* * *
She was just a highschool dropout. Sixteen and a life of adventures in front of
her. As it often turns out, the first real adventure almost destroyed her. She
was just white trash, looking to charm and cheat and fuck her way through this
existence. She was fucked, alright.
The newspapers were full of the story for a couple of days. The headlines were
screaming in disharmonic unison for a while, excited black exclamations trying
to outdo each other with condensed stories of terror and depravity. For a couple
of days I felt like every headline, every news announcement, every hyperlink on
every website was taken out of a pulp porn novel. Of course, it had to do with
complicated racial and social structure and relationships of this society. Put
bluntly, Rachel (as her name was) was white, fair-haired and pretty damn
attractive. The difference between her photos of "before" and "after" that media
generously recycled for our comparing pleasure was telling. "Before" was showing
a blonde smiling for the camera, sixteen and carefree, invulnerable and
immortal, nasty and irresistible, she was a natural flirt, one would say. A
natural slut, if you want. Oink. "After" was a sorry mess of skin and bones with
bags below her eyes and a gaze in her eyes suggesting that eight weeks of
imprisonment and exploitation made her grow older than she ever imagined she
Media were alternately raining tears over her unfortunate fate and righteous
rage over the fact that the society we live in allows such perverts to breed.
Media were calling for mobilisation against evil ones that walk among us,
unnoticed, concealed by their everyday appearance and good manners. It was a bit
of a scandal, really, Rachel was not just held prisoner and repeatedly raped by
some unnamed bunch of scumbags, truck drivers and unemployed blacks, she was
rented, borrowed and generally made available for certain amounts of time to
some of the respectable members of our community. Businessmen, even the odd
politician were also part of the picture. Some heads rolled, some resignations
were made. It seems we're all one big family when it comes to gangbanging:
racial, class and cultural boundaries erased in a storm of faceslaps, insults,
fistfucks, cigarettes extinguished on skin, anal bleeding, nipples almost ripped
from flesh, swollen, purple lips...
Thousands of Mexican and Venezuelan and Chinese girls and women who suffered
similar fates never got into the news the way Rachel did. It was funny, talking
to some Hispanic people at some party, I was amused at how shocked they were
with this story and how eagerly they demanded the justice to be done. They were
trying so hard to blend into the white, suburban, middle-class picture that it
was absurd. I was a bit drunk as usual and I didn't mind telling them that they
were a sorry bunch of hypocrites and that they got brainwashed by the media
designed by The Man, lost to the fact of how many women of their kind failed to
make the news with similar or worse stories. I was called racist by the end of
that conversation. Hell....
But I digress. Normally, this story wouldn't have made much of an impact on me,
another grim tale from the bowels of uncaring metropolis, they come a dime a
dozen these days.
But, you know, normality is not where I hang out these days. You won't usually
find me there, no sir.
* * *
"You are nothing."
She hurts in relative silence.
"You are nothing waiting to be destroyed."
I usually do not gag Clarissa during our torture sessions. I love to listen to
her: I have always been turned on by female moans of pleasure or pain. When I
was a kid I was of course confused and unsure whether the difference existed at
all. Adulthood generally brings wisdom in this area, yet with Clarissa near me,
I am confused again. With her, the difference is blurred. Does it even exist?
Hell, I don't know.
Another reason I preferred her not to be gagged is of course because I wanted
her mouth to be available at all times. Forcing her to give me oral pleasure not
only made her feel degraded and used, it also made me feel big and strong and in
charge. Everybody's a winner, right?
But she hurts in relative silence now. I have gagged her as I suspect this is
what she wanted. I can still hear her muffled moans and screams of pain/
pleasure/ pain, the fact that they are coming through and around a piece of
cloth brutally tied around her head (none of those fancy industry standard mass
market ball-gags for me, no thank you, I am DIY at heart) makes it all a bit
more interesting really.
"You are a worthless nothing. I am disgusted looking at you wallowing in your
She was forced to drink a lot of fluid this evening. First it was wine and then
just water, glass after glass. When she couldn't take any more and tried to
refuse, she was punished with breast-whipping and some nipple twisting. I have
learned to switch my mind off in a way. I am an epitome of efficiency, a model
tormentor. She drank more, she spilled much of it but swallowed the rest. She
begged me to stop and eventually I did. Then I fucked her.
