The Peeper, part 3

I awoke, it seemed only minutes later (but based on the sun streaming in through my window must have been quite a few hours) to what felt like a sharp spear being twisted into my guts. I screamed, and felt a hand at my mouth and voice whispering “Sssh! Don’t make a sound or I’ll bash your head in. I then noticed the heavy body weight, and realized the blinding pain I felt was someone’s large dick pushing hard into my ass. With a huge thrust he went all the way in and I screamed again into my pillow. “Who are you?” I said. “How did you get in here?” “Your door was left unlocked after last night’s festivities,” the rapist whispered in my ear. Festivities. Oh, fuck. I’d heard that term before, and very recently. “Why are you raping me like this? Wasn’t last night enough for you?” I said, a hysterical sob starting to creep into my voice. “Well, not really. I didn’t cum, remember? And this morning when I saw your plump brown ass sticking out of your blankets and the dried pool of blood on one of your sheets, well, I just couldn’t resist such a lovely invitation. You were sleeping so peacefully and looked so beautiful with your eyes shut and face all relaxed, and that fat brown rump sticking up. Like an angel that I just had to sully,” he finished, chuckling. He’d stopped thrusting for a moment while he told me all this and my anus began to relax its cramping, thinking the worst was over.

“Now I’m going to rape your ass, my cunt, (his cunt? since when had I become “his” cunt?) just because I want to, and all you’re going to be able to do is lie there in pain, and, if you’re smart, not struggling. I’m going to ride you like a pony, whore, and no matter how angry you get or how much you want to get away, you won’t be able to, because I’m stronger than you and meaner than you. Ha. Ha. Ha.” I struggled anyway, I couldn’t help it. The pain was excruciating, like I said before, as if my colon was being slashed to pieces by the sharpest knife. He just laughed when I tried to wiggle away, hit me very hard on my head and face to subdue me, and then began ass-raping me again, this time, very slooowly and painfully: all the way in. Then all the way out. He’d evidently done this before because he knew just how to make it hurt the worst. I pleaded with him to stop, I promised not to try to get away anymore, and after a few more hard cuffs to my face which made my head spin he whispered “Mmm, this is delicious!” and picked up the pace. Those words sent an intense thrill trough my pain-wracked body. It was the same sensation that had happened last night: I was getting off on his sexual pleasure over my pain. But it was only a quick flash, and soon passed, and I was left with the pain.

The peeper-turned-rapist whispered in my ear, “How do you like THIS, you fat-assed bitch?” “I hate it!” I sobbed before I realized he wasn’t really looking for an answer. “I know you hate it,” he whispered back to me. “It’s so painful, so disgusting, so degrading to be reamed up your ass…mounted like an animal…isn’t it? ISN’T IT?” “YES!” I sobbed in response “Please, please stop soon!” “No. I’m really enjoying this. I’m going to draw it out for a looooong time. I’m enjoying every little squirm, every little sob of pain, every pitiful attempt to beg me,” he replied to my plea. I tried to ignore him after that, but that incessant insinuating whisper never once stopped: “I am so pleased with myself that I have forced you into this painful and foul degrading position, giving your asshole completely up to me, whether you want to or not, hurting you, ripping you. Scream for me, you fat-bottomed bitch!” With that he starting thrusting in a new and much more painful way, and to my deep shame I did exactly what he ordered. I screamed and screamed and screamed. “Music to my ears,” he whispered. “How do you like being dicked up the ass by me, and knowing that no matter how pissed you get you can’t make it stop? Isn’t it great? It’s pretty good for me” He laughed at his own humor. The arrogant S.O.B! Eventually, after much extremely painful ass-humping and humiliating whispering, he came with a loud, feral snarl. “Take my foul seed, you cunt!” I felt his hot sperm squirt deep inside my bowels. That has to be among the top ten most humiliating sensations in the world. “Oh god,” I moaned. “What?” he asked, his voice at a normal level now. I didn’t answer. “Tell me what right now before I whack you again.” “I…oh god! I felt so humiliated when I felt you…” Why were these words so very hard to say? “When I felt you squirting deep in my ass!” There, I’d spit it out. He laughed and laughed at that then warned, “Watch it, babe, you’re making me hard again.” Oh god no, this can’t happen again! I can’t endure it! But it did and I did, as I’m still here to tell you the tale.

After he sodomized me the second time the peeping-tom-turned-rapist just lay on me listening to my soft sobs, his heavy weight pressing me down into my mattress. When I finally quieted, he began once again to whisper in my ear: “You’re my bitch, now – aren’t you? Say it!” “I’m your bitch!” I said miserably, knowing these words were the raw and ugly truth. Remember, I’m the girl who felt owned after a single sperm-splat to the face. Imagine how much more profoundly this man’s painful and very vocal invasion of the most embarrassing area of my body – that part I can’t see without major contortions in front of a mirror and the one part I’d always wished never existed at all thanks to the indignities it has caused me throughout my life – affected me, so try to imagine how much more I felt like his possession after this morning.

So what am I, anyway? Some sort of doormat who willingly becomes the slave of anyone able and willing to ream me up the ass? I was asking myself that very question as I repeated several times, upon the peeper’s insistence, the hated and degrading phrase “I’m your bitch.” No. That wasn’t it. Life, unfortunately, just ain’t that simple, that…clear-cut, that…”black and white” if you will. Life has infinite gray areas between good and bad, super-heroine and doormat, between consensual fucking and rape, doncha know, and I’m about to explain one of them to you. So listen closely and carefully and you might, particularly if you’re a feminist who actually keeps an open mind as opposed to just claiming that which you have no stake in, even learn something.

