Campaign of the Month: October 2017
Blood & Bourbon
Whore
Continuity One
Celia: “It’s time for you to go.”
His hand cups one of her breasts.
That’s how it always ends—telling her it is time to go, his hand on her chest. He’s never gone beyond that. Never made a move that was more untoward than pushing her onto her knees in front of him, running a thumb across her nipple. He likes to tell her that she’s pretty when she’s blowing him, when she’s staring up at him with his cock in her mouth, cheeks bulging out around the length and girth that he slides past her lips.
“You are pretty,” he says. Every time, like an animatronic on repeat. “Really pretty.”
She likes it when he tells her that she’s pretty. She likes hearing it, even though she knows, deep down, that what she’s doing is wrong. Every time she swallows his cum something like shame swirls in her gut, and always it’s the same: she goes upstairs, she vomits, he meets her at the bathroom door. He cups a breast in his hand and tells her that it’s time for her to go, but they can do it again if she needs more.
Only one time she tells him that she does need more. Right then and there, she says the words that he might have been waiting for this whole time: I need more. Now.
His smile is thin. It doesn’t meet his eyes. He tells her that he’s been waiting for her to say that since the first moment she went to her knees in front of him. But he’s an older man, so he needs a little while to recover from her swallowing his cock. He doesn’t take her by the hand—she wishes he would take her by the hand—but he leads her all the same to the door at the end of the hall. A normal wooden door, not the steel monstrosity they had passed earlier.
Paul tells her to take her clothes off. That he can give her more, a lot more, but she has to do things for him first. Please him in ways she hasn’t before. She’s gotten good with her mouth, he says, but he wants to fill her other holes.
She reminds him that her daddy makes her get checked, and that’s when he tells her that it doesn’t matter.
“No one can check your asshole,” he says.
Celia recalls the boy’s words from the salon. That she isn’t doing herself any favors if she takes it up the ass. She protests, but Paul presses a finger to her lips like the first time, tells her she’ll enjoy it, he’ll be gentle. He’ll even get her off, he says, with his mouth. It’ll be like real sex.
He tells her to strip.
Shyly, she does. Her fingers undo the buttons of her shirt, one by one, and she hangs it from the hook on the back of his door while he sits on the bed, watching. He tells her to make it interesting. Her cheeks flush, turning a delicate shade of red, but she tries. She’s a dancer, after all, and what is this if not a dance? Her skirt is next. She hooks her fingers in the waistband and eases it down her legs to pool in a puddle around her feet. She peels off her socks, but there’s no sexy way to do that, just a bit of a bend in front of him to show him the shapely curve of her ass as she pulls them free. She’s left in a bra and panties. Pink, matching, with little lacy bits that no one but Stephen has ever seen. She can’t even think his name now, not here in this house of sin.
Paul tells her to come to him. On her knees, he says, so she does. She crawls across the gray carpet to sit between his legs. He hand runs through her hair, then down her neck, squeezing, and finally to her chest. He tells her to take her bra off so she does, a single motion unhooking the band so she can slide the straps down her arms and drop it onto the floor. Her nipples pebble in the cool air. He runs a hand down her chest, around the nipple, and finally pinches it between her thumb and forefinger, eliciting a soft gasp from the girl on her knees.
“Perfect,” Paul murmurs. His hands find purchase on her arms, pulling her onto his lap, her knees on either side of his thighs so that she straddles him. He kisses her throat. Despite herself, Celia feels that jolt straight through her core. She shifts, rubbing against the bulge at the front of his pants, and can’t help the noise that she makes as the head of his cock brushes against her clit. Even through her panties—soaked—the sensation is—
“Amazing.” Paul’s voice, as flat an affect as they come. His fingers rub against her panties, then slide the material out of the way. Her body is hot around the digit that traces up, then down, the moist lips inside. One finger slips inside of her and Celia squirms. She’s supposed to pretend to be a virgin; she’s supposed to tell him no, but that… touch…
“Oh,” she whispers as a second joins the first. They curl up, striking a spot inside of her that sends reverberations through her. His thumb traces slow circles around her clit.
“Good girl,” he whispers into her ear, his breath cool against her heated flesh. Celia bites into her lip to keep herself quiet, but Paul tells her to let it out, that he wants to hear her. He touches her waist and suddenly he’s on top of her, looming over her in the dark room, his fingers inside of her and his mouth at her nipples. One, then the other, he flicks his tongue across the tiny buds that are so hard they ache in want, then trails higher yet. Her hands fist in his sweater, holding herself to him while he touches and teases and brings her ever closer to the edge in practiced movements that she hadn’t expected from his unsmiling face. Her eyes squeeze tightly shut as he kisses her neck—
Then it hits her, all at once, waves and waves of pleasure that spiral out from the center of her body, her soul, and she cries out exactly like he wants her to as it washes over her. She’s battered from all sides, hardly able to find her footing when a shift of his hands makes her shudder and gasp and sigh again, again, again. She melts in his arms, body going limp once everything has moved through her, until it’s just him cradling her against his chest while she struggles to keep her eyes open after an experience that has left her utterly spent.
She had never imagined that sex could be like this. He’d only used his fingers to bring her to a shuddering, needful climax.
“Same time. Two days,” he tells her, and she nods.
She shivers when he presses his lips against her temple.
Continuity Two
GM: Paul looks amused at first, then finally tired and cuts Celia off by placing a finger on her lips.
“I’ll cum in your mouth.”
“It won’t make any difference with your doctor visits.”
He lowers Celia to her knees and starts unbuckling his pants.
“Be sure to swallow.”
Celia: “W-wait, Mr. Simmons—I’ve never… ” She’s on her knees, though, looking up at him.
GM: “Just suck it like it’s a popsicle.”
“Your dad’s right you’re stupid, but you are pretty.”
“Really pretty.”
Celia: So she does. On her knees, while he tells her that she’s stupid but pretty, she sucks him off. Like a popsicle.
And when it’s over, when she swallows his cum and the shame and guilt along with it, she excuses herself to the upstairs restroom. To see if the rest of his house is as weird and lifeless as the bottom. And to see if the vague plan that’s forming in her mind has any merit.
GM: Paul pats her cheek when she’s done and repeats how pretty she is while fondling her breast. He gives her very specific directions to follow to the bathroom and says not to look around. The house’s upstairs isn’t as weird and lifeless as the bottom floor, though.
It’s more so.
There aren’t even any rugs or furniture or pictures on the walls. There’s just bare wall and floor. Some of the doors are made out of steel and have secure-looking magnetic keycard swipes.
Celia: Whatever Celia had been expecting, it wasn’t this. First the guards, now the steel doors. What, exactly, does Paul Simmons get up to in his spare time? She walks slowly down the hall to the bathroom, locks herself inside, and turns on the faucet. She opens any cabinets in the bathroom as quietly as she can. She doesn’t expect there to be a keycard lying haplessly around, but maybe… a prescription bottle? Toothbrush? Something that says someone else lives here, something that gives some form of life or answers or something because right now there is an itch between her shoulder blades that is telling her to get out and she is reminded of the dull, lifeless eyes she’d seen when she was a kid. Her mind goes wild with theories. Her half-baked plan of somehow blackmailing Paul into changing the unchangeable trust melts away in the wake of these new discoveries, imagination taking her down a dark path.
What if he locks her behind one of those doors? What if that’s what the guards are for, to prevent people from getting out?
Walk downstairs, get the money. Walk downstairs, get the money, don’t come back. Never come back. She can handle that.
GM: There’s nothing in the cabinets. There are no prescription bottles, toothbrush, or toothpaste. Just the absolute essentials of soap and towels.
But there’s more in the shower. A faded rust-red residue along the rim.
It smells like blood.
Celia: He cut himself shaving, right? He had to have… cut himself… But the smell of blood doesn’t linger like that. She’s bled before. Period blood. Cut herself shaving. It doesn’t linger unless there’s a lot of it. It doesn’t stain unless there’s a lot of it.
The smell puts her back. The memories of that night play again in her mind. Her mom screaming. The hacksaw. The man on the phone telling her help isn’t coming. It’s just her and the monster in the hallway, and the gun is too heavy for her hands, then it’s gone—only this time when the monster tucks her into bed he tells her to kneel instead, and calls her stupid, and asks, in a voice that might be her dad’s, if she knows why she’s stupid, and the word Whore plays somewhere in the back of her mind.
She vomits. It comes up suddenly, her stomach heaving its contents into the porcelain bowl in front of her, cum and raw muffin batter and something green that might have been the lettuce she’d eaten for lunch. She flushes it away, eyes watering, and stares at her distorted reflection in the swirling water.
Stupid. She is stupid. Stupid to think she can go against her dad. Stupid to think she could find a way to blackmail Paul. Stupid to think she’ll be able to help her mom.
She uses the noise of the flushing toilet to close the drawers and cabinets she had opened. She rinses her mouth. Pats her face dry. And presses record on her phone before she leaves the bathroom.
Paul is nowhere to be seen. Her bare feet make no sound against the carpet of the hallway as she takes one step and then another, her eyes and phone pointed toward the steel doors with their security cards. What can possibly be inside of there? She steps toward one, pressing a hand against the cool steel. A frown mars her pretty face; it’s not just cool, it’s actively cold to the touch, like beyond the door is some sort of refrigerated unit.
What could Paul possibly need with something like that?
Are there bodies inside?
Celia stares, wide-eyed, at the door as her thoughts run away from her. Paul runs a body farm. He collects women and sells them into slavery, and that’s why the guards are here. He chops them up. It’s a wet room. A torture room. Or it’s something more innocuous. Money. Documents. He’s in charge of her trust fund, after all; maybe it’s just a state-of-the-art computer system. Maybe he’s mining for bitcoins; she’d heard something about the Internet currency but doesn’t know much more than that.
It doesn’t need to be something horrific.
Right?
Still, she snaps a photo on her phone… and cringes when the flash and the “chhkkkk” sound of the camera go off. The sound echoes down the hallway.
Her heart thuds in her chest. He had to have heard. It was so loud, there’s no possible way that he didn’t. She shoves the phone back into her pocket as if that will make it all better, but there’s no shout from the bottom of the stairs, no Paul appearing to ask what she thinks she’s doing, to tell her that she’s stupid but pretty. Nothing but an empty hallway and steel doors.