She was whipped and fucked hard. Her breasts got tied. I fucked her arse and her
mouth, I fucked her swollen, painful breasts. I made her suck me, gently, like a
teenage girl in love for the first time, while I hurt her breasts. I fucked her
in the arse, pulling her hair back so hard she was screaming in pain. I whipped
her arse. I made her suck my cock, swallow it, clean it with her tongue.
"You are despicable. You make me sick, cunt. You dirty bitch. I am going to get
a bunch of horny cops to fuck all your holes, to tear your dirty cunt apart, to
ram their truncheons down your arse. I think I'll sell you to them, so they can
have their own slut to rape as they please. You'd love that wouldn't you?
She moans, she says some words, they are hard to make out, but I know she is
telling me she loves me as her only master, I know, despite all the pain and
agony I am causing, she is swearing allegiance.
I came twice and my cock is red and hurting, I came all over her face and hair,
I made her clean my cock. She didn't come once. I made sure I interrupted her
every time I felt she was nearing climax.
As a result, one of the results, she was about to explode. The constant
attention her cunt was getting made her equal parts desperate to cum and
desperate to pee. She begged me to let her use the toilet. Yeah, like that would
happen. I did take her to the bathroom. But just because I didn't want her
ruining my carpet. I mean, anyone in my position would do the same, right? I did
take her to the bathroom, I did drag her to the bathroom, tied her wrists to the
pipe feeding off the sink, spread her on the floor. I made her do it there, on
the floor. She cried and begged and she shivered with humiliation, but it was
stronger than her. Finally she cracked and, tears flowing and all, she let her
urine on the floor, and I moved closer in to take better photos of a golden
stream coming out of her body. She was crying uncontrollably by the time it
finished, and it lasted, it lasted a long time. I laughed at her and called her
"I bet you'd suck every single of their truncheons and beg them to ram them into
your dirty asshole, wouldn't you, bitch? You'd love to be fucked that way, I
know. You'd beg them to force fuck you, three or four at a time, am I right?
You'd beg them to feed you with their sperm and to piss all over you, right? I
see how much you enjoy bathing in your own piss. You'd beg them to let you fuck
their dogs, slut, you'd never get enough, you'd suck and fuck each and every of
their German shepherds. You're a bitch, a true bitch and you yearn to be fucked
Where do I come up with this stuff? It works, though. It does, she is shivering,
but this is a different kind of fever to the ones I know first hand.
Her stockings are torn and tattered, I was rather harsh today. She looks even
more attractive that way. High heels, her chains and a big black dildo shoved up
her ass. I whip her some more. I spit into her hair and whisper more insults and
threats into her ear. I place clamps on her nipples. I light a candle and take
the time explaining what I'm going to do with it. I drip hot wax over her
breasts, over her belly, thighs, around her cunt. I take the dildo that is
buried in her ass and fuck her with it, grinding her clit between my fingers
simultaneously. She is about to cum, but not yet.
Not before I take photos of her. I even use some additional light, I want them
to look good, not just the usual Internet homemade porn smut. I want every
detail of her degradation, of her agony, of her horniness, of her beauty, of her
uniqueness to be captured. I have a plan for her. But she doesn't know about it
* * *
There's a little tormentor in every one of us. Kids torture bugs and cats and
dogs, don't they? There's a little master in every one of us. Who wouldn't want
to have a personal slave to use and abuse as one pleases? To torture and punish.
To own. Completely, without any reservations.
There is a little slave in every one of us. To be owned, to be possessed and
fucked, to be helpless, degraded, devoid of will.
To be protected.
There's a little master in every one of us. There's a little boy in every one of
us. In me, at least.
Not everyone is able to live up to their own wishes and dreams.
"silver in her gaze
gold in her fist
red in my eyes
don't you dare
you are not supposed to be brave
over and over
forever and thankful
I will crawl
I used to write poems when I was in secondary school. Some of them were
influenced by dreams. Some of the dreams were influenced by alcohol and glue and
later by cannabis and acid. Those were not great poems by any standard and I did
well to pursue my path in visual area rather than literal. But some of those
still make me shiver when I read them. I brought some of those all the way
across the ocean. Some of those are smarter that I have become through decades.
Some of those are prophecies. I don't believe in prophecies. Which means that
part of me, that unconscious part of me back then was perfectly aware of my
potentials and needs and wishes. It nailed it all down. It feels uncomfortable
to know that a boy tripping on a mixture of lager and acid and THC back in the
old dirty East London could understand a 30-something graphical designer fucking
lost in Illinois more than half a lifetime later...