The reactions I was having all along to this man are termed, among those of us who are experts in this form of perverse sexuality and do not just shoot off ill-informed opinions, “the submissive response.” In very sexually submissive women, a certain tone of voice, a look, a manner of acting, even a writing style can all trigger this response which is comprised of a heady blend of emotions including a desire to seduce through serving or through being small and insignificant or though giving unselfishly and an intense sexual attraction. If a conventionally-sexed woman’s desire for a particular man could be summed up as “Gee, he’s cute, I’d sure like to fuck/kiss/go out with him!” the submissive woman’s can be summed up as: “My god, he seems like the type of person who’d appreciate and even ENJOY a weirdo like me. God, I’d love to fall on my knees before him and give him pleasure/worship/my pain/my degradation.” The submissive woman often quickly falls in love with the person who seems to embody what she needs. The targets onto which submissive women project their desires and fantasies, of course, vary with the level of self-knowledge, experience, and understanding of the particular woman having the response. The better a submissive woman knows herself and understands her personality’s specific needs (this goes far beyond the generic needs that most submissives share), the more realistic and selective will be her choices of individuals to bestow this response onto and the more conscious control she will have over the process of whether to fall for him or not.

There was a time, it seems an eternity ago, when I was so capable of self-deception that I could have an intense and completely indiscriminate submissive response to a stranger who did something as simple and innocuous as slowly pull on a pair of leather riding gloves in my presence. The extremely unpleasant consequences of indulging in this sort of weak surrender to utterly inappropriate people and not thinking clearly about what I was feeling and why I felt it, however, led me to develop the same intense critical mindset about my sexuality as I apply to every other area of life. I ask myself constant questions: What exactly does this person offer me? What emotional buttons does his actions or demeanor push, and why? And I don’t rest until I understand thoroughly why I’ve fallen in lust for a particular person and what, realistically (that is, without reference to my hopes about him), he can offer me. These days I might very well still feel an instant rush of desire for a man who pulled his gloves on in just the right manner, as I have today – for better or for worse – the same sexual responses I have had since my earliest memories, but in the next instant I’d catch myself in my little self-deception and laugh myself out of the fantasy.

I actively debunk my less-than-rational interests by telling myself the truth: “You don’t even know thing one about this man and the chances are very great that his only skill in relation to you is his ability to pull on a pair of gloves.” The skill of dissecting your own desires in this cold manner takes time to develop, as your emotions want to fight it every step of the way – but it’s worth its weight in gold to develop. Eventually, the shame of constantly making wrong choices and the lonely pain of once again realizing the man sleeping next to you has nothing in common with you sexually and no ability to meet your emotional needs will cause even the most stubborn “thinker with the cunt” to aim her ideation a little bit higher.

To make a long story short, as the years passed, I developed a sophisticated and increasingly accurate ability to judge a person’s sexual-emotional (for me the two are hopelessly intertwined, and I’m NOT talking about romantic love here) potential in regards to myself, often from very little information. You don’t have to know a lot about a man to understand who he is: you just have to know the right things. Most submissive women, unfortunately, don’t know what these right things are and because they so often mistake the superficial for the profound, they wind up with husbands or boyfriends or even self-declared “dominants” who are completely incapable of meeting their needs.

Now, because I do know the right things to look for in a man, Mr. Peeper didn’t disappointment me. After I’d pathetically repeated “I’m your bitch!” for the seventh or eighth time, he said offhandedly, “Yeah, you are baby. So let’s talk.” He rolled out of me and off me with an embarrassing and painful pop. After I’d begged a pee break and stuffed some tissue in my crack to stanch the slow but steady drip of blood from my anus, we sat cross-legged across from each other on my stained sheet and discussed the nature, meaning, and direction of our “relationship,” such as it was, in the matter-of-fact, self-aware, dispassionate, and intelligent manner I expected, no, was certain he was capable of before I heard a single word from his mouth. We talked in a sort of shortcut fashion, that very smart people who recognize whom they are dealing with sometimes use with each other, only occasionally pausing to make sure that a particularly obscure or abstruse concept that one or the other experienced most people stumbling over was fully understood by the other before going on. Even our invented terms were quickly and often instantaneously understood by the other. The pauses for explanation were mostly unnecessary, and I felt some minor satisfaction that I had also predicted this long weeks ago. Of course, I didn’t let on to you, my readers, that I knew I was dealing with a known factor, as that would have loosened the tension of the story up until this point.

But please understand that nothing I related before was a lie. I do NOT lie and I would not lie to you. Every emotion I reported, every outrage and confusion I said I felt, I actually felt, and felt very strongly, but what I did not report was that underneath that surface turmoil was a calm feeling of certainty, an assurance, a knowledge that the pathos and lust and frustration and confusion were all just one layer of a complex game between two people that on deeper levels was all about recognition and greeting and humor. Such is the way of life for all people, I believe, if only we have the sense to perceive it… or the words to describe it to ourselves. Layers upon layers, levels upon levels, world without end.

