stares at me and kids always giggle and point or say “Eww gross!” You take me to buy lingerie and leave the dressing room door open so that men in the store can casually stroll by and see my naked perverse body or, even worse for me, wearing the ill-fitting underwear you’ve picked out for me. You have great fun trying in the open to fit the store’s largest bras on my enormous tits. The men who happen by gape in amazement at the sight of you trying to stuff my enormous tit meat into the too tiny cups and scolding me all the while for being so “fat.” Sometimes you ask these strange men for help and they are happy to oblige, grabbing my fat teats and stuffing them into the cups, while getting lots of good feels of my nipples. You do the same thing with panties: you always choose a size too small for my obscenely large buttocks and leave the dressing room door open as you try to wiggle my ass into them. Sometimes you leave me balanced on the bench in a pair of too-small thongs that you’ve reversed. If I’m facing front, the men see the thin string of material cutting deeply into the middle of my bare cunt lips. If I’m facing the back of the room, they see how the material only comes halfway up my ass or less, exposing my gigantic butt checks and their tight crack to their view. Either way, they are delighted with what they see. Even if there aren’t men around you refuse to let me talk during these outings and quickly get the saleswomen treating me just the way you do: like a brainless object. The shame I feel during these outings never seems to lessen.

The worst times for me are when you take me to the beach. Invariably one of my nipples will “accidentally” pop out of the too-small bra of the swimsuit or the bottoms will only cover my buttocks partially, halfway up the ass, which looks far more obscene than a beach thong does because it’s not expected in public, or you’ll have me in a teeny front thong in which 90% of my puffy pubes are exposed to men’s leering eyes. Then there are the kids: the kids are the worst, they make the most degrading comments. Sometimes you’ll take off my suit, forcing me to be totally nude on a beach where most everyone else is wearing a swimsuit. At those times you often invite the men who walk slowly by my towel to spread tanning lotion over my nude torso which they eagerly do, while all the while you talk about me as if I were an object or a piece of livestock that you owned. You point out to these men the tight butt crack, my doughnut lips which are perfect for face-fucking, my enormous tits. You make sure they spread lotion deep in my cracks “and in any holes they might find, so she doesn’t get burned.” Sometimes you spread my lips to show them what the inside of my cunt looks like or you press my tits together so that they look like two obscene fat bullets. Sometimes you squirt nipple milk in their faces. Naturally the men get very aroused and enthusiastic about their task. Often you’ll then carry me under your arm with a couple of strangers in tow to some more private spot where you watch and comment as they screw me silly in whatever holes they want. Your comments are always objectifying: you talk about what a little animal I am, and how I’ve been trained to love pain (this inspires the men to hurt me as they fuck me) and how you give me away to strangers to play with at parties. You tell them about how you’ve trained me to be completely servile and abjectly submissive to you.

Not a single man feels sorry for me or horrified at my treatment. Not one threatens to turn you in for the mental and physical abuse you’ve inflicted upon me. In fact, your descriptions of my worst treatment only makes them more excited and they hump me harder. You tell me that you love to see the glazed look of pleasure in their eyes as they fuck a woman who has been completely turned into a degraded sex toy, whose only purpose in life is to please their cocks, a woman who can’t fight back against anything they do or say, a thing more than a person that will have no choice but to take any sort of abuse they want to give her, a woman upon whom they could, if they owned her, inflict their darkest and most cruel sexual fantasies. My peculiar condition has taught me a lot: most men are held back from committing sexual atrocities by only the thinnest of leashes. Snap the leash of propriety and fear of being caught, present them with a totally helpless woman whom they can freely and with smiling encouragement do whatever they want to, and they will revert to savagery.

Think about it: if you were offered a free sexual orgy with a woman who had been turned into a helpless sexdoll, if there were absolutely no repercussions, mightn’t you fuck her mouth until she passes out from lack of air or beat her until she becomes bloody and unmoving, or zap with increasingly higher electrical current for the thrill of seeing smoke emerge from the contact points, or place her helpless body in a pen of wild lions and watch in fascination as her flesh is gnawed and torn apart? Or maybe after you took a dump you’d use her mouth as toilet paper, make her clean you thoroughly. What choice would she have? If she refused any of your desires, assuming she could, given her limited range of movement, a casual threat to drag her behind your speeding car until nothing but bone was left on the end of the rope or to pour gasoline on her and set her on fire would bring her quickly back in line.