Celia looses a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. She turns to go—
And is caught, steadfast, by an arm around her waist.
She’s there.
Then she’s not.
No lights permeate the darkness of this room. Nothing suggests there is an entrance, an exit. Even a dark room with windows allows some form of sunlight to filter inside, but here—nothing. No lights, overhead, night-light, or otherwise illuminate the space. It is simply black.
Celia cannot see. Just darkness all around her. Shadows that deepen and shift as she turns her head this way and that. Her mouth opens—perhaps to scream—but no sound emerges. Inside her chest her heart thuds, keeping time to the thoughts that race through her head. Her diaphragm spasms out of her control, breaths coming hard and fast, shaking. Blood pounds in her ears—rushing.
She drowns in the darkness.
Then—
Hands on her chin, lifting her face. Something soft but cold against her brow, her cheeks, an icy trail down her face to her mouth. Colder now, harder, pressing, forcing her lips apart, ice in her veins. Thin, firm fingers pushing against her, pressing her back until the wall closes in behind her. Knees weak, she can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but give and give and give to this creature, this thing that sucks all the warmth from the room, from her. He lifts her, arms beneath her legs, pushing between her spread thighs to press his core against hers, sweet pressure in that sacred spot.
She knows. Knows with a solid certainty, an unwavering sureness. Knows whose hands touch her. Whose lips press feather-light against her lips, her jaw, the side of her neck.
The monster has come to play.
Winter descends into her veins. Two picks of ice split her skin. They leave her gasping as her flesh parts in the wake of such sharp points of pain. Then lips again, sucking, drawing the fire from her in soft waves that spiral through her, that make her forget there has ever been any worry in the world.
Tears slide from beneath her lashes to freeze on her cheeks. Her heart ceases its useless yammering, slowing to a steady thump-thump that pours more of that sweet red into his waiting mouth. Some distant part of her mind knows what’s happening—he’s killing her, killing her slowly, killing her softly, taking every bit of her into himself. She doesn’t begrudge him the loss. He can have it, have her, take her pain, her shame, her failure. Her fingers curl in the material of his shirt, the only soft thing about him, holding onto him with everything that she has left. Her grip grows weaker with every passing moment, but the arousal, the need, that doesn’t fade. Her lips part in a sigh.
“D… doh… ” She can barely form the whisper of the word. Her body shudders. His hands move down her back, then up, around her neck—fingers at her throat, pressure against her windpipe—then further down, across her nipples. Already firm, they tighten further, hardening into tiny little buds beneath the too-thin fabric of her shirt.
“D… doh… nnn… ”
“Don’t?” A voice as cold as the rest of him. The cracking of a glacier. Ice, his breath across the shell of her ear. She shivers.
“Dah… nnn… vih-in.”
His name.
Everything halts.
She cannot see his eyes, but she knows they lock upon her. She imagines that his gaze is hard. Assessing. He is silent, this cold monster, this dark god, this frigid beast that has haunted her dreams since she was a child. Still a child—she must be, to one as ancient as him. How long as he walked this earth, alone, stalking through the night like the great predator that he is? He claimed her that night eleven years ago, then again five years later, when he showed up to her house in the middle of the night. He came for her father but he took her too, more thoroughly than he would ever claim the senator. She is his. Has been his for years. Every step that she has taken has led her here, to him, to this dark place with this thing who takes and takes and takes, no room for anything else in his cursed existence. But she is his. Heart, body, soul.
Tendrils of ice snake into her brain, dousing her body in the frigid arctic sea. She sinks, lower and lower, retreating further into herself, while those possessive tendrils sift through thoughts, memories, dreams. Him, always him, the star of every fantasy. Shaking her father’s hand. Standing over her mother’s body. Advancing toward her while she retreats with gun in hand. Closer, always closer, until she turns to run. Arms around her, holding her fast. Cradling her body against his own. Telling her how much he loves her.
His special baby girl.
Unafraid, even now, in the arms of a monster.
Nothing can touch her here. Nothing can hurt her here. No one can reach her, not when she is with him. He is the eye of the hurricane, the draw of the black hole. Lethal. But safe, once she’s inside. And she is inside. He is inside. How easily things can change, how swiftly he can put a halt to any school girl fantasies, leave her body broken upon the floor.
What do you want? His words whisper through her mind, searching, seeking, playing out the thoughts following the whims of the girl—but he does not need to. She flattens her hand against his chest where his heart might have once been. She tells him, aloud, the secret of her own.
“You.”
A flash of fangs. Warmth against her lips. A coppery tang.
Then nothing.
Continuity Three
Continuity Three, Chapter I
GM: There’s nothing in the cabinets. There are no prescription bottles, toothbrush, or toothpaste. Just the absolute essentials of soap and towels.
But there’s more in the shower. A faded rust-red residue along the rim.
It smells like blood.
Celia: He cut himself shaving, right? He had to have… cut himself… But the smell of blood doesn’t linger like that. She’s bled before. Period blood. Cut herself shaving. It doesn’t linger unless there’s a lot of it. It doesn’t stain unless there’s a lot of it.
The smell puts her back. The memories of that night play again in her mind. Her mom screaming. The hacksaw. The man on the phone telling her help isn’t coming. It’s just her and the monster in the hallway, and the gun is too heavy for her hands, then it’s gone—only this time when the monster tucks her into bed he tells her to kneel instead, and calls her stupid, and asks, in a voice that might be her dad’s, if she knows why she’s stupid, and the word whore plays somewhere in the back of her mind.
She vomits. It comes up suddenly, her stomach heaving its contents into the porcelain bowl in front of her, cum and raw muffin batter and something green that might have been the lettuce she’d eaten for lunch. She flushes it away, eyes watering, and stares at her distorted reflection in the swirling water.
Stupid. She is stupid. Stupid to think she can go against her dad. Stupid to think she could find a way to blackmail Paul. Stupid to think she’ll be able to help her mom.
She uses the noise of the flushing toilet to close the drawers and cabinets she had opened. She rinses her mouth. Pats her face dry. And presses record on her phone before she leaves the bathroom.
GM: She runs almost right into Paul’s chest as she steps out.
“I’m glad you’re cleaned up,” he says, but the words feel as fake, hollow, and obviously forced as the bland smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Celia: “Oh!” Celia stumbles backward a step. Her heart hammers in her chest. “Mr. Simmons. Thank you for lettin’ me use your washroom. And for… for goin’ over everything with me.”
Real pretty. But stupid. Her face burns. She looks down at her bare feet. Her toes are painted a pretty shade of pink.
GM: “It is desirable to be clean.” The words feel uncomfortable and out of place, like plastic.
Celia: He looks her over. Then his eyes slide past her, to one of the cabinet doors that is still ajar. His vague smile turns sharp.
“Were you looking for something?”
Celia stares up at him, heart hammering in her chest as she shakes her head.
“N-no, sir, I was just—”
“Snooping?”
“No, no, of course not, Mr. Simmons, I wouldn’t—”
But he can see the lie in her eyes, in the way her hands wring together, in the way her gaze drops. The bulge in her pocket draws his attention and he reaches for it, yanking her phone away from her to see the camera on and recording. He presses the red button to make it stop.
“What were you hoping to find, Celia?”
“I—I wasn’t—”
“Do you know what we do with people who snoop, Celia?”
“I wasn’t—”
“Answer my question.”
Celia gapes at him. Her tongue flicks across her lips. She lifts her shoulders, dropping her eyes once more to her toes. Pink, sparkly nail polish winks up at her.
“What does your dad do to you when he finds you’ve been somewhere you shouldn’t be? How does he show his displeasure?”
“He… he, um, he punishes me, sir.”
“And how does he punish you when you disobey?”
“I didn’t—”
“I told you not to look around,” he interrupts. “Snooping is looking around, isn’t it?”
She is quiet. Finally, she nods.
“Yes, sir. I… I disobeyed, I’m sorry, I was… I was looking for a… towel, something for my mouth, I was sick—”
“I did not ask for excuses.”
Celia falls silent. Pressure brims behind her eyes. She sniffles.
“How does your father punish you?” he repeats.
“He… he sp—he spanks me, Mr. Simmons.”
“Remove your skirt.”
Her eyes fly to his face. He can’t be serious. He can’t seriously think she’s going to strip in front of him. But his expression is grave, or would be if not for the vicious satisfaction that she sees in his eyes, a predatory gleam that she has seen from men before.
“Mr. Simmons—”
His hand closes around her upper arm. He yanks her from the bathroom and drags her bodily down the hallway. Celia is too shocked to resist; she follows along, stumbling over her own feet until he reaches the door at the end of the hall. Wooden, not like the rest of them. He drags her inside and she finds herself in a bedroom, as sparse as the rest of the house. The sheets on the bed are hues of gray, the carpet white, the windows covered in thick, black curtains. No paintings, no plants, no photos. Nothing to suggest that this is anything more than a staged house. He slams the door shut behind the pair of them and hauls her to the bed, where he seats himself on the edge and draws her over his lap. Face down, his arms heavy on her back, holding her still.
“How old are you, Celia?”
“Mr. Simmons, please—”
“I asked you a question.”
“Nine—nineteen, sir.”
“Then nineteen spanks should do you just fine, don’t you think? One for every year you failed to learn how to listen to your superiors.”
Celia doesn’t have time to think of a response. His hands are on her, yanking her skirt up to expose the thin cotton fabric of her white panties. He slides those down her legs while she squirms, telling him—begging him—to stop, please, she didn’t mean to—
THWACK!
His open hand comes down on her bare ass. Celia cries out, shaking her head, no, no, no, please—
“Count them for me, Celia, surely you’re not so stupid you can’t do that much.”
His hand comes down again on her already reddening cheeks. The slap echoes through the room and Celia wails at the sting, covering her face with her hands. Paul keeps one hand on the back of her neck, forcing her face down. She surges back against him and finds herself stuck fast, caught on his lap. She kicks and flails and only earns another smack for her effort.
“I will tie you down if you do not cease your struggles,” Paul tells her.
“S-stop, please, I’m sorry, I—”
Another smack cuts off her words. She shrieks and tries to rise. Paul catches her by the arm, yanking her back down.