Our conversation lasted hours and ranged from topics such as the best techniques for lucid dreaming to the strange rise and even stranger withdrawal of the Mongols, to the influence of Arabic geometric-patterned architecture upon the consciousness to the details of the clear (at least, to us) emotional and physical language used by animals, etc. but the basics were established quickly in between all this intellectual roaming: I was his bitch because I acknowledged his power over me now as I had from the start of my exhibitionistic sexual displays within his viewing. With this behavior, my body had clearly said to his: “See this? It is mine but it is also yours! I give it to you!” He had, in turn, conveyed in a similar language: “Stand back! She is mine! Don’t move away – you belong to me!” Like the mottled colors and patterns that ripple over the bodies of squids our unconscious behavior toward each other was pregnant with meaning that each understood and responded to.

Limits of any sort would be imposed only by him–not me, obviously, as any other arrangement would negate the purpose and driving urgency of the relationship for both of us. In other words, I could not and would not ever say “No” to him. This relationship was all about needs: his need to use someone as if they were a totally responsive and pliant piece of mindless but feeling flesh, to pleasure himself and not care about his partner’s feelings whatever they might be, and to hurt and overpower and crush and victoriously mark the loser scornfully with his essential aggressive essence: the white, gooey product of his venomous pleasure. I, in turn, had an equally intense need to never win in this relationship: to be vanquished, overpowered, outmaneuvered, but only by someone genuinely capable of this, as my essentially honest personality never could stomach “pretending” to lose to a man weaker than myself. I needed someone arrogant enough, sure enough to do evil things to me! and ruthless enough to ignore my heartfelt and genuine pleas for mercy and respite: someone willing to take me to hell, over and over again, simply because it was “fun” for him.

Lest this story sound too cerebral, let me remind you that during the whole of our talk but especially as the relationships essentials were revealed and instantly agreed upon and the waltz of our conversation started to slow, sometimes only with a word or two, he, whose name I finally learned was Gregory, began to exercise his prerogatives over me. Often I’d be in the middle of a sentence when he’d tell me harshly to shut up. I obeyed instantly of course, intensely enjoying both my frustration at not being allowed to speak a thought fully and also my fear of breaking the silence. He’d smile at my silence in the most smug and aggravating manner and begin a completely different topic of conversation. I wouldn’t speak until he told me. Sometimes, instead of telling me to shut up, he grabbed me by my hair and pulled my head in his lap. Once I was there, he’d launch into a long tale or theory, sometimes choking me as he did a few days ago in my apartment vestibule, sometimes shoving my head onto his cock where I slurped and sucked and pleasured him as he spoke to me in a manner that can only be described as condescendingly professorial. At those times, his long index finger often found its way deep into my ass, occasionally wiggling and scratching at its sensitive walls as if to make sure I didn’t forget it was there (that’d be the day!). Just as quickly and unexpectedly, he’d push my head away roughly, often at a point where I knew he was intensely involved. I accepted these “rejections” matter-of-factly as my due, but sometimes pretended to willfully return to my burrowing worship, simply so I could feel the electrifying shock of a hard slap to my face or ass.

After one such incident, he didn’t stop slapping. Wham! his open hand slammed into one facial cheek and then the other, like a shutter banging violently against a house in a storm. Long before the pain got very bad, I became woozy, fading in and out of consciousness. Had he not been holding my head up by my long hair, I would have slumped onto the bed. As it was, the pain in my skull, rather than the pain on my face, barely kept me conscious and as I stared directly in his eyes, I decided to “open” myself as wide as I could, baring my honest soul’s mixed reaction to his brutality. He responded by directing a hard and totally unexpected punch to my belly, which both knocked the air out of me and knocked me flat on the bed. Growling in rage and lust he leapt upon my chest, his cock thrusting hard at my gasping mouth. When I tried to take him in, I clearly hadn’t gotten my breath back and panted around his shaft, licking and trying to swallow air at the same time. Mercifully, ! he waited until the worst of the spasms passed and I was able to take in a deep breath of air. Then, for a long time, he braced himself against the headboard and there was no mercy at all. My world became reduced to one thing: his huge cock shoving deep in my throat. Everything else – pleasing him, breathing around the edges, trying not to gag – revolved around the central fact: his penis shoved deep in my mouth, moving in and out roughly and seemingly without regard for my efforts to lick it or suck it. My mouth and throat, he showed me, were at that moment just a soft passive canal for his energetic thrusts, a masturbatory tool almost. As he thrust himself violently down my throat, then pulled out, then thrust so very hard once again, bruising my alimentary canal, I fully realized at that moment that not only was there nothing I could do to stop him, no matter how strong my need, but that “I”– the personality with the brains and the feelings and the needs – did not exist for him, except in the small way that my suffering under this violent mouth rape increased his enjoyment of the act. I could be anyone or anything in the world, all that was required was a warm, soft, wet, submissive tunnel in a naked female body. I closed my eyes, savoring the peculiar ecstasy that only a submissive experiences when faced with the degrading fact of her total non-existence in front of another, much more demanding and arrogant presence. But an unexpected and hilarious thought too soon broke this perfect state. My dear confused feminist girlfriends at work would never, in a billion years, imagine the aggressive, articulate, no-bullshit, take-no-prisoners leader they worked with shriveling into blissful non-existence in response to a thrusting, demanding, and utterly insistent masculine life force, because they, just as much as their submissive sisters, tend to judge books only by their covers.