The problem with dreams is that they make sense only as long as you're dreaming.
Once the REM phase stops and you wake up and try to live the dream, you are
defeated by the lack of substance. Is the dream to blame, or is it you?
I know it is me, through and through. And I am sorry but that's the way it is.
At least I realise that. A 15 years old London punk in a leather jacket with a
fucking crush, emailing his poems through a time tunnel helps me realise.
"my mother was a dog
my mother was a dog
my mother was not a bitch
my mother was a dog
what am I?"
* * *
Clarissa was reborn in her shame. She was a work of art divine. Her eyes closed
around his cock, still huge, still bigger than mine.
Clarissa was so wet and warm later that night. Or it was some other night? It
had to be another night, right? I was washed away that night, right? The
original night, I mean. I was drowned, wasn't I? I don't remember throwing up,
which could have done away with some of the alcohol still hanging around my
intestines and not yet breaking and entering into my bloodstream and ultimately
brain. I don't remember throwing up, and I sure as hell don't remember growing
up, no. I don't remember getting up and walking but it must have happened. She
was so warm and wet that night. Not sure which night, sorry, it's all a mess in
retrospect, but she was reborn in her shame, glistening like a star, she was
begging to be punished, crawling like a dog with broken legs.
And punished she was. I think...
I don't remember getting up and walking, but I think I remember standing up and
talking. Maybe it was a dream, but maybe not.
"...able to close your eyes. No matter how much you cry. I will nail your hands
to the floorboards. You won't be able to move. I will spread your legs as far as
they will go and then some until you scream and beg for mercy. And then some
more. You will feel your body pushed over the edge. You will. You will feel the
heat and you'll beg me not to burn you. Then you will beg me to fuck you because
you're a slut and you think this will save you from further punishment. You can
hope but I will teach you to abandon hope. I will tie your breasts 'til no blood
is able to get in anymore. I know you will cry. And you'll have to watch. All of
it. I will shove a candle up your arse and light the part sticking out. You will
feel the heat and you'll beg me not to burn you. You will beg me to fuck you.
You will beg me to fuck you. But I will not grant you your wish as you don't
deserve it. You will be whipped, your cunt and your breasts and your face and
your thighs, you will be whipped long and hard until you piss yourself. Then I
will release the dogs. You will get your fucking. You will thank me. And I'll
make sure you are the bitch I always knew you were. And I will leave you to
them. Nailed down, spread, punished."
Or something like that. Maybe it was a dream.
* * *
"Oh, God, no... That's not me..."
I can hear her voice racing through a whole range of emotions in just a brief
moment it takes to pronounce those six words.
"It is. That's you."
Her face is like a cloud of smoke going through endless metamorphosis, a
thousand different images in one second, some of them really there, some of them
only in my eye.
"Oh... my God..."
She knew I was taking those pictures. Still, she is shivering. She is shaking
her head in disbelief. She is looking at them for the first time. The counter on
the website says there have been eleven thousand something visitors before her
and it's only been up a couple of days. I didn't want to tell her about it
before. And she never asked about those photos, the good girl. The good, good
She is looking for words but are there any? What do you say when you run into
someone else's dream and find yourself there?
I am proud. For a while I will be proud.
I worked very carefully on those pictures. It was a labour of love and
dedication. For a moment, even, I felt like an artist, not just a designer. It
was a labour of love and dedication and passion. And hate and fear and passion.
I worked very carefully to capture the very essence of her submission, of her
agony and her humiliation. I worked very carefully to conceal her identity in
case her children or anyone else knowing her runs into this. You don't expect
your kids surfing private porn websites, but, hey, you don't expect yourself to
wake up old and dying one day and still it happens even to the best of us.
I sculpted her with light and shadows, using filters not to enhance the photos,
but to give them a dreamlike quality. Clarissa, a fantasy made flesh, a flesh
made light and darkness. Her body on those photos, an endless possibility of
shapes and textures. Where does it end, where does the imagination begin, eh,
boy? Her limbs, restrained and long, strange angles, suggesting pain but not
just pain, submission, but not just submission, there's more to it. There's a
sense of her being someone else there, something else even.