“Your dad is right. You’re stupid. I’ve given you simple instructions and you can’t even follow those. How many smacks, Celia?”
“I don’t—I don’t—” She can’t catch her breath around the stinging blows, around the flush that has worked through her whole body, trying to curl in on herself as if that will stop the pain and humiliation.
“Then I guess we’ll need to start over, won’t we? If you move again I’m going to tie you down and get a paddle. You’ll be a good girl and stay still to accept your punishment, won’t you?”
Silence.
Finally, Celia nods her head, nods it fervently up and down, and says that she will stay still, she’ll be good, she will, she’s sorry, so sorry…
“Good,” is all Paul says in response. He resumes the punishment. His hand comes down across her ass, one cheek and then the other, spreading out the pain to cover as much of her plump, shapely rear as he can. He layers one handprint over another, turning both cheeks red, watching her flesh jiggle and shake while she tries to hold herself still. Sometimes he pauses between spanks, letting her catch her breath, making her tense in anticipation, and it hurts all the more when his hand finally finds her flesh. He makes her count each and every spank, starting over with one as he had threatened, until, voice choked with tears, Celia counts out “nineteen.”
Her body has gone limp across his lap, her stomach pressing against something firm that she realizes, belatedly, is the sign of his arousal. He likes this. He gets off on her pain, or humiliation, or perhaps just the power that he has over her. She moves to rise, to remove herself from her lap so she can flee, when his hands push her down and hold her still.
“Not so fast,” he tells her. “My time is valuable, and you used more of it than I anticipated with your stupidity. The money that I promised you earlier will pay for my time, instead.”
“B-but… Mr. Simmons, please, I—I need it… ”
“Well,” he says, running a large hand over her ass while she flinches, “there’s another way, I suppose… ”
He spreads her cheeks with his fingers, pressing a single digit inside of her tight, warm cunt. Celia knows better than to squirm. She holds herself still, tears squeezing out between her lids to run down her cheeks and drip onto the mattress beneath her.
“You’re wet,” he tells her, “like a whore. Are you a whore, Celia?”
“N-no, Mr. Simmons—”
“But you were willing to blow me for money, weren’t you? Doesn’t that make you a whore?”
Celia swallows her pride, like she’d swallowed his cum earlier. She nods her head.
“Say it,” Paul tells her, adding a second finger to the first inside of her. She gasps aloud, squirming, and he presses his other hand against her back to keep her still. “Tell me that you’re a whore. Tell me that you’re my whore.”
“I’m… I’m a… I’m a whore,” Celia whispers.
“My whore,” Paul reminds her.
“I’m your whore,” she amends.
“Call me sir. Tell me you want me to fuck you. Tell me what a dirty little slut you are, Celia.”
“I’m… I’m a… ”
“A whore, Celia. A slut. Say it. Tell me.”
Celia’s cheeks burn. She squirms, trying to dislodge the fingers inside of her, aroused despite herself. She won’t say it. She won’t. She won’t let him fuck her; she can’t. She has a boyfriend. A boyfriend she has already cheated on by coming here, by letting him put her on her knees. She shakes her head.
“We can’t move on until you tell me, Celia. Say that you’re a whore. Beg me to fuck you like the dirty slut you are.”
“I’m—”
“On your knees.”
He shoves her off of him. She lands on hands and knees on the floor, face pressing against the carpet as if that will keep her from looking at him. But his fingers fist through her hair, yanking her until she kneels between his legs where he sits on the bed, and she looks up at his unsmiling face when he cups her chin and runs a finger across her lips.
“I’m your whore,” Celia whispers, hating herself. Her eyes close. At his smack she opens them again. “I’m your whore, sir,” she says again, “I want… I want you to fuck me, please, to teach me… to show me my place, to-to… p-please, Mr. Simmons, p-please f-fuck me, I want—I want you to-to-to—”
“Good girl.” Paul rises to his feet. He pulls Celia up as well, his fingers making quick work of her shirt and skirt. Both articles are discarded on the floor. Then her bra, baring her chest to the room, to him, and Celia can’t help but lower her gaze. “So shy,” Paul says, tracing his fingers around her nipple until it stiffens. He pinches it, pulling, and Celia makes a noise that might be a moan and might be a gasp at the touch.
“Bend over the bed,” he tells her. He guides her into the correct position; it’s less of a bend and more kneeling on the edge with her ass in the air and face pressed against the mattress. She hears the sound of fumbling behind her, a buckle, a zipper, then the sound of cloth sliding down Paul’s legs. Something firm presses against her cheeks and she flinches, moving away, but large hands wrap around her waist hard enough to bruise.
“Don’t move,” he tells her.
“P-please,” she tries again.
“Hush, stupid.” His hands trail down the curve of her ass, pinching the already-red flesh. “You are pretty, though. I’m glad you came to me. I’m going to enjoy this.” His fingers spread her open, exposing her to him, her sex slick, the tight ring of her ass. He touches the tip of a finger against it.
“Have you been fucked in the ass before, whore?”
“N-no.”
“No, sir,” he corrects.
“No, sir,” Celia whispers.
“It can be pleasurable, I’ve heard,” Paul says, almost idly. His finger dips inside of her, inside the wet, tight cunt. “I’d like to fuck you here. Maybe I will. Maybe your dad will give you to me once he realizes what a little slut you are. What do you think he’d say to this, whore? His daughter bent over, on her knees, taking it up her ass. Do you think he’d give you to me? My very own teenage playtoy. Does that sound good to you, Celia?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“Expound.”
“I’d… I’d like to, to be your whore, Mr. Simmons.”
“You are my whore,” he tells her, and she nods. “Say it,” he says, pressing the tip of his finger against the tight ring of muscle that is her asshole.
“I’m—please, please—”
“Please what? More?”
Celia shakes her head.
“I think you need more.” His finger pushes inside of her and the girl cries out, pressing her face further into the mattress, gathering the blankets in her mouth so she has something to bite down on. “You’re very tight,” he says, unbothered by the way she flails beneath him, shaking her head back and forth, back and forth, the pleas that fall from her lips as he forces the digit further and further inside, wiggling it to stretch her opening. Thick tears stream from her eyes. She can barely remember to breathe through the pain, air coming in quick, short gasps that leave her light-headed.
His finger is removed from her ass. She breathes a sigh of relief—until she feels something else, something bigger, pressing against her. She starts to say something, beg again, ask him not to, but the words don’t have time to form before he thrusts inside of her, shattering whatever self-restraint she had. She shrieks, yanks away, and he grabs a handful of hair to hold her still while he pushes inside. Deeper, deeper, deeper. She stretches around him, painfully tight, squeezing down around him. She hears him grunt in satisfaction. He’s still. She thinks it might be to let her adjust, but she hears the “cchhkkk” of a camera and knows what he’s doing. She sobs into the mattress when he begins to fuck her in earnest, his hands crushing her hips while he slides in and out, in and out.
She can’t help but think of Stephen. What he’d say if he were to walk in now. What he’d think if he were to see her like this—bent over after swallowing Paul’s cum, letting him fuck her in the ass for money. She is a whore, she realizes, a dirty slut, just like Paul had said. She begins to cry in earnest, not just at the searing agony of Paul fucking her bloody, but the realization that she is a whore. A slut. She deserves this, deserves to be spanked, deserves to be used until he’s done with her. She’d gone against her dad’s wishes, gone against God’s will, has violated the sanctity of her body. She’s just another teenage whore.
The movement behind her echoes her very thoughts. Paul, standing at the edge of the bed, fucking her. Turning her into his whore. She’d even admitted it, admitted that she’s his whore. Not just a whore; his whore. His slut. Taking it up the ass after he’d smacked her around to teach her where she belongs: on her knees.
Burning. Tearing. She smells blood—hers, she’s sure, and it makes her cry all the harder while he fucks her. Pain. Agony. Stretching. His balls slap against her lips. Faster, faster, faster; Paul is silent while he thrusts in and out, in and out, until his fingers tighten around her, his movements come faster, and finally… finally he grunts, and she feels his cock twitch inside of her, the warm splatter of cum against her insides. He pulls out and she sobs.
“You’re bleeding,” he tells her. His hands grip her arms again, hauling her off the bed. He drops her on the floor so she can look up at him, this man with his red-splattered, swiftly softening cock.
“Friday,” he says to her. “Come back and we’ll do this again, and you’ll have your money. You’re my whore now, Celia. I own you. Say it. Tell me that you’re mine. You belong to me. You’ll come back and you’ll fuck me, whatever way I want, or I’ll inform your father of your visit. Smile for me, Celia. Tell me what a dirty little whore you are.”
So she does.
Continuity Three, Chapter II
Celia: He gives her explicit instructions for their next visit: what to wear, how to style her hair, what scents are and are not appropriate to use. Everything from her hair to her shoes is coordinated, and when Celia arrives at his house at 6 PM on Friday night she is the vision he described. Pleated skirt. White ankle socks. Black Mary-Janes, patent leather. A white blouse. No bra, no panties, no tawdry makeup (though she still uses some to even her complexion). A golden necklace at her throat, a simple cross. Her hair pulled back from her face in a plait, a headband containing the rest of her normally unruly tresses.
Celia brings her bookbag with her, as instructed, with her various college texts and notebooks stuffed inside. The Blackwatch members stationed outside of his house peer through the contents before they let her in.
Paul greets her with a bland smile.
“Celia. Just in time. Did you bring your homework from school?”
“Yes, sir,” she says quietly. Her backside still throbs with each step that she takes, but she does not tell him this. He nods, leading her further into the home, back into the living room where they had sat the first time. It is as lifeless as she remembers. He tells her to sit on the couch so she does, and he pushes the coffee table in front of her so that she can spread out her work. Celia pulls the books from her bag, the notebooks, the worksheets she has been assigned. She looks up at him, a question in her eyes, but it never makes it past her lips. Paul tells her to work on her assignments while he reads the newspaper in a recliner across the room.
“Undo the top two buttons of your blouse,” he tells her, so she does. It does not quite bare her breasts to him, but she feels him peering down her shirt all the same. “Spread your legs. Wider.”