He came very deep in my throat, my head pressed into his groin, nose tickled by the hair above his genitals, mouth painfully stretched to its limit. I was kicking my feet and spasmodically pushing against his body with my arms in an attempt to catch my breath, but he held my head firmly in place, so his shaft remained buried to the hilt in my throat. To my surprise he shot another copious load deep into my esophagus. Its panicked spasms–due to my lack of air–pushed his sperm down into my stomach. Suddenly he’d let go of me and as I took a huge, grateful gasp of air, I heard him shout: “Swallow it, bitch! SWALLOW!” Before I had time to react and gulp down the last bits of his sperm, he was ordering in a cold and almost angry-sounding tone, “Now clean me off, you cunt! Quickly! I have places to go today.” He leaned back on his elbows, sighing in pleasure as I licked his balls and cock clean of sperm. When I finished, I felt a burst of affection for this strange cruel man who treats me exactly the way I need to be treated. I lay my head on Greg’s lower belly and hugged his hips hard, kissing his belly gently as I did so. He chuckled and said in a tone of voice that clearly denied the harshness of his words, “Get off me you whore, I have important things to do today and you’re making me have to pee.”

I rolled off him quickly, smiling, and said something cocky back. I believe all I said was, “Peeing is VERY IMPORTANT to men!” but it caused a surprisingly big reaction. WHACK! A heavy painful cuff to my face sent me rolling off the bed backwards and onto the floor. I sat there on my bare bottom looking up at him in stunned surprise; I hadn’t had time to figure out if I should get angry or cry. And he didn’t give me the chance to. Standing up in front of me, he grabbed me by the hair, yelling “Kneel,” as he jerked me up into that position. When I was kneeling before him he ordered, less loudly, “Take my cock in your mouth.” I did, automatically beginning to suck and lick him. “Stop!” he said. “Just hold it there.” I stopped moving my mouth, staring up at him inquiringly.

A few seconds later my unspoken question was answered. My eyes widened in shock as a hot stinking gush of pee began filling my mouth and throat. “Mmm!” I exclaimed in panic, meaning of course, “What am I going to do, it tastes horrible and in a second it’s going to spill out onto the floor!” “Swallow.” he said, looking at me with a smug expression on his face. “Swallow it all.” I must have looked doubtful, because he added a moment later, “If you spill any of my piss, cunt, you’ll have to lick it all up off the floor and then I’ll beat you so hard you’ll have to call an ambulance.” I swallowed the vile stinking stuff, gagging as I did so but managing to keep it down as he filled my mouth up with a second load. The second swallow was just as bad, as were the third, fourth, fifth and sixth. I stopped counting after that. His bladder was extremely full with overnight piss, and when it occurred to me that its foul taste was probably do to its concentration, I nearly threw up again. The last swallow seemed the worst. I held it in my mouth for a long time, before gulping it down when he gave the order to swallow again. Once again he made me clean his penis off and as I did I grew sicker and sicker feeling. I begged him to let me run to the bathroom to barf, and he laughed hard and said sure. I barely made it. His foul swill tasted even worse coming up than it had going down, and I dry heaved for a good five minutes after all the liquid was out of me.

After cleaning up and gargling to get the sour taste out of my mouth, I walked back into the bedroom to find my evil lover lying on his stomach in the middle of the bed. “Get on me and massage me,” he ordered and so I straddled him, rubbing his muscles as best I could with my dry hands. I slowly worked down from the back of his head to his hips. Touching him was turning me on again, so I used some of the standard massage seduction tricks with him: brushing his body lightly with my long hair and the tips of my nipples, randomly and apparently unintentionally; casually squatting down so he could feel my bare and wet cunt lips lightly touching his lower back and buttocks; rubbing carefully those spots where the back meets the hips that are erogenous zones for most people. I knew my techniques were working when I saw him growing hard, but as often seemed to happen with him, he didn’t respond in an expected manner.

“Rim me!” he ordered brusquely. I blushed scarlet in humiliation, as I thought about what that act entailed. I had never been with a man who had wanted that done before, but I had read about it and knew in general what to do. I lay down on the bed between his legs, my legs hanging over the edge and scooted forward as far as I could. It somehow felt disrespectful to spread his asscheeks so instead I buried my face between them until my tongue found his anal ring. I licked very hard on the skin around it and pushed hard with my tongue on the ring itself, but discovered I was too ashamed and reticent to go further. “Come on slut, bury your tongue in my ass! Clean me up in there the same way you cleaned off my cock after I came,” he ordered soon enough. I moaned in defeated humiliation but did as he said: if I stopped to think about what I was about to do, I would freeze up. I scrunched my eyes even more tightly shut than they already were and dived as deep as I could.