Maybe you’re not the sadistic sort, maybe you never tore the wings off bugs when you were a child or fantasized about what it’d be like to have a tiny, bug-sized or maybe bird-sized human being to torment in various ways, but surely, if no one would ever catch you and if other men praised you and laughed in admiration at your actions, you would fuck this limbless doll, your slave, in ways you’d never dare do with a normal woman. You would because you could, and this might be the only time in your life that you could.

Sometime Later.

You sleep with me regularly now, often taking me sexually several times in an evening (your fucking always feels like rape to me), always roughly and without warning, with no regard for my pleasure or pain at what you do. Actually, you do pay attention to my pain: it gets you off, and you’ll often play with me in some very painful or terrifying way, your cock getting harder with each scream, until I beg you to fuck me. And when you do fuck me it’ll often be interspersed with choking and hard slaps and other sensations which make me feel terrified and desperate. Then there are other times, long times of dark isolation in my cage. I never know how long these dark times last. I am, of course, always very grateful to be let out into life and I always think that any pain is worth suffering in order to stay out of that dark unholy place, but later, under the kinds of intense torture you like to subject me to, I always change my mind about that. I do my best to please you in the hope that the times I am left out will be long ones. I’ve discovered that I can amuse you by doing, with great difficulty, things that normal, limbed women take for granted, such as getting you a beer from the fridge. You think it hilarious when foods from the upper shelves fall on me or I slip off the chair I’ve managed to climb on. You love the way I roll the can down the hall with my nose, and sometimes you get up and follow behind me, whipping me with your belt and yelling, “Faster you lazy slut!”

I have become quite fond of you, maybe I even love you a little, and the worst times of all for me are when you leave me with strangers whom I don’t know and who hurt my feelings in a thousand different ways. The worst thing is that they assume I am not intelligent because my mouth cannot form words crisply anymore. They start to talk to me slowly and in baby talk and if I sass them for their stupidity, guess who is severely punished? It isn’t them! Why do you have to give me to these strangers for a day or a weekend at a time? Some of them are not even your friends, I can tell. One businessman perched me nude in the middle of his conference table while he held a board of director’s meeting for his company. No women were present and the male shareholders let off tension by sometimes fondling, sometimes hurting my body. During breaks I was placed in a side room and each man entered one at a time and had sex with me. Many slapped me around, called me horrible names, punched my tits, bit me, stuck pins in me, or stuck large hard objects up my cunt and ass before taking me. You seem mildly concerned at my bruised and bleeding condition, but you heartily thanked that man for “babysitting” me and offered him use of me at some future time.

One thing I’ve learned for sure as a “love doll” for men: you all hate women, with a virulent seething sexual hatred which is terrifying when you’re a limbless woman and unable to run or hide or cover your obscene body from your aroused glares. You, my owner, are of course included in this description. You hated so much that you brought me to this horrific and limited state in the first place: a state where I can refuse no man, no matter how much I might want to. I wish you, all of you, could express this hatred more clearly toward women who have more of an ability than I to protect themselves.

Even Later.

I don’t know how this is happened, but I am learning to love the hatred most men express when they use me. I’m beginning to enjoy the false names they call me and to see myself in some ways as they describe: a worthless piece of limbless meat, a gutter slut whose only ability left is her true female ability: to please men sexually as a sperm dumpster. I get sexually aroused now when beaten and tortured, and enjoy seeing your hard-on as I scream in agony. I try to say and do things that will make you want to beat me more, that will arouse your generic anger at women and cause you to take that anger out on me. I like the public exposure and humiliation much more now, and instead of being worried when you stand me up on a bar with my skirt “accidentally” raised in back to expose my large bare bottom, I get a thrill from wondering who will touch me first and how he’ll do it or whether he’ll try to humiliate me first by talking about the brands on it or its size. I get an even bigger thrill from wondering if one of these men will manage to kidnap me from you one day, and I wonder happily in what new cruel and sick ways they will treat me. I’ve turned into what you wanted from the start: a helpless piece of female meat who loves rough sex, torture, rape, and degradation: a living breathing sex toy who’s learned to identify entirely with that role and love it.

The End
Copyright Unda. Crucia. Eximius.
2003