Celia is on display. She sits with her legs spread on his couch, bent over so that the front of her blouse gapes open to reveal her chest. She tries to focus on the words in front of her—actively attempting to complete her homework—but she can feel his gaze boring into her from across the room. It’s all the more obvious when his breathing hitches, and she looks up to see him touching a hand to the front of his trousers, where the material is tented across what she knows is his erection.
“What would you be doing if not homework here, Celia?”
“I don’t know, sir,” she says quietly, dropping her gaze back to her homework so she does not need to look at him.
“It’s a Friday night,” Paul muses, “someone your age would be out partying, wouldn’t they? Would you? Out with a boy, maybe, instead of growing your mind?”
Silence. She tries to focus on the problem in front of her.
“Answer me, Celia. Would you be out?”
“I… Yes, sir, I think so.”
Paul sighs. It’s a loud, long sound in the otherwise silent room.
“That won’t do, Celia. What have I told you about being a whore?”
“That I’m… that I’m your whore, Mr. Simmons.”
“And what would my whore be doing if she were out with other people?”
Celia doesn’t know what answer he’s looking for. She bites her lip.
“Try it like this, Celia: what would you be doing if I told you not to do something and you did it anyway?”
“Dis… disobeying?” she guesses. She looks up in time to see him nod.
“Disobeying, Celia. What happens when you disobey me?”
“You don’t pay me, sir.”
“No, Celia, beyond that. What do men do to disobedient whores?”
Celia flushes.
“They punish them, sir.”
“Do you desire to be punished, my little whore?”
“I… ”
“You what? It is a yes or no question. Do you vex your teachers with this nonsense? Yes or no, whore, do you desire to be punished?”
“No, sir.”
“Then why do you disobey?”
“Because I… I… ” Her face burns. She lowers her gaze to the floor, pressing her thighs together. A hand slaps against her knee, causing her to jump, startled. Paul stands over her, staring down at her with a disapproving look.
“It’s okay to admit you’re stupid, Celia. Tell me you’re a stupid whore, that you’re a slut who needs to be punished, and I’ll forgive you. Can you do that for me?”
Tears brim in her eyes, but she nods her head. Yes, she can admit that she’s a whore, that she’s stupid, that she’s his, that she deserves whatever punishment he dishes out.
“You need to say it, Celia, I do not read minds.” Paul touches a hand to her cheek, forcing her gaze up.
“I’m… I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Simmons, I need… I want you to… to punish me, please, for… for being a dirty whore, for… for wanting to go out… ”
“What else, Celia? What else do you need to be punished for?”
“I… I don’t know—”
“But you do. Didn’t you take it up the ass the other day? That’s a sin. Tell me what a little sinner you are. Tell me about the thoughts you had about me. Your dirty, dirty thoughts.”
Celia swallows. She can’t look away; his hand holds her fast.
“I sinned,” she whispers while he nods, pleased. “I… I sucked off… like a Popsicle, I swallowed your cum, I wanted… I wanted you, Mr. Simmons, I wanted you to touch me, to… to put it inside of me, to… to make me… make me… ”
“Are you trying to seduce me, child? No bra, no panties. Admit it.”
“Yes, sir.” Her cheeks burn. He’d made her do this. Told her that if she didn’t wear the right things he’d tell her father. “I wanted to seduce you, to make you want me, to… to desire me, sir, please, I’m… I’m just a whore, your whore… ” Tears slide down her cheeks. She can taste the salt on her tongue as she licks her lips.
“Stand up, Celia.”
She does so. Paul touches a hand to her breast, his thumb flicking across her nipple. One, then the other, until they’re both stiff and aching, poking out from behind the thin white blouse that she wears. Paul nods. He seats himself on the couch where she was, then pulls her onto his lap. She can feel the bulge in his pants when he rubs it against her; without panties it’s just bare skin against his lap. He taps a hand against her inner thighs, spreading her legs over his lap, until she is sprawled across him.
“Finish your homework, Celia. Maybe you’ll learn something.”
She tries. Lord, she tries. She tries to focus on the words on the page in front of her, flipping open her notebook to peer at the notes from her teacher, but Paul’s hands do not stay still. They trace her body, plucking, twisting, pinching, teasing, his lips at her ear telling her what a stupid, silly whore she is, what he’s going to do with her, how he’s going to fuck her, how her dad would be so disappointed, but that’s okay: he’s here for her, she can make a living on her back for him, he’s going to fill her later, they’re going to train the whore out of her. He has new toys for her, does she know? She’s going to spend the night tied to his bed, he says, and he’s going to use her however he wants. And maybe he’ll invite a friend or two over to get in on the fun, would she like that? He smacks her when she shakes her head. He tells her that of course she’ll love it, she should love what he tells her to love, should be thankful that he’s spending any time with her at all. She’s just a whore, after all.
She’s a quivering mess by the time she finishes the page of problems she had brought with her, cheeks red, nipples straining against her shirt.
Paul looks it over. His eyes scan the page, searching for errors—and he finds one, halfway down, one error in the problems she had solved with her pencil. He points it out to her and tells her that the answer is off by a margin of twenty-three. He walks her through how to solve the problem correctly, but when she’s done he says to her,
“Stupid can be taught. It just takes longer. Are you stupid, Celia?”
“Y-yes, sir,” she whispers.
“What would make you remember? A physical reminder of your shortcomings? Do you need me to spank you again, whore?”
“N-no, sir, please, I’ll remember.”
“I think you need a physical reminder,” Paul says, patting her bare thigh. “It will really drive the point home. Tell me that’s what you want, Celia. That you’re my little whore and you’re so grateful that I’m here to guide you.”
Celia’s eyes close. She nods, despite herself.
“Y-yes, Mr. Simmons. Thank you, Mr. Simmons. I… I need your help, p-please, with the numbers… ”
“Because you’re stupid, Celia?”
“Yes, Mr. Simmons.”
“And you’re my whore, Celia?”
“Yes, Mr. Simmons.”
“You’re wet, Celia. Are you aroused at the thought of me spanking you again? Tell the truth.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Finally, she nods.
“Y-yes, Mr. Simmons. I… I want you to… to spank me again, please. You’re… please, Mr. Simmons, you’re so much smarter than me, better than me, I’m just your… your whore, please cor-correct my behavior.”
“Very good, Celia. You can be taught.”
His fingers move to the buttons of her shirt, slowly undoing them, one by one. He pulls her blouse from where it is tucked into her skirt and opens the last of them, baring her chest to the empty room. His lips press against the back of her neck.
“But you’re such a filthy whore, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
His hands cup her breasts, fingers tweaking her nipples. She closes her eyes, pressing back against him.
“You need to shower, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Because you’re a dirty whore?”
“Because I’m a dirty whore, Mr. Simmons.”
“You can use my shower, slut. Make sure you clean your asshole thoroughly. I’ll be in there again tonight.”
He gives her nipples a final pinch and shoves her off of him, onto her knees, then wraps a hand around her arm to haul her to her feet. He leads her up the stairs to the blood-stained shower she had seen last time, only this time… this time there is no smell of blood, no red rim around the shower. Paul turns the water on for her and instructs her to strip, but he doesn’t remove himself from the room. He simply watches while she takes off her blouse and undoes the buttons on her skirt, sliding it down her legs until she is naked before him. She moves to cover herself with her hands until he grabs her wrists, his eyes traveling the length of her body.
“Pretty,” he tells her. “Very shapely.” His fingers touch her breasts, her stomach, her hips. He pulls her against him, rubbing the front of his pants against her stomach. “You would make a good trophy wife, if you learned to keep your mouth shut. If you weren’t a whore. If you weren’t stupid.” He touches her chin again, forcing her to look at him.
“Very pretty,” he says fondly. He pats her cheek. “Maybe your dad will let me have you after all. I can ask for you. Do you think he’d like that? You could cook for us. Those muffins you made were scrumptious. You’re scrumptious, Celia. You can be taught. I can teach you. Does that sound pleasing to you?”
Celia swallows. She nods, the movement slow.
“Y-yes, sir.” She tells him what he wants to hear.
“I could fuck your pussy if that were the case. I think I’d like that. A young, teenage, pretty wife. And of course we’d have your trust to add to my assets. An allowance for you, perhaps, for your womanly needs. How many sons would you give me, Celia?”
“I… I don’t… ”
“You don’t know?”
Celia shakes her head. Paul pats her cheek again.
“That’s okay, Celia, you’re just a whore anyway. I’ll use you and get rid of you like all the other men in your life. You were never good enough to be something meaningful, just a side piece, a shameful, dirty little secret. Pity, though; I imagine you have years ahead of you for good breeding if you start now.” His hand cups her sex, then slides higher to cover her womb. The gesture is possessive, claiming. He sees her as his. And hasn’t she told him that she is?
“Sons are stronger when you start young. That’s why your brother is weak, you know. Your father told me. He was born to an old hag. You’re already older than your parents were when they had you, aren’t you?” A thin smile. “Better get a move on, then. Get in.” He shoves her toward the tub.
Celia steps into the shower. The water is tepid, hardly more than warm. She shivers beneath the spray and lifts a hand to close the curtain, but Paul halts her with a shake of his head.
“You’ve proven you’re a dirty slut, Celia. Dirty sluts don’t get privacy privileges. I need to make sure you’re clean. Being clean is desirable.” He points at the loofah hanging from a hook on the wall, then the bottle of wash. Pink. It hadn’t been here before, either one of them. Celia reaches for them. She pours a measure of the body wash onto the loofah and rubs it between her hands to build up lather. Conscious of the eyes on her, she begins to clean herself. She starts with her chest, rubbing the loofah across her skin, down her arms, under her arms, back across her chest to do the other arm, beneath her breasts, down her stomach, her legs, her feet, stretching behind her to get her back…
“Wash your cunt, whore,” Paul says mildly.
Celia flushes. She rubs the loofah between her legs.
“Vigorously,” Paul tells her, so Celia begins to rub harder. He tells her to put a foot on the side of the tub so he can be sure she’s really clean so she does so, lifting a leg to clean between her lips, then her cheeks… and Paul’s hands stop her, reaching into the spray of the water. The cuffs of his sleeves become wet. He frowns but doesn’t stop, spreading her cheeks with his fingers.
“Bend over, Celia.”