I wiggled my tongue around and around, pressing HARD, as I intuited that would feel the best, sometimes sucking or pressing with my lips at the outside at the same time, and he groaned with pleasure in response. I made sure to come out every few seconds and lick the skin directly between his asshole and his balls, again with firm long licks, as well. My right hand, of course, was already gently fondling his balls – I had heard that there were direct and very sensual nerve connections between a man’s ass and his balls and he’d get the most pleasure if you stimulated both at the same time, as well as the skin in-between. “How do you like the taste of my dirty bunghole, bitch?” the peeping tom asked laughingly. “Clean it well now!” Oh god, how shameful it felt to lick someone in that place! I had once been asked by my online friend Petrus, when he was still amazed at the depth of my love for humiliation, how low I was willing to go. “Is there any act you would find beneath you, too subservient to perform and still retain some vestige of self-dignity?” The question had made no sense to me, as the more subservient the act, the lower it made me feel, the more sexy it was for me. Also, I was unable to grasp what he meant about self-dignity. Either I didn’t have any at all or I had so much that it wasn’t bothered by performing acts like this. I wasn’t sure which was true, but at any rate it just didn’t enter into an equation that involved hot and demeaning humiliation. I wasn’t able to answer him, except to say that in general terms I didn’t like scat or vomit, because they made me physically sick. Had I thought of ass-rimming or drinking a man’s smelly piss at that time, I probably would have added them to my short list, but now here I was, my tongue buried two inches up a man’s hairy and not completely clean rear end after having drank at least three cups of piss, and I was doing pretty good.

Actually, I was doing much better than “pretty good.” I was really getting off on the idea that I was pleasuring him by putting my mouth in contact with the foulest and dirtiest spot on his body. By licking his ass and probably his shit, a most unpleasant and degrading experience for me, he was being intensely pleasured physically. The extreme difference between his experience and my own, and the difference in level and station this signified made me shiver in helpless lust. Only the most degraded and obsequious little girl toy would stoop to licking a man’s uncleaned ass. Only a slave to men, capable of seeing herself as dirt under their feet would being willing to put her mouth and tongue in direct contact with their bodily filth, simply to pleasure them physically.

During the few minutes that I licked this glorious man’s ass clean, I felt as humbled and fouled as I had ever felt in my life. My role in life, I realized viscerally (after having discussed it intellectually with him before), was to prostrate myself before men like him and let them treat me like the sub-human animal that I was, put on earth simply to pleasure and to serve them. And if I resisted their desires, it was their right to beat the crap out of me or otherwise impart punishment until I perfectly obeyed their wills once more and stopped thinking of myself. In fact it was their right to beat me any time they wished, if hurting me brought them pleasure. The more I forgot my needs, the more I forgot my self, the happier I would be and the better servant I could make. Of course, I couldn’t maintain this state of service 24 hours a day, all the time, but when I was in contact with Greg, I would do my best to let him grind me under his heel – while having an orgasm doing so!

Speaking of orgasms, the man I was pleasuring was getting impatient for his own and interrupted my steamy submissive reverie by ordering me up on all fours. Then I had to put my head on the bed, so that my fat brown ass stuck up in the air. He savaged me (that’s the only word that described the very hard, fast, brutal fucking that ensued) in my sore cunt this time, tearing open the places ripped by Petrus that had begun to try to heal. Luckily for me, I was soaking wet from the rimming I had been forced to give him and that limited the damage that was done. But before it was over, I was bleeding badly both on the inside and the outside of my pussy. It was hard to keep my back arched and ass in the air: he was pounding me so hard that my head was beginning to ache from being pressed into the mattress. To my relief, he shoved my ass down to bed level after a short while, but ordered me to stay arched, my bottom displayed invitingly to him.

After a long, long time of hard fucking he pulled out of my cunt and shocked me by shoving his dick back up my ass. Once again I screamed bloody murder as he sodomized me – I would never get used to this pain, I thought – and once again he laughed and made fun of me for being such a subservient and degraded toy. He seemed to get great pleasure from comparing me with other women he knew: his girlfriend, his female friends at work, his “online bitches,” as he called his female cyber-acquaintances, and discussed how none of them in a million years would drink a man’s piss or let him beat them bloody between the legs for fun or sodomize them. All of them, even if they weren’t physically able to resist him, would call the cops and report his treatment of them as a crime. But, he crowed, he knew that I would never do such a thing, because I felt that this painful, degrading, dirty treatment was what I deserved.

His filthy and demeaning talk made me shiver with desire, despite the anal pain. I needed to play with myself bad, and so I snuck my hand under my slightly raised hips and onto my pussy and began frantically rubbing myself. He noticed immediately. “Who said you could diddle yourself? I didn’t give you permission to do that.” he said ominously. “I … I got really turned on by servicing you earlier, the ass licking, and then again by your degrading me just now.” He laughed loudly at my pitiful explanation, pulled me up by the hair and slapped my head a few times so hard I saw stars. As he dropped my head to the mattress he said magnimoniously, “You can continue to diddle yourself. It amuses me that it turns you on to think of how debased and lacking self-respect you are compared to other girls.” “I’m glad it does!” I said with considerable enthusiasm. “I like to amuse you.” “You do, slut, you do. Now get GOING!” he said laughingly and slapped my ass.

As if to encourage me, he reminded me that a few days ago I thought that this ass (he slapped it again) belonged to me, and me alone. He explained that he knew even back then, even when he first caught a glimpse of me through his window, that my fat round bottom was his or would be his shortly. I blushed in shame to think that I’d been precisely maneuvered, herded almost, over the weeks until I found myself in this degrading ass-in-the-air, holes-completely-open-for-anything, position while all the time I thought that I had been a free agent making my own choices. “If you knew that from the start,” I challenged him as he painfully reamed my ass, “how come you didn’t mention it when we were talking earlier as equals?” His answer was immediate, “So I could take you down even further at the appropriate moment.” Well, it had worked. I groaned in degraded shame mixed with pleasure and despite the pain began moving my hips to meet his cock, rubbing myself harder. I was getting very close.