Contrasting tones of her stockings and her skin, her jewellery and her red, red
velvet between her lips and between her lips. Her eyes, black and bottomless,
closed on all the pictures, caught only one at a time, almost unimportant at
first glance, essential, truly essential. Her neck, her ankles and feet, high
heels, ropes, chains of silver, ring and black nails. Marks of punishment on the
skin, red, looking as if they were carved into her to stay there forever. Her
lips around the gag, dark and smeared with sperm. That's the only part of me
visible on those pictures. A golden stream between her thighs. Her breasts large
and dark red and so swollen from the rope, her nipples, clamped and so juicy
looking. God, I could eat them. Her anus, savaged and penetrated, stuffed with a
black, shiny dildo. Her skin and red wax.
"Oh, God... Oh, God".
She is panting.
"Oh, God, this is me... This is me."
This is her, alright. This is you, Clarissa. This is you.
Eleven thousand people have seen what we see now. Eleven thousand people have
witnessed her most intimate moment. Eleven thousand people able to carefully
examine every detail of her humiliation, to marvel at her pain, to explore her
tortured body. Eleven thousand people seeing Clarissa being herself.
Of course, out of those eleven thousand webcrawlers, there's a fair number of
guys specialised in one-handed surfing: eyes fixed in eternity only a foot away,
lips forming words the throat never vocalises, one hand clicking away forever,
the other pumping the flesh. I point this out as if it wasn't obvious, but
Clarissa closes her eyes for a moment, listening. Just for a moment.
Then, there are two-handed ones. They prove this by leaving their comments. Not
that you can't type with one hand, but the one-handed type rarely wastes time
and effort on trying to type. That's the other type, the ones with two hands and
a need to communicate the message even if its one-direction only. I haven't
explained anything. I haven't given them much information save for her name and
a few facts about her character: her needs, desires, dreams. I haven't asked
them to do anything. I have just provided space for them to comment. And comment
Like a pack of wolves, like piranhas sensing blood spread through the water,
they all storm in at her and bite a piece off each. It's a mess of improperly
typed messages of desire, frustration, disbelief... Insults, invitations,
promises, brags, pledges... It's a men's room wall crossed with schoolboy's
poetry notebook. There are some well written, downright intelligent decent
messages there. There are repulsive chunks of language halfway between animals
and demons, misspelled, lowercase, scary, pathetic, hilarious, exciting. Someone
who claims he's a thirteen year old boy describes what he'd do to her and how
she'd like it. Someone who claims he owns his own consulting company and a
university degree has left his email, just like hundreds of others, but his
message is even charming to an extent. There are some messages written by people
claiming to be female, praising Clarissa or the photos and in some cases the
photographer (why, thank you, I am honoured). Some are even taking time to
explain how disgusted they are with the images and how Clarissa needs to get
some help if she allows this to be done to her. Usually I find those idiots to
be really troubled since they actually had to work to get to this site (it's not
like I advertised it by spamming random recipients through email) and then they
look at it and feel the need to piss righteous rage all over you from their high
moral stance. But in this context, they are really welcome as they serve the
purpose well. I know their words of harsh judgement do the same to Clarissa as
do the words of raw sexual desire she receives from others.
"You.... You didn't tell me..."
I didn't. This was meant to be a surprise. She can not take her eyes off it, her
face bathed in the artificial light of the monitor screen. Her eyes are wide and
she is panting, clicking through photos, through messages, forward and back.
This is a small, insignificant, badly built shrine. But it was built for her,
built through a joint effort by me and thousands of believers who left their
footprints in there. This will leave a mark on her, I know.
And when she finally manages to turn her head away from the screen, her face is
a battlefield of conflicting emotions and instincts. She looks at me and I
manage not to move any part of my face. She is breathing heavily and her eyes
are wet with tears. Her lips are trembling. And she stares into my eyes, so
deep, so deep. And when she reaches out for me I almost fall from my chair.
She is falling into the voice again.
"please, please Sir, fuck me now"
"please, I am so wet, please, Sir, this slut wants to eat Your beautiful cock
right now, please I need You to fuck me hard as only You can"
How the hell does she do that? How the hell she manages to remain so shy and so
fucking dirty at the same time? I close my eyes just for a second. Someone is
going to get hurt. Someone.
I know what she is thinking.
"I know what you're thinking."
All those eyes devouring her body on those photos. All those words typed with
nervous, violent, sloppy keystrokes.
"Don't count on it, bitch. You are a no good cunt and you don't deserve it."
I know what she is thinking. Right now in her head...