Celia turns her back to him and bends at the waist, exposing her ass. The water disappears for a moment… then it’s on her back, hotter than before, and the clicking of the shower head switches the nozzle to a jet spray rather than a rainfall. He positions it between her cheeks. The water forces its way inside of her. Celia gasps, squirming, wiggling her hips to get away, but Paul tells her to hold still.
“Your insides need to be clean,” he says to her. She ceases her movement. Humiliation thrums through her. Bent over, naked, his hand holding the shower head; she can’t help the tears that slip down her cheeks while she undergoes her ordeal, and only once the water turns off and he tells her to stand up does she wipe the tears from her face. She steps into the towel that he holds open for her, letting him wrap her up in his embrace. It’s warm, at least, and she can pretend… pretend that he cares about her in the brief moment that he holds her. She shivers in his arms but is glad for the contact.
“This is how it’s going to be, Celia. You will come over twice per week. You will wear an approved outfit and bring an approved snack. I will judge your cooking. If you’re good, you’ll be rewarded. If you’re bad, you’ll be punished. You will do your homework and I will look over it. Afterward, you will come upstairs to this shower, and you will clean yourself thoroughly. Nod if you understand.”
Celia nods.
“Good, Celia. You can learn. Now, go to my bedroom. Dry yourself. Lie on your stomach on the bed.”
“Yes, sir,” Celia says quietly.
She moves from the bathroom, silent steps taking her down the hall to the room where he had fucked her three days ago. Three days, had it really been that long? Her ass had been on fire for days afterward; sitting in class had been an effort in will, truly, to avoid squirming and crying out as even the softest touch set her nerves aflame. She closes the door behind her, using the towel to dry herself as quickly as she can. No doubt he will find another reason to punish her if she is still wet when he arrives. She hangs the towel across the hook on his door when she is finished, stepping toward the bed in the center of the room. She lays down upon it.
She waits.
She waits.
She waits.
Time passes.
She doesn’t know how much time has come and gone by when the door finally opens behind her again, bringing with it the cool rush of air conditioner from the rest of the house. Celia stays silent on the bed, eyes squeezed firmly shut. She won’t look, she won’t. She won’t cry. She won’t beg. She won’t.
“How many lashes did you earn today?” Paul’s voice sounds from across the room.
“Twenty-three, sir.”
“Are you going to count them for me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I have something for you first. Reach behind you, spread your cheeks.”
Celia’s face burns. She reaches behind her, gripping her cheeks with her fingers to pull herself apart. She spreads herself open for his inspection. He touches a finger to her hole and she tries not to flinch.
“On your knees,” Paul says, “face down.”
Celia shifts, hips bending, face pressed against the mattress. She jumps when his hand strokes the soft curve of her ass, tutting, then again when something firm and wet presses against the opening of her ass. She squirms, drawing in a long, shaky breath… and looses it all at once in a pained cry as Paul shoves something inside of her. It stretches her, fills her, and she’s left a panting, quivering mess by the end of it, when she finally feels a flared base against the rest of her.
“We’re going to train you how to take bigger things like a proper slut, Celia. Does that sound good? Nod your head.”
Trying not to cry, Celia nods her head.
“Good. It has a hollow core, you see, and it stretches. So we can swap the plugs. That’s what is inside you now, inside the stretcher. A plug. Only half an inch in diameter, but we’ll work up to something bigger, won’t we?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“Are you pleased, Celia? I bought this for you. It will come out of your whoring money, of course, but it’s yours to keep. You’ll wear it when you’re not here. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
Celia squeezes her eyes shut. He expects her to wear this all the time. How can she possibly wear it all the time? What if she needs to go? What if Stephen wants to fuck? He’ll see it, he will, she can’t hide it, she can’t…
“I… I… please, I can’t, I… ”
“You will,” Paul says firmly. “If I find out you haven’t been wearing it I’ll double your lashes for the evening and you won’t get any money. Then I’ll send a photo to your dad. You spread out with a plug in your ass. How do you think he’ll react to that, Celia? Did your daddy raise a whore?”
“N-no, please, I’ll wear it, I will… ”
“Extra lashes tonight, whore, for making me repeat myself. How many does that make?”
“Fff… forty-six, sir.”
“At least you can do basic math,” Paul muses. “I knew stupid could be taught. Stretch your arms above your head. There, like that. Lift your hips. Good.” Paul slides a wedge beneath her stomach, forcing her onto her knees with her face down. He fastens cuffs around her wrists and pulls her taut, another set around her ankles to keep her from moving. She is still. Absolutely, perfectly still.
“Count, Celia.”
Pain against her ass. Sharp, throbbing, like fire in her skin. Celia howls, thrashing against her bindings, but there’s nowhere to go. She counts.
One.
Another. Harder. More pain. Agony splits her skin. It’s worse than before, so much worse.
Two.
Another. Burning against her cheeks, layer after layer of pain that reverberates through her, that makes her entire body tense up. It only hurts worse when she does. She sobs the count.
Three.
By the time he reaches twenty she is a shivering, quivering, panting mess. She can barely keep her head up, can barely form the numbers that he’s looking for. She smells the blood. It trickles down the back of her legs from her split skin. He ceases striking her for a moment, letting her catch her breath. The bed dips when his weight joins her, moving around toward her face. He strokes fingers through her hair.
“You’re doing so well, Celia. We’re almost halfway there and you didn’t lose count at all. Every time I strike you I can see your asshole tighten, did you know? Does it feel good?”
Celia starts to shake her head. His fingers grip her hair and she finds herself nodding instead.
“Y-yes, Mr. Simmons, it feels good. Really good. I’m… because I’m a whore, sir, your whore, I… I like it.”
“Are you learning your lesson, whore?”
“Yes, sir. I’m learning. My lesson. That I’m a whore. Your whore. That I’m st-stupid. A stupid whore. You—you’re so good to me, Mr. Simmons, I’m so grateful that you t-teach me right and wrong.”
“Are you ready for the rest of your lashes, Celia?”
Celia shakes her head.
“It hurts.” Her voice rises in a plaintive whine.
“Pain is weakness leaving the body. The weakness of your flesh. Your sin. You’re a whore, aren’t you? This is what happens to whores.”
“I’m—I’m—I’m—”
“I can’t understand you, Celia. How many to go?”
She falters.
“Twe-twenty six, sir.”
“Are you going to count them for me?”
“Y-yes, sir, yes Mr. Simmons, I’ll count them, I will, I’ll be good, I promise, I—”
Whatever she had been about to say is cut off when he strikes her again. She yelps, howls, strains against the cuffs that hold her fast, and finally counts out twenty-one.
She is limp by the end of it. Every nerve in her ass is on fire, every motion sends waves of pain rippling through her body. She barely does more than flinch when the whip strikes her flesh, mouthing the words that he wants to hear, the number that he’s on. When he’s done he presses a hand to her broken skin, tut-tutting.
“You weren’t this bloody last time, Celia. Did you backslide?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“What did you learn?”
“That… that I need to be… to be clean for—for you. That I’m d-dirty. A whore. Here to be used by you. Please, sir, please teach me… teach me to be… be better.”
“I told you I was going to bring a friend tonight, Celia. He’s here. He’s been here this whole time. Would you like to meet him?”
No. Someone had been watching the whole time? She squirms against her bindings, pulling at her arms, and begins to shake her head. Paul clears his throat. Celia stills, finally nodding her head over and over again, as if that will take away the pain and shame and humiliation that he has visited upon her. Her cheeks and the blankets beneath her are soaked through with her tears.
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s going to fuck you, Celia, like the whore that you are. And when he’s done I’m going to make you suck me off. How does that sound?”
“It… it sounds good, Mr. Simmons, I’m your… I’m your whore, sir, your slut, p-please use me, please, fill me, I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours… ”
She repeats that epitaph. Over and over again she tells him that she’s his, that she’s a dirty whore, just a slut, ready for him to fill her. So he does. Fingers pull the plug from her ass but leave the spreader, keeping her asshole stretched around it, and a moment later it stretches again, making her cry out in pain as something shoves inside of her. Bigger than Paul’s cock. Thicker. It threatens to rip her apart, to split her at the seams, and she shrieks as it slides further and further inside of her until hips press against her own. Buried to the hilt, it can’t go any further. She cries out, wiggling against him, trying to escape, but the cuffs hold her fast and what little ground she manages to gain is stolen from her when he yanks her back.
“He’s black,” Paul tells her as the cock slides out, “what would your daddy think if he knew you were being fucked by a nigger?”
There’s a grunt from behind her. Celia howls as the black man’s cock is shoved back inside of her. She can’t form words around the pain: the pain of him inside of her, of his flesh striking against her red, raw ass, of Paul’s fingers beneath her body, pinching her nipples. She squeezes her eyes shut as tightly as she can, tries to hold herself still, bites her lower lip until she tastes blood, and finally she lets it loose. She screams. Each time he thrusts into her she screams, louder and louder, crying out her discomfort, her pain, her humiliation. Paul’s fingers dig cruelly into her nipples, pinching and pulling while the black man fucks her from behind.
“Open your mouth, Celia.”
She shakes her head and is rewarded with a slap across the face. Her mouth pops open and Paul shoves himself inside, far enough back that he hits her throat and she gags. He pushes her face down onto his lap, forcing her to swallow his length while she sputters and hacks and tries to wriggle away.
“If you bite me, whore, I’m going to knock your teeth out. Suck it. Like you did before. Pretend it’s a Popsicle.”
She tries. She really does. But it’s one thing to be on her knees in front of him while she sucks him off and another altogether to be bent over the bed with his hand forcing her head down. Drool drips from her mouth while she cries, shaking her head, begging him not to_—please stop, please, I can’t_—and finally Paul clutches her by the throat.
“You can’t suck a cock while you get fucked, Celia? What kind of whore are you?”
“P-please, Mr. Simm_—oowwwns—_” she cuts off into a sob. The man behind her digs his fingers into her hip, thrusting. He grunts, smacking the raw skin of her ass, then works a finger against her clit. Celia’s whole body jerks away and she hears him laugh.