“STOP!” he yelled suddenly, and I moaned in agony as I removed my hand from my clit. Without the pleasure to counteract it, the pain in my bottom magnified and I began to cry from it. “Please, can I play with myself?” I asked, sobbing, without much hope of a positive answer. “That’s a tough judgment call.” he said contemplatively. “On the one hand, the obvious pain I’m causing you is really arousing me. On the other hand, your anus began to tighten and spasm on me as you neared orgasm and that also felt real good.” He paused to grab my hips and slam his cock into my abdomen viciously for a minute or so. “Ok, baby, I’ve decided to let you play with yourself, but draw it out – don’t cum right away. And don’t expect it every time. Sometimes you’re just going to have to suffer.” “Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU!” I said gratefully, and began to play with myself again, stopping each time I got close. Finally he said, “Your ass spasms are driving me crazy, you whore. I’m ready to spurt, so cum now, quickly!”

I had been so close to the edge for so long that obeying him took a matter of seconds. As I came I screamed, half in pleasure, half in agony, as he drove into my squeezing ass harder than ever. He came in me as my orgasm slowly diminished pushing so far up my butt that I thought he’d entered my intestines. I screamed again, as I vividly imagined my intestines ripping under his violent thrusts. When it was all over he lay on me, as before, panting and resting. I continued to cry from the intensity of it all – I was completely overwhelmed and defeated in that moment, completely his, and in that frame of mind I would have unquestioningly and immediately have done anything he said, even if it was to set myself on fire. Luckily for me, he just lay on top of me, a fold of skin from my shoulder held tightly between his teeth. He was biting down hard enough to break the skin. No strapless tops for me for awhile. At the very least, the bite would leave a large, ugly bruise. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed, and he began gently snoring on top of me. I’d always found it a comforting feeling when a large and heavy man fell asleep on top of me and this was no exception. I shut my eyes, feeling his body pressing me down in the mattress, and tried to sleep myself.

I must have succeeded because the next thing I knew, I was jolted awake by the peeper rolling off me and onto his back. I turned my head and gazed at him sleepily. He looked wide-awake, and, oh god no, he had that mean look in his eyes again. I was starting to recognize that expression. “I’ve gotta get out of here, baby, things to do,” he said, “so be a doll and clean me off, quickly.” I looked at his cock, and saw to my horror and embarrassment that it had some shit streaks on it as well as semen and blood. He was looking at me, his sensual lips curled in a cruel smile. “Now cunt, not tomorrow!” he ordered, beginning to raise his hand. I tried to recover some of that dreamy sensuality I’d felt when rimming him, as I bent to my foul task, but the hormone composition in my body and brain was very different now, and all I felt was repulsion. “Lick off every last drop,” he sneered, as I cleaned him, trying hard not to breath through my nose. As long as I didn’t smell too much, it was awful and disgusting, but I probably wouldn’t throw up.

He didn’t make the job easier for me. “Look at you, you filthy slut, licking and swallowing your own shit. Think about what you’re doing, baby. You’re eating your own feces off of my cock. How does it taste?” At these words, my body tried to retch, and I barely contained it. That made him laugh, and rub it in, so to speak, even more. Although I wasn’t able to feel much at the time, I knew that later, when I thought about the pleasure he was getting out of making me lick shit off his cock, I would be very turned on. That it was giving him pleasure, I was certain. In addition to his sneering comments, his dick became slowly harder as I cleaned him. Finally I was done and kneeled up to look at him. “Now, lick your lips and say, ‘Yum, yum! I love eating my shit for you, Gregory!’ ” he told me. I did, and turned red as a beet as he laughed and laughed at me. “You filthy thing!” he said, his giggles dying down finally, “go wash your mouth out with soap and water!” I looked at him dubiously. “Yes, Really!” he said impatiently. “Go!”

He peeked in the bathroom a couple of times to make sure I was fulfilling my task properly and that sufficient foam was coming out of my mouth. When I finished and had rinsed as well as I could, I came out to find him dressed and ready to go. “I’m going to see you later in the week babe,” he whispered as he bent down to kiss the top of my head. “And so are some friends of mine.” With that threat hanging stalely in the air and turning my blood cold, he let himself out of the apartment.

Why did the threat of his friends seeing me turn my blood cold? Well, for many of the reasons I pointed out to you earlier in the theoretical portion of this story. My pride, what little of it I had left, centered around my ability to pick the right man to debase myself with. I knew from hard experience that a man’s personal friends, even his best friends, were seldom anything like the man himself. Give Greg’s amiable and charming temperament to anyone other than sluts like myself, he would have a wide circle of friends and most or even all of them would be the type of man I would never give myself to or submit to as wholeheartedly as I had to Greg. When the dreaded day came to pass later this week, I would probably be confronted with a bunch of clueless, leering, slobbering, dorky, ugly BOYS whom I had no interest even in exchanging informalities with but, knowing Greg, before the evening was over, those undeserving creeps would know me almost as intimately as he did! Undeserving… I remember when I used to think the same thing about Mr. Peeping Tom, but deep inside I sensed he had more going for him than most men did and also that he was probably a person with perversions compatible with (that is, as extreme as) my own. But these friends of his were another matter. The chance of any of them being special in the way he was were dismally small. Whatever else this “meet the friends” night was, it was going to involve a strong humbling for me. I hoped I would be able to control my rage. Screaming and yelling at anything that happened would just get me worse treatment, I knew Greg well enough to realize that about him. But still… I imagined their stupid leers, their groping and pawing, their arrogance and my (probably) required subservience to these Cro-Magnons. ARGH!!!! Maybe I would just disappear later this week. Get seriously “ill” or something. Maybe I could tell him I was on the rag. No! That one wouldn’t work with him, he’d just say “Great! More fun for us all embarrassing you.”