"...I bet you are fucking all of them, sucking their cocks and riding them, and
swallowing their sperm, aren't you?"
"It's not happening, bitch. You fucking, fucking slut, you are so turned on by a
thought you could fuck dozens of strangers just like that."
"please... i want You. only You. take me, Master, please, take me now, I am a no
good slut, please teach me to be good, please..."
Her words spiral off into grinding white noise as I unbutton my jeans and grab
her hair. She says she wants only me right now, but I will make her admit she
wants to fuck each and every of those people. Then I will make her apologise and
make it up to me. Then she will swear with her life that I am the only man she
will ever want, the only man she will ever fuck. She will describe herself as
worthless and thank me for being good to her. It's going to be a long, painful
process, I think. Hang on, my lady. This is going to hurt. A little. But... I am
a big boy now.
* * *
I ran another crash test before deciding to go through with the Plan. Theory is
theory, but you can't really tell if the car will break down until you give it a
ride across some harsh ground.
I like to think I handled it well, but who knows really. I try not to think
about it most of the time. Well, in any case, I was sober this time around so I
can't blame the demon alcohol for painting the picture in unrealistic,
unlifelike colours. She WAS there, kneeling on the floor of that filthy little
back room, sucking this guy's cock and making her sexy, catlike noises. Her
earrings bounced back and forth as she was accepting his cock all the way in and
letting it all out again. Yes, it was just like that, him saying "oh, yeah,
baby, yeah, suck my cock, you whore", twenty dollar bill in his sweaty hand. It
was just like this: she leaning on the box as he pounded her from behind with
all the force he could muster. It was not like it was a hard fuck by any
standards she got used with me around and shit, but she was still screaming her
lungs off and I really and truly believe she had two orgasms in a space of mere
minutes that took him to complete his sweaty race and, howling like a wolf, fill
her cunt with his semen. Between the two of them, a slut goddess out of a porn
comic book and a cheap bike-mechanic, they made so much noise as if they weren't
aware of the fact that just behind one tiny door and a short corridor, there was
a bar full of people. I didn't even tell her to do anything after he came (and
during the intercourse, I restricted myself to simple pimp one-liners like
"Yeah, boy, fuck her hard, she can take all you got." and "Fuck that pussy, boy,
make the slut scream"), she swiftly turned around and took his cock into her
mouth, her cunt juices, sperm and all. She sucked on it as if her life depended
on it and the guy nearly lost his balance.
He left her on all fours looking up at him, money pushed into her blouse, her
tongue licking her lips. I knew what she was thinking but I couldn't do it. No,
sorry. I could have found another guy right there and then, God knows the place
was crawling with drunken, horny males, but no, this was not the way I wanted
it. This was just a test and I passed it. With grace, I'd like to add, but
really I just passed it and I would like not to speak about it any more if you
don't mind, thank you.
* * *
So on we went.
The apartment I rented was really a little better than a cave. The paint was
peeling off the walls, the furniture was more than halfway to oblivion and the
neighbourhood reminded me of some real bad parts of London I used to visit as a
nipper. Which made it cheap and almost perfect for the Plan.
It took me a couple of weeks to sort out the email I received after I posted the
invitation on the website. Of course it came in spades, my inbox was snowed
under hundreds of emails from guys eager to fuck that women, that girl whose
pictures were teasing them for weeks, whose intimacy and sluttiness were
generously displayed for their wanking pleasure for over a month.
Of course, I could have made it harder by setting high standards for the guys
and that would have made the sorting part a little easier. Or maybe not, God
knows we like to lie when answering these ads... In any case, I left it open
ended as possible, within certain boundaries I had in mind. I wanted every
sleazeball with a hard on and enough fuel to get here to be a possible
contestant. Just the best for my girl.
I didn't tell her anything before I made the choice.
* * *
Unlocking the door and leading them in, I meditated for myself about the fact
that they don't know what they will see inside and that she doesn't know what
she will see when we walk in.
Here's what they saw:
Clarissa was on the bed, wearing her sluttiest stiletto high heels, black
stockings, dark red see-through panties and a matching bra, her eyes under heavy
make-up, her lips black, silver chains, dark red finger nails, a dog collar
around her neck, a chain attached to it, long enough to let her move freely
around the bed, yet not allowing her to stray away from it.