“Shy little cunt,” he says to Paul. Paul doesn’t respond. Celia can’t see his face, but his hand strokes her hair. He murmurs to her, soft crooning words that do nothing for the pain in her ass, but make her want to nuzzle up against him if only he will be nice to her, if only he will make it stop. He says it will, that he’ll make it stop, she just has to get them both off first, has to do her job as a whore, as his whore. Surely she understands that, doesn’t she? Good girl, Celia, it’ll all be over as soon as she stops resisting. If she doesn’t learn, he says, he’ll need to lash her again, or bring in another friend. He tells her what they’ll do to her if she doesn’t behave, if she doesn’t learn her place, and Celia sobs openly onto his lap and tells him, through broken words, that she will, she’ll be good, she will.
“He wants to make you cum, Celia,” Paul says to her, “do you want that? Do you want to cum for him? Nod your head, yes or no.”
Celia nods her head.
“Of course you do, you’re a little slut, aren’t you? All sluts want to cum. Do you think you’ve been a good girl? Should we let you cum?”
Celia nods her head again.
“You do? But you didn’t suck me off, Celia. Why don’t we try again? Put my cock in your mouth—yes, there like that—now suck. Up and down. Harder, Celia. Mmph, yes, you’re so good with those pretty lips of yours… watching you suck me off is delightful, I’ll never get tired of this, and you’re going to swallow for me, won’t you? Like a good girl. Yes, nod, like that… he’s going to touch you again, your clit, he’ll stroke it, go ahead, Jamal—hush, whore, quit your squirming, just let it happen, you’ve been so good, don’t you want to cum? You said you did. This is how you get it. Him inside of you. Me inside of you. Him touching you… are you panting, Celia? You are. Like a bitch in heat. Oh, she likes it, look at her go, work your mouth, whore, yes, those whore lips of yours are so—”
Whatever they are is drowned out by Paul’s cry as he cums inside of her mouth, shooting his load deep into her throat. He forces her head down on him, forces her to swallow, strokes his fingers through her hair as Jamal fucks her harder and faster from behind, grunting with each movement, until his cock twitches inside of her and he blows his load deep inside her tight hole. He doesn’t pull out immediately when he’s done. No, he stays still inside of her, working his fingers across her clit until, moments later, a shuddering orgasm rips through her body. She can’t help it, can’t help the way that she responds to his touch, how he forces it from her despite the fact that she doesn’t want it. She sobs openly, face red, ass bleeding from the onslaught of abuse it had taken.
“Like it when they squeeze as they cum,” Jamal grunts, “gets all the jizz out. God, she’s tight.”
“See yourself out,” Paul tells him. Celia doesn’t hear anything more from the man, just feels him pull out of her, semen dribbling out of her stretched asshole as he goes, and then the door opening and closing again. The cuffs give a faint click as they open, and her tormenter nudges aside the wedge pillow so that she can lay flat on the bed. Paul continues to stroke her hair, her cheeks, her back. Celia lays heavily against him, her entire body heaving as she struggles to find the breath she needs. Her heart hammers in her chest. Please, she thinks, please let me go, please don’t make me come back, please… She presses her face against his lap, her eyes leaking tears across his skin.
“Are you spent, Celia? Tired?”
She nods.
“I can’t hear you.”
“Y-yes, sir. Mr. Simmons.” Her voice is as broken, as defeated, as the rest of her. “I’m… I’m tired.”
“Did you like that, Celia? Did you like being fucked from both ends? You’re a whore, so I imagine you did. How much do you think I should pay you for that? Double… or half?”
Celia is quiet. She doesn’t know what to say.
“I asked you a question, whore. How much whore money did you earn tonight?”
“I… h-half, sir.” Her voice cracks. It’s the answer he wants, she knows it, and she’s rewarded with a pat on the head.
“Why half?” he asks.
“Be-because I… both of you… at the same time. D-double dipping, Mr. Simmons. Half… half effort for… for half pay.”
“Stupid can be taught, Celia.” She hears the smile in his voice.
Continuity Three, Chapter III
Celia: It’s a lot of the same after that. Paul greets her at the door and she offers him the basket of whatever homemade goodies she had made that day, muffins or scones or cookies, and he sweeps her inside with a nod to the men standing outside his home. She takes off her shoes, the black mary janes, and leaves them at the door. After the first few times of unsuccessfully trying to find a seductive way to remove socks she just started leaving those at the door as well. Her toes are always freshly polished: cute pastels, sparkly duochromes, matte spring and summer colors. The skirts are always plaid and pleated, the blouses always white, and she wears not a stitch of clothing beneath those two articles. Sometimes her hair is down, but often it is up and off her face, spare curling tresses caught back by a thick black or pink headband. The entire effect makes her look younger than her nineteen years.
Today she is dressed the same. Her toes are a pretty shade of lilac that match her fingernails. Paul had told her a few visits ago that he is tired of seeing the same colored skirts, so Celia had used some of her whoring money to purchase a few new outfits for their meetings. She doesn’t know why she bothers when her clothing never lasts long anyway, but she does not fight him on the issue. Today she wears a deep emerald green skirt cut with gray, and on top the typical white. He has never complained about the white shirts. She thinks it is because they are so thin that he can see her nipples through them, though she has never asked.
Paul opens the door after she knocks and allows her inside where she completes the ritual of taking off her shoes and socks. She offers him the basket of goodies—lemon squares, freshly made, with powdered sugar sprinkled across the top—and he takes them into the kitchen while she moves to the living room, backpack in hand. He’s back a moment later with a plate and fork, one of her squares perched atop it, and she has already undone the top two buttons of her shirt and pulled her homework from her bag. An upside to meeting with him like this, she reflects, is that her grades in mathematics have vastly improved since he began looking over her work. She pays more attention in class now that she is punished for getting things wrong.
For a time they are quiet. Celia sits with her legs spread on the couch and Paul sits across from her, watching her. She has gotten used to his scrutiny in their time together. Used to the way that his eyes linger on her chest, on the snatch that he can see between her parted thighs, used to the way he touches himself through his pants, adjusting the fit of his slacks. Sometimes he corrects her posture, telling her to sit up straighter, or to spread herself a little more. Sometimes he asks her to undo another button. Sometimes, like today, he comments on the baked goods she brought.
“Heavenly lemon flavor,” he tells her. “What’s in it?”
“Zest, juice, extract,” Celia says without lifting her eyes. “Cinnamon, to enhance the flavor. A little almond, as well.”
He doesn’t respond. She supposes that is comment enough: he approves, or else he would tell her to do it better.
Time passes. Her pencil moves against the page. For a long time it is the only noise in the room. When she reaches the end of the page she lifts her eyes to find him staring at her with the thin, bland smile she has come to know him for.
“I’ve finished with my homework, Mr. Simmons.”
“Bring it here, Celia.”
Celia rises, uncertainty slowing her steps. Normally he comes to her. More room on the couch for him to spread her across his lap, or sit beside her. She approaches, paper in hand, and offers it to him once she reaches his seat. He pats his thigh and she sits, obedient. One arm snakes around her waist, holding her close to him. His fingers tap her thighs until she spreads them once more, and he tells her to undo the buttons on her shirt. She does both without comment.
“How many times have you come to my house, Celia?” he asks after a moment.
“Twelve, sir.” Six weeks. Every Tuesday and Friday.
“And how many times have I punished you?”
“Twelve, sir.”
“But you keep coming back.”
“Yes, Mr. Simmons.”
“Do you know why that is?”
Celia is quiet for a moment. She shakes her head.
“I think you do, Celia. I’d like you to tell me. Why do you keep coming back to see me?”
“I… I need the… the money, Mr. Simmons,” she says at last.
“Is that all?”
“You… help me with my homework,” Celia says.
“And?”
“And… and you… you, um, let me… make me… ”
“Cum?” he asks.
Celia flushes.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you cum outside of our time together?”
She hasn’t. She and Stephen had drifted apart after Jamal had fucked her; she couldn’t look him in the eye anymore. Knowing the thing she has in her ass, that at any moment he could strip her and see… There’s still a tenuous relationship there, but it’s… not something that will last. Already he grows impatient with her constant excuses as to why she cannot see him, why she doesn’t want to have sex when she does see him.
“No, Mr. Simmons,” she whispers.
“So you come over here to cum and receive money.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what does that make you?”
“A whore, Mr. Simmons. Your whore.”
She feels him nod behind her. His hand cups her breast, thumb tracing circles around her bared nipple. Her breath hitches in her throat at the touch; she squirms on his lap, pressing back against him, and can feel the hardened length of his cock pushing against her skirt-clad buttocks. She knows her cheeks are red; no matter how many times she has been bared before him he still finds ways to make her feel as if it were the first. His age, maybe, or the fact that this is so wrong, or that, even for all her protesting, she can’t put him out of her mind.
“There are no mistakes on your homework this evening, Celia.”
“Thank you, sir. Your guidance has helped me learn.”
“I spoke to your father last evening.”
Her stomach flips.
“My father?” the words are barely more than a whisper in the room. Paul pinches her nipple.
“Yes, Celia, your father. We had dinner together. Do you know what I told him?”
Nothing good. He can’t have said anything good to her father. Does he know? She hasn’t spoken to him since last weekend, but maybe he’s just waiting for her to come home to say something, to reprimand her for being a whore. He’ll beat her bloody. Worse than Paul does. Her eyes close and she takes a breath, a deep inhale that does little to settle her nerves.
“N-no, sir, I don’t know.”
“I told him how frequently you’ve been coming to my house.” He pauses and she can hear it in his voice: the mockery. He knows what her father does to her. What he will do to her if he finds out. She trembles on his lap, waiting for him to continue. “I told him how you bring your school work with you, that I look it over for errors and inconsistencies.”
Celia is silent. She hardly dares draw a breath. Did her tell her father how he spanks her? How he strips her bare and bends her over his knee and uses his hand to make her red? That he’d let someone fuck her? That he fucks her?
“He has informed me that I would be a suitable match for you.”
Her mouth is dry. A match? Surely he can’t mean—
“I desire a son. You will give me one.”
He does, though. He does mean that.
“Mr. Simmons, I—I’m only nineteen, I can’t—”
“You can. Your mother did. If you are half as fertile as her I expect you to be pregnant within the fortnight of our mating.”