And then there was the matter of my curiosity: my Achilles’ Heel. I had to know what horrible things he had in store for me, even if I wound up hating them. And so the days passed, slowly, and I went about my daily routine, with the exception of taking extra care of my pussy and anus so they would heal. I made sure to leave my bedroom curtains open so my sicko friend could watch my ministrations to those damaged areas. It was hard for awhile: I could barely use the bathroom without incredible pain, and when I bent over and looked at my anus through my legs in the shower wall mirror, it was black and blue-ringed and puffy! My face, as well, was bruised considerably and everyone at work heard about the terrifying “mugging” I experienced, which my neighbor across the airshaft valiantly saved me from.

The weekend came and I was far from healed but Greg called me to say we’d be going out Saturday night with his “friends.” Oh, I asked innocently, “and what are we going to do?” “I thought we’d take in a movie the old fashioned way,” was his surprising response. “You know, over at Bob’s Thrill-a-Chill Drive-in.” Car sex, my jaded mind decided. That’s what it had to be. With the added thrill of it being done right there in a public lot with cars all around. OK, I can handle this, no matter how dorky his friends turn out to be. “Wear a mini-skirt, cunt, so you look sexy for my friends,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “And of course, no panties for me.” Yeah, right. I got your number, Greg, I thought smugly, and, of course, incorrectly. I decided I’d wear a flouncy mini with a wide skirt for comfort and perhaps to save me some semblance of decency. If anyone fucked me in a tight mini, it would have to be rolled up to my waist in order for my legs to spread. But in this flouncy, cheerleader style skirt, I might be able to spread it out and cover both sets of genitals, saving me a little bit of humilation.

Greg showed up promptly at 8 on Friday, his three friends in tow, and aside from making me kneel down on my apartment floor and nuzzle their cocks over their jeans (because a lowly slut needs to pay my friends proper respect, G. explained as they sniggered at my humiliation), nothing happened. We went out to the car, two guys in front, Greg and a second guy in back, me in the uncomfortable middle spot, naturally. Although it was a warm night, the car stayed cool from the breeze flowing in the open sunroof. In fact, the sunroof wasn’t just open, it was missing. I hoped the car wasn’t missing any of its essential pieces. This drive-in was notorious for letting high-school kids in to see that sleazy kind of triple-X low-budget horror film of which thousands have been made. You know, the kind whose mottos are “The Only Good Victim is a Nude Victim!” and “Monster Fucking is FUN!” (If you don’t know what I mean, you may want to visit this website, an expert on the genre: ). At least it was cheap. I wanted to pay my own way, but Greg refused, confirming my belief that I’d be paying in other ways before the night was over.

The guy driving the car, I think his name was Mark or maybe Gary, drove slowly through the lot, abandoning a good number of decent viewing spots. To my nervous dismay, he stopped the car between two vehicles that were crammed to the gills with teenage boys…and not a single girl to be seen. This would guarantee that anything odd that went on in our car would be sure to be noticed by many very interested eyes. In fact, the teens had already spotted me between Greg and his other large friend and were whispering and pointing in our direction. “I think we need to spread out a little in here, it’s especially crowded in back” Greg said causally, and his friends agreed it was a good idea. Here it comes, I thought to myself. I expected at this point to be told to sit on someone’s lap, which would conveniently have its fly open.

But that’s not what happened. Instead, Greg ordered me out of the car and told me to go sit on the roof of the car. “That way we’ll all have room to see the movie,” he said out loud. In an underbreath he added to me that he expected my skirt to be spread and my bare ass to fit itself directly into the sunroof’s hole. “Scoot it down about a foot or two,” he ordered. Blushing beet red but not daring to disobey him I climbed up on the car from the trunk, hoping I’d be less noticed that way. No such luck. I heard the “Hey Babes!” and wolf whistles begin almost immediately. In case you’ve never tried it before, it is impossible to climb up the back of a car to its roof in an impossibly short skirt without something showing. I did the very best I could, but heard the dreaded cry of “Woo! No panties!” before I reached the relative safety of the top. Putting it off as long as possible I spread my skirt around me and scrunched slowly over to the sunroof. The guys in at least four cars were actively staring at me now. I must have made a very curious sight.