I allowed her to play with herself while she was waiting for us to arrive and
the small room, all windows closed, was full of the rich aroma of her
excitement. A selection of dildos and other toys on the table.
Here's what she saw:
Come on, Clarissa, admit you didn't expect it. You knew there were to be two
guys. But you never ever imagined they would be twins, did you?
Dressed in tight black shirts and black leather jackets, those two fuckers were
bursting with strength. I have to admit I didn't really like them from the
start. I guess they looked too healthy to really be dirty on one hand, and too
simple to be refined perverts on the other. But the fact they were near
identical twins was appealing and meant they were not dismissed right away, and
through those two weeks of sorting, they made it through all selections and
finally were triumphant. Their nude pics, well, let's just say I was glad to see
they had normal size cocks (meaning not significantly bigger than mine) and that
I felt generous. The fuckers were some kind of gym junkies if you ask me, 700
one-armed pushups sort of thing, as their bodies looked like some of those
ancient-Roman statues: hairless, as if sculpted by a master of his craft. They
had identical haircuts consisting of several molecules of hair, blue eyes,
strong jaws, and fucking muscles all over.
The dog was a black, big demon of a Doberman, at first acting really nervously
in a small room filled with people. But they managed to convince me Lupo was an
experienced, healthy animal and that was what I was looking for. Why they
decided to give that dog a name meaning "wolf" in Italian is anyone's guess,
No real introduction took place nor was it needed. After all, they have seen her
body on so many pictures, they probably felt they knew every inch of it by
heart. Besides, the lights in the room were dim, it was dark-ish and thus she
looked more like a fantasy taking shape out of thin air then like a woman
chained to the wall. She was an object to be used. It was clear to them. It was
clear to her.
Yes, it was clear to me.
Normally, the pimp takes the money before the act commences. That way you ensure
the customer understands that, if he isn't satisfied with the service, it's his
fault. However, I didn't do it this way. For a reason.
The twins were horny and as I placed myself in the armchair and informed them in
my business voice that they are free to fire at will, they began commenting on
Clarissa in no uncertain terms. They were in no hurry as this session was not to
be time-limited, so they started removing their clothes slowly, taking time to
grab their crotches and feel the swollen members resting in their pants. They
were going to take her, she was completely at their disposal. They were going to
take everything she had.
I made her apologise. I didn't want to interfere too much as the lads were
supposed to have all the freedom to improvise they needed, but a well placed
intervention from her master could only do good to Clarissa. I made her
apologise and beg forgiveness from Julian (at least I think it was Julian, him
and Andrew switched positions so many times up to this point that I bet their
mother couldn't keep track of who is who were she to accompany us) and she did,
through tears. She explained everything about being a worthless cunt and how she
will try harder. The asshole was shoving her cock all the way down to his balls
in her mouth, in her throat, fucking her face while using his fingers to hold
her nostrils shut. She was fighting for air and she nearly threw up. He slapped
her hard a couple of times and I made her apologise. All the while, his brother
was fucking her hard in the arse, not stopping for a moment, big, black dildo
shoved into her cunt. Her hands were tied on her back and her breasts were hurt
in more ways than one: they used their teeth and fingers on them, they used
nipple clamps made of metal, with screws in them, they used a leather belt, they
used candle wax.
She was to thank them for everything they did to her.
For every subsequent act of cruelty, for every fresh supply of pain and
humiliation she received from the twins she was expressing her gratitude.
I have never put my fist into her pussy. They both shoved their hands into her,
taking turns, spreading her sexy stockinged legs as wide as they would go, they
fist-fucked her brutally, mercilessly.
"oh, please, oh, please, it hurts, oh, please i can't, oh..."
Julian (or Andrew) grabbed her collar and pulled her up cruelly:
"What's that, cunt? Did I hear you resist? Do you know what you get when you
"please. i can't.. you're breaking me, you're breaking my little pussy..."
She knew. She fucking teased them. Oh fuck, I can't believe this.
And of course Julian (or Andrew) was infuriated and he knew she knew what she
was to get so he grabbed her throat and squeezed as his brother kept pumping her
cunt with his fist.
"You fucking cunt! You dare play games on us!! You want me to cut your fucking
He was choking her. Right in front of my fucking eyes, with a fucking Doberman
tied to the table walking in small circles like mad.
She managed to shake her head.
"Then tell me what you want us to do to you!! Tell me how we should punish
His grip on her throat loosened but she was still struggling for air.