“But—”
“Celia.” His voice is hard. His fingers pinch her nipple again, firmer this time. She whimpers but closes her mouth. “I am offering you a step up into polite society. Before, you were nothing but a whore. My whore. I told you that is all you will be good for, but I’ve spent my time putting work into you, shaping you how I want. My time is valuable. Now you remain mine, but you will serve another purpose. You will give me the sons I ask for. We will announce our engagement this weekend and plan for a summer wedding. A small affair, I think, but elegant. Classy. Suitable for my position, and your father’s name.”
A wedding. He means to marry her. And so quickly! Months away.
“What… what about school, sir?”
“You will skip a semester when you give birth. We will hire a nanny. You will change majors, something that is more suitable. Something useful. Once you graduate you will stay at home with the children until they are all in school. Then you may pursue part-time work that will not embarrass me. My income and your trust will see us through nicely. You receive a large lump sum when you marry, when you have a child, and when you graduate. You will do all those things, Celia, and we will arrange for more money with each subsequent child from your father.”
Money. He wants her dad’s money. But why? He has a nice place here, empty though it is. He should know that her dad has trusts set up for all his children, not just Celia, and that even if she pops out five children there won’t be enough to go around. Her dad isn’t some oil tycoon; he’s just a state senator.
Paul pulls her back against him. The move is more possessive than she has seen from him before, when he treated her like property. Now he seeks to claim her in another way, in name and body both. Her entire future. She will be his; there will be no reconciliation with Stephen, no journeys to visit her mother, no chance at getting away from her father. He will control her forever. She cannot help the tears that threaten to spill down her cheeks.
“Are… are you… am I still your… your whore?”
He touches a hand to her cheek, turning her to face him.
“You will always be a whore, Celia. But you’re my whore.” His hand slides up her thigh, fingers dancing across her lower lips. “Now, run upstairs and shower. I think I’d like to fuck your cunt tonight.”
Inside the shower, Celia scrubs at herself until her skin is pink. She makes sure that she does not miss a spot. She uses the provided razor to scrape any hair from her body, focusing on her underarms and privates. Paul does not like it when she has hair. Hair on a woman should only be on the head, he is fond of saying, so Celia removes everything else. Paul also expects her to thoroughly clean her asshole like he did that first time. Sometimes he watches her shower, doing it for her, but today she is alone in the bathroom. Today there is no one to see as she attaches the hose nozzle to the shower head and pushes the other part into the silicone mold Paul has ensured that she wears. It keeps her ass from ever truly closing, allows him to slide whatever sized toy he wants inside. He told her once that when she can take a fist without screaming he will let her take it out, but she does not know how serious he is, or why he’d want to do that in the first place. He likes to tell her how tight she is; she doesn’t understand the point of stretching it if that will make it loose. She flinches when the water squirts inside of her; it is always an uncomfortable feeling, the warm water shooting up inside of her to flush everything out. But when she is done her insides are as clean as her outsides, and that is what Paul wants. Smooth, hairless, soft skin. Sometimes in the bedroom he makes her rub herself with lotion before he will touch her. Once he did it himself, making sure she bent and spread so he could cover every inch of her with the sweet-smelling stuff. It had been almost like a massage, though Celia had been unable to relax beneath his touch.
It had taken some adjusting to figure out how to use the bathroom with the plug inside of her. She has to draw out the center piece to leave just the ring, to leave her gaping open, and she cannot push; the shit has to simply fall out of her, aided only by the muscles deep inside, none near the sphincter itself. Paul had been displeased when she had brought him the ring and explained that it had fallen out of her one morning; she hadn’t been able to sit for almost a week after the lashing he had given her. He’d used it as an excuse to stick a bigger toy inside of her once he’d let Jamal fuck her again. That seems to be his favorite punishment: letting the black man fuck her while she sobs. He’d brought others into the bedroom as well, people he made her blow, but none of the others had ever touched her ass. They’d watched, or had her blow them, or spanked her, but none of them had fucked her.
After she is clean—being clean is desirable, she tells herself—Celia dries off with the provided towel and walks into Paul’s bedroom to find him waiting for her. He is still dressed in his button-down shirt and tan slacks, and he rises from his seated position on the bed when she closes the door behind her. He snaps his fingers at her, telling her to come to him.
She does.
“Tell me,” he says to her once she stands before him. He is a large man, towering over her, and the hands that he places on her waist almost completely encircle it. One stays on her hip; the other traces soft patterns against her skin, then finally lifts her chin so that she can look him in the eyes.
“I am your whore, Mr. Simmons,” Celia says quietly. The words bring a smile to his face. It does not meet his eyes; it never does. “I will always be your whore. I am nothing without you, and would be lost if not for your guidance.” Rote words, the same thing he makes her say every time. They no longer make her stammer and blush like they used to. It’s just another way to remind her of her place: beneath him. “Please, sir, tell me what you want me to do.”
“What else?” he prompts.
Celia falters. She’s never been asked “what else.” Always it had ended with him telling her whatever depravity he had planned for her that day: lashes for missed questions, spankings for disobedience, getting onto her knees to suck him off. She draws a breath, remembering their conversation downstairs.
“I… Mr. Simmons, sir, I long to… to give you sons, sir, I would like that v-very much, I would like you to… to to fuck my… my p-pussy, sir, and fill me with your… your seed.”
“Oh, Celia,” Paul sighs. His thumb runs across her lips. “What filthy things you say. Is fucking your ass not enough, slut, that you want me in all your holes?”
“Y-yes, sir, I’m… I’m greedy, and wanton, sir.” Always agree with what he says. Always make herself sound like a filthy slut. She is a filthy slut. His filthy slut. His whore.
“Your father told me that you’re a virgin, Celia. Is that true?”
“Yes, sir.” She tries not to think of Stephen. That night together, when he’d held her in his arms until she was ready, when he’d coaxed her into it, made sure that he wasn’t hurting her—he’d told her there might be pain, a little blood, and there had been. But for all of that it had been everything she’d wanted it to be. Every girl’s fantasy about their first time. Loving, even then, even barely knowing him she’d known there had been a connection. Magical.
Stupid. How stupid can she be. She should have waited. Then she wouldn’t have to lie to Paul about it.
“How has a virgin become such a depraved little slut, I wonder. Can you tell me, Celia? Can you tell me what made you this way?”
Celia does not know what to say. He is the one who forced her into this, who took photos of her in compromising positions, who pushed her onto her knees. He threatens to tell her father if she refuses to see him. But she does not think that is what he wants to hear.
“I don’t know, sir,” she says quietly.
“No? Not even a guess?”
“I… I like it, Mr. Simmons, sir, I like… like you, I ha-have for… for years, Mr. Simmons, I used to… used to think about what it would be like to-to be with you, like that.”
“You seduced me?” Paul sounds amused.
“Y-yes, Mr. Simmons, I… I planned it, I knew you were charitable, sir, that if I asked you about my trust you’d… you’d understand what I meant.”
“What a naughty little whore, playing on my sympathy like that. It’s a good thing your daddy gave you to me, isn’t it, or he’d have to find out how you’ve been swindling us both.”
“Yes, Mr. Simmons. I’m… I’m very sorry that I… that I swindled you, sir. I only desired to be close to you.”
“And now you are,” Paul muses. “And now you’re going to be mine forever. Does that please you, Celia? The idea of living with me? Fucking me whenever you want?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Maybe I’ll tie you to the bed while I’m at work so you can’t get yourself off like the depraved slut you are. I can’t have you fucking the guards, you know. What will they say? Get on your knees, Celia. Start sucking. Look up at me. Yes, like that. Oh, yes, you’re a special little girl alright. Use your hands. At the base. There. Stroke it. Suck it. Harder. Yes. Take it deeper, slut. Swallow it down. Oh god, yes, you’re such a little whore, my little whore, aren’t you, aren’t you? Nod your head, whore, like you mean it.”
His cock in her mouth, her eyes on his face, Celia nods her head. She sucks him the way she has learned that he likes: hard suction, hands stroking his cock while her mouth moves up and down, up and down. It does not often take him long to cum once she brings him into her mouth. Today is no different; after only moments she hears his breath hitch, and the fingers that slide through her hair grip her tightly by the back of the head, forcing her up and down, up and down. His cock twitches in her mouth.
“Yes, you slut, you filthy whore, fuck, yes, mine, all mine, my whore, my slut, going to keep you, forever, god yes, my whooooooore—”
His words cut off abruptly. Cum sprays from the head of his cock into her open, waiting mouth. Paul jerks her head further down his cock as it spasms, telling her to put her lips tight around it, to suck it all out of him, to use her hand and milk him. Celia does. She tightens her grip around the base of his cock and strokes it, squeezing, to bring every last drop of cum out of him and into her waiting mouth. Once it’s all there she swallows it down like the good little slut that she is. She keeps his cock inside of her mouth while he looks down at her, a thin, bland smile on his face. He strokes her cheek with his hand.
“You’re really pretty, Celia. My pretty little whore. Should I reward you, whore, for doing your whore duty, for making me feel good? I told you stupid can be taught. And you learned. Are you proud of yourself? My proud little whore. My proud, pretty little whore. This is your place, you know. On your knees.”
Celia nods her head. Paul pulls away from her, drawing his cock free from her lips with a wet, sucking sound. He lifts her by the arms and pushes her onto the bed.
“On your back,” he tells her. “Spread your legs. Let me see your cunt.”
Celia lies back. She bends her knees and drops them open, and Paul looks down at her naked, exposed body. He strokes a hand over his cock, using the other to trail a finger between her lips. It slides inside of her.
“You’re wet,” he muses. “Are you aroused?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“Because I… I like it when you touch me, Mr. Simmons, when you put me on my knees, I do, I like swallowing your cum, and when you tell me that I’m pretty.”
“You are pretty, Celia. Very pretty.”
“Thank you, sir.” She can’t help but flush.
“Shall I reward you for finally learning, Celia? My pretty little whore, do you want me to make you cum?”
“Yes, yes, please, Mr. Simmons.”
“Touch yourself,” he orders.
Celia stares up at him. She hesitates only a moment before she lifts her hands to trail down her body, over her chest, stroking the undersides of her breasts, drawing slow circles around her nipples. They stiffen and ache despite the fact that she has not yet touched them, and she draws her fingers ever nearer until she has grasped them between thumb and forefinger. She pinches when he tells her to, making a noise that is more gasp than cry, and she sees him begin to harden again. He dips a second finger inside of her warm, wet cunt and curls it up, striking a spot inside of her that makes her back arch and her entire body shudder.