The moment of truth came all too soon and I let my bare bottom and pubes slide down into the hole of the sunroof. The only way I could fit myself made my hips stretch to their sides exposing my cunt and asshole perfectly to the men in the car below. “Woo!” yelled one of Greg’s friends at the top of his lungs. “We have bare pussy, men!” said another. Greg told the guy in front to switch on the interior car lights so that they could all see better. Oh god, if they did that, anyone looking through their window would see my fat ass hanging down. “I’m going to get out the flashlights,” I heard Greg casually tell the car occupants. “I want to really shine a light on this subject. They all giggled at that, I swear they giggled, like a pack of young boys doing something incredibly illicit and nasty. Greg opened the back door and leaving it wide open (no, Greg, NO!) got out to open the trunk. “Oh wow, look at that!” said one of the kids in the next car. “Yeah,” said another guy from the same car. “Those lucky fucks!” “Don’t worry, you’ll get your turn later, Greg said in their general direction. They said more things but I tried not to listen. I was burning red with shame. Not only was everything I considered deeply private perfectly exposed to Greg and his weird friends in this horribly humiliating position, but later I’d be gazed at by strange teenage boys, as well. It was almost too much to bear and the temptation to jump off the car was strong.

But I managed to stay where I was, looking at the movie, the sky, the lights of the city in the distance, anything but nearby as Greg and Company shone a couple of flashlights directly at my shaved twat, giving everyone parked close a great view of what was happening inside the car, and as they proceeded to fondle and stroke my cunt and ass, pull my pussy lips, pinch my ass cheeks, stick their fingers up my two holes, lick and bite me (sometimes quite hard), spread me as wide as they could, twist my clit around between their fingers, and stick things up me. One guy found a little American flag on the floor of the car and stuck it, with several strong gasps of pain from me, up my ass. They then insisted I “wave the flag” to show my patriotism. The play got a little meaner later: someone, probably Greg, stuck a few needles through my thin labia lips and then held a lighter to the pins until I was begging him in a terrified and agonized voice to stop. Of course I got wet, I have the automatic slut response, and of course they noticed and made fun of it. After almost an hour of this, they removed the pins and flag, and started inviting the highschool guys in to ogle my parts and feel me up. To my great humiliation, Greg charged them: fifty cents for five minutes just to look, $1.50 for the same amount of time but with touching added. As each boy came up he’d make sure to mention my name “So you want to see my girlfriend XXXX XXX do you? Well her very best side is on display in the car right now. Oh, you want to touch her nasty whorish slit? That’ll cost you $1.50 my man, but it’s well worth the price!”

The touching and the giggling that accompanied this made me so self-conscious and ashamed of my body. All I was a disembodied cunt and ass to these boys: that’s all they saw when they were in the car, and their bold, rough touches and filthy comments made it clear to me that they didn’t see me as a real person at all. Just a curvaceous collection of female parts sticking through a hole. I felt more dehumanized than I ever have in my life. I had been reduced to my bottom and twat, nothing else of me was of interest to the constant stream of young men who lined up at the car for a chance to ogle and fondle me. One guy spread my buttocks wide then put his cigarette out on the sensitive skin inside the crack. Greg just tsk-tsked and told him to ask permission next time. To my embarrassment I found myself begging Greg to grease me up a little later in the evening. The constant pokes up my cunt and asshole were making me extremely dry and sore. He made me wait a long time after I asked him but eventually bought a box of buttered popcorn, poured the popcorn out, then used the sickenly buttery grease in the bottom of the tub to lube me with. Except he didn’t do the lubing: he let a couple of the “paying customers” do so, and they buttered me up with great enthusiasm and thoroughness. I don’t remember everything that was done to me: I know besides the usual maulings, there were spankings and beatings with sharp objects that made me almost scream. There were more needles put in me and more lighter and cigarette play.

One boy, he couldn’t have been more than 15 judging by the way his voice was cracking, begged Greg to let him put “just the head” of his penis into my asshole. Greg agreed after he gave him five dollars and the boy must have done some interesting gymnastics in the car to get his cock up high enough but eventually I felt him poking away at my asshole. Eventually he got past my tight opening and I began to whimper with pain. I was still sore from the things Greg had done to me a week ago. Of course he wasn’t satisfied with just the head and immediately began thrusting into my ass as hard and as deep as he could. He came as Greg was angrily (or pretend angrily) yanking him out of me and I had the further humiliation of the remaining men and boys seeing the sperm dripping out of my bottom onto the seat beneath. Many more of them begged Greg to let them fuck me after that but he refused them all, saying the only guys he could trust to do that were his good friends.

Sometime well into the third movie, Greg let me come down and he and his pals stripped me in the car and began seriously using me. They all took turns, often leaving the doors open so there would be more room and a crowd gathered to watch them rape me. I was terrified but acquiesced to it all as well as I could. What was I going to do? Run screaming away buck naked through a parking lot full of horny young men? Each one of Greg’s friends fucked me viciously and wildly as if he’d never screwed a woman before and pretty soon all three of my holes were aching bad. When they were all done, Greg insisted that I walk naked and alone to the concession stand and bring them all back cokes. Walking all the way to that stand totally nude and hearing the hoots and whistles and invitations as I walked by each car was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. Walking back was worse: several guys had their cameras out by then and were busily snapping flash shots at me. Back at the car, I got a rest period, so to speak. This meant I lay across the laps of two of Greg’s friends, sucking one of them off (again!) while the other played with my bottom in irritating and painful ways. I was so numbed by the constant and extreme humiliation and use of my body that I felt just then that I was just Greg’s thing, his toy, and that I had no will of my own but would just do whatever he said without hesitation. But I was to learn later I still had some fight left in me.


© 2003 Unda. Crucia. Eximius.

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