"Come on say it!! SAY IT!!!"
Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this, I have to get up from the chair right now,
"please, punish me, i am a bad slut, please, whip my dirty cunt, please dear
Sirs, make me learn to be obedient"
Hear screams made Lupo break into sharp barking. Julian (or Andrew) whipped her
labia and her stretched pussy with his belt. One, two, three lashes,
sixseveneight, fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Her lips, her thighs, swollen and red, Andrew (or Julian) pushing three and then
four of his fingers into her ass, the other one moving to make her suck his cock
again. And she was thanking them.
"thank You, thank You Sirs, You made me a better slut, thank You for punishing
me, please don't stop, this slut needs to be taught well"
And stop they didn't. Even after they both had come three times each. Her
breasts were tied tighter than I think I ever did, the brothers made her eat
their assholes, switching between sitting on her face and spreading her legs to
stuff her cunt and arse with minced meat I have bought. She was a mess: her
labia swollen and red, her ass stretched and smeared with cum and blood, her
body covered with red, blue and purple marks of their belts, fingers and teeth,
her breasts dark red, covered with wax, her face a mixture of guilt, sperm,
sweat, ecstasy, horror, makeup. Finally, they pissed all over her as she was
crying. Like true twins they pissed as one, pissed all over her hair, her face,
her swollen breasts, her belly and her cunt.
And then it was Lupo's turn. And God knows he was more than eager to
participate. A deep, guttural growl, his nostrils nervous, his canine penis
ready and willing.
One of the brothers attached his belt to the ropes binding her breasts and
detached a chain from her collar. She was lead, by her breasts, on all fours,
off the bed, around it, across the floor, towards the Doberman.
"please, no, please, no, PLEASE, no i can't, please, have mercy"
She was begging. Begging not to be forced to do it with a dog with three men
watching. In the past three hours she was restrained, beaten, fucked, tortured
and pissed upon, and yet she was still trying to preserve whatever she had left
of her dignity.
But it was not to be.
"Shut up, slut, I know perfectly well how long you have been dreaming of fucking
an animal while being watched. So quit pretending and get down to it!"
The brothers were busy with preparing the dog to have sex with a woman he never
met before so it was my duty to get her into the groove.
So it was decided that she was to give him a quick blow job first. "To get them
to know each other better" as I explained.
"please, don't make me do it, please, please, i'll do anything for You"
I knew that. But she already did.
"You already did, slut, you are so cheap and filthy right now, you deserve
nothing better than to be fucked by a dog."
And as Julian (or Andrew) was talking to the animal, Andrew (or Julian) pulled
her down and she took that thing into her mouth. And she sucked that dog's cock.
She did. She sucked him in slow motion, with love and passion, with care and
with excitement. She sucked him the way she'd sucked me a thousand times
Appetiser out of the way, she was made to take the position on the bed. She was
on all fours, in piss, in heat. The brothers had convincingly enough experience
in this and the animal was bursting with eagerness to fuck my girlfriend. They
positioned him and before I was ready to even think about it, he was inside of
The big black dog was fucking Clarissa and she was moaning and she was rocking
her hips. And he was thrusting his cock into her faster than I ever could,
stuffing her, growling, fucking her the way she needed.
She needed it. Yes she did. She needed him to fuck her. She came once,
completely losing control over herself and after Lupo came and stayed in her for
a little while, she came once again, rocking her hips, letting his swollen knot
lead her to another orgasm. She was a slut. A dog's slut. She was a slut for
that dog and for the three of us watching. She was cumming from being fucked by
an animal and from being watched. A slut.
They took the animal off the bed and he was surprisingly calm and uninterested
after all that happened. Clarissa was left there, lying, motionless, broken,
like a ragdoll discarded after play.
It took at least another forty five minutes until brothers left the apartment
and we chitchatted through those like old friends, while they were washing up
and dressing. We discussed Clarissa and her performance as if she was an actor
on stage we'd watched. We cracked a few jokes. I even laughed a bit. They wanted
to give me the money, but I told them to just throw it on the bed next to
Clarissa and they did, two one-hundred dollar bills landed on piss and
Then they were gone and I took the piece out of my pocket and returned it to my
bag. Then I turned to Clarissa, still almost motionless on the bed. It was time
to untie her breasts, they will hurt as hell. It's a good thing I remembered to
turn the water-heater on in time.
Officially, she was a whore now. And I was a pimp.