“O-oh,” she gasps out, “Mr. Simmons, th-that… ”
“Does that feel nice, Celia?”
“Y-yes, yes, oh yes… ”
Paul doesn’t respond. He simply smiles that same bland smile at her that he gives her every time, then lowers himself onto the bed between her knees. His mouth converges on her nipples while his fingers work inside of her, sucking and licking and biting, and Celia’s hands fall away. He grasps her wrists in his free hand and pins them above her head, and though she presses against him in a sort of helpless struggle she does not truly seek to free herself. She’s his whore, after all.
His mouth leaves her chest, travels downward, breath hot against her belly, then lower still. His fingers curl up, tapping against that spot, and then his tongue descends between her lips. Flicks across the tiny bundle of nerves that make her gasp and cry and arch her back again, pressing up against him, begging him, please, please, please—
His face is soaked with the evidence of her arousal when he lifts himself away from her, leaving her a shuddering, panting mess beneath him. She reaches for him, unable to help himself, and he settles heavily between her legs at her insistent tug.
“Please, Mr. Simmons,” she whispers, writhing, “please… ”
“Say it,” he tells her.
Celia flushes.
“Please, I want you to… to fill me, please, with your cock, Mr. Simmons, please, I need it, I need you, please fuck me, please make me-make me y-y-yours, your—your whore—” Her words cut off into a long cry when he gives her what she asks for. He slides inside of her in one smooth thrust, stretching the walls of her pussy around his hard, thick cock. Celia’s arms instinctively encircle him, holding his body close to hers, and the smile that he gives her finally, finally, reaches his eyes.
“So tight,” he tells her, shifting his hips to slide further in, “like a glove.” He gives her a moment to get used to the feeling of him inside of her. A moment to adjust to his thick cock. His lips press against her throat and her nails dig into his back when he finally begins to fuck her in earnest. Quick, sharp thrusts of his cock inside her pussy that leave her panting and moaning like the whore he says she is.
It’s different than it had been with Stephen. Different than it had been every other time he’d fucked her ass. He isn’t gentle—she doesn’t think he’s capable of it—but he settles into a rhythm with his hips that makes her back arch and her mouth part in a wordless cry each time he sinks into her. It’s less painful, anyway; this is how whores are meant to be fucked, not bent over like a dog. She lifts her head to press it against him, eyes closed. She hates herself for liking it. Hates herself for coming here time and time again, for giving into his demands, for wanting him to like her. Because she does. She wants his affection. Wants him to tell her that she’s pretty. That she’s smart. That he’s proud of her. He has to care about her. Why else would he help her with her homework? Why would he offer to marry her, to let her give him sons, if he didn’t have genuine affection for her? All this time he’s just been showing her how much he cares by making sure she doesn’t embarrass him. He’s been making her better. Turning her into what he needs to he can show her off to the world. Not as his whore, but as his partner.
Tears slide down her cheeks at the thought. All this time she’d resented him. She hadn’t understood. She’d thought he was hurting her but he was helping. Kept her from partying. From throwing her life away on a college boy. He’d pushed her to be better, to be smarter, to be more polite. And she’d almost thrown it all away. Had let a boy she met at a party deflower her. It should have been Mr. Simmons, not Stephen, and she can’t take it back. She can’t take it back, she’s sorry, she’s so sorry, it should have been him, should have been…
She pulls at him, pulls him into her, presses her lips against his shoulder, his neck while tears stain her cheeks and he thrusts in and out of her. His. She’s his. She can be his. He’ll give her a purpose, a way to repent for all the sins she has ever committed, all the action she has ever taken. They’ll have children together and he will make sure that they’re raised right, he’ll take care of her, she’ll be a good wife, a good mother, a good daughter. And every night she’ll take her place on her knees in front of him and he can tell her that she’s pretty while she sucks him off, grateful for his attention, for his patronage, and after they can fuck—no, not fuck, that’s not the right word. Make love. Like they’re doing now. On her back, so she can look up at him, so she can kiss him—
And she does. She trails a series of kisses along his jaw until he finally moves so that she can kiss his mouth. His lips part and, emboldened, Celia slips her tongue into his mouth. She hears him growl against her lips, pressing deeper into her, pushing her back into the bed, plundering her mouth with his tongue. He’s wanted this just as long as she has. Has waited for her to be perfect for him before he would move on it. And now she is. She’s been slowly getting closer, each visit shedding more and more of her failures and sin. Now, this, her rebirth. Stepping from childhood to womanhood, and him there to guide her.
She clings to him, desperate, holding him to her, her arms around his broad shoulders, crying out against his mouth with each thrust. Strong. Passionate. Smart. He’s everything she wants, everything she’s been looking for, and he cares about her, he has to, and she… god, she hadn’t realized she’d fallen for him, that she’s in love with him, head over heels, that every Tuesday and Friday when she leaves she’s already thinking about when she can come back, the things he’ll do to her.
Celia whimpers with each thrust he makes. She wants him. Wants him to cum inside of her like he’d said he would. She tells him that, asks him, begs him, “please, please, please,” a single word repeated over and over again in time to his hips sliding forward to fill her, and each time he pulls out she’s bereft, empty, she needs him—
It hits her suddenly, a wave of pleasure that courses through her body, that tightens all of her muscles, that makes her tilt her head back and cry out as the orgasm spirals inside. Her pussy clamps down tightly around his cock, pulling him deeper into her, and she finally opens her eyes—
To see her dad’s face staring down at her, his bald head shining, his lips spread in a thin smile.
“Oh Celia,” he grunts, holding her arms tight to her sides, “you’re my special—little—girl—” his words cut off and she feels it: his cock twitching, his semen spilling into her while she cries in horror, struggling against him, trying to get free, only he’s stronger than her, has always been stronger than her, and he fills her with his seed. And finally, when it’s all over, when his weight collapses heavily on top of her, her legs still spread around his waist, he kisses her temple.
“Daddy loves you.”
Continuity Three, Chapter IV
Celia: He doesn’t let her leave after that.
She doesn’t know what to call him anymore, this man who wears two faces, and she’s afraid now that she has seen him with both. He keeps her tied to the bed, arms above her head fastened securely to either post. A similar treatment is applied to her ankles, keeping her spread. The semen that has dripped out of her has long since dried on her thighs, a filmy, sticky residue that pulls taut every time she attempts to shift her weight. The bindings prevent her from moving too far.
“Did you really think that you were ever going to be more than a whore, Celia?”
He looks like Paul again, but it’s her father’s voice that drips from his mouth. He sits beside her on the bed, trailing a hand up and down her stomach. He ignores the way she flinches at his touch, the panicked breaths that she takes, the way her entire body trembles. Her chest rises and falls with the short little gasps she breathes in. Tears leak from the corners of her eyes, even squeezed shut as they are. Paul reaches out to touch her chin, forcing her face toward his.
“Open your eyes, whore.”
She does so. She blinks at him, his form blurry through the tears.
“Tell me,” he says. Only she doesn’t know what he’s asking now. What he wants her to tell him.
“I—I don’t… ”
“Stop stuttering, slut.”
“I don’t know what you want!” She breaks down into sobs, her voice cracking as it raises in a wail. She pulls at the cuffs, the movement completely ineffectual: they do nothing more than dig into her wrists, the metal clanking against the bed frame. “Let me go, please let me go… ”
She hears Paul sigh. Feels his fingers on her face now that she has closed her eyes again. His thumb wipes the tears from her cheeks.
“I told you, Celia. You’re my whore.”
Celia shakes her head back and forth.
“N-no. I don’t wa-ant to be your whore—”
His hand strikes her across the face. She cries out, head snapping to one side, and dissolves into round of fresh tears.
“You’re my whore, Celia.”
She nods. The movement is desperate, placating.
“Say it.”
“Y-your whore, I’m your whore, I am, I’m yours, I’m—whore, please—” she cuts off when his hand touches her cheek. She flinches, but he doesn’t hit her again. He simply caresses the swiftly bruising flesh, the red mark that his hand left behind.
“Breathe,” he tells her. She does. She sucks it in, great, gulping breaths that fill her lungs, that leave her crying silent tears. They shine on her cheeks, wet trails that drip from her eyes to her chin. Her lids squeeze shut and force more liquid out.
“I’m so—I’m sorry,” she breathes, “I’m sorry, sir—Mr. Simmons—Mr… Dad-dy?” Her voice cracks on the syllable.
He rewards her with a smile.
“There’s my little girl. Say it again, Celia. Tell me you’re daddy’s little whore. Tell me how good it felt for daddy to fuck you.”
Trembling, breathless, sobbing, she does.
“You love your daddy, don’t you Celia? Don’t you want to make me proud?”
She nods.
“You’re going to be a good little girl, aren’t you?”
She nods again.
“Good.” He pats her cheek. “I’ve brought a friend to see you tonight. He’s going to get you ready for the next segment of our training program. Are you excited, Celia? Is your little cunt wet at the thought of the next step? I can’t let you marry me if you’re going to say things like you don’t want to be my whore. You hurt my feelings, Celia. Why don’t you apologize?”
She does. She tells him that she’s sorry, so sorry, that she didn’t mean to hurt him. She stumbles over the words, faltering and crying and stammering until she gets them out. She thanks him in the end for how much time he’s devoted to her, how much he has taught her, tells him how eager she is to learn more, how happy she is that he thinks she’s worthy of being more to him. That she wants to be more to him. Wants to be everything to him, like he is to her.
She’s still stammering the words when he leaves the room.
Continuity Three, Chapter V
Celia: It’s a systemic breaking after that. Textbook, really, though Celia will never appreciate the thought and care that goes into what they do to her.
Paul doesn’t let her leave the house. The room at the end of the hall is hers now, and he shows her the windows that have been set with bars to prevent escape. She’s not sure if they even open. Thick, frosted glass filters and distorts the light, leaving most of the room shrouded in shadow even in the middle of the day. Dark, heavy curtains block the rest of it.
For a long time Paul is her only visitor. He tells her how the world moves on without her after he puts her on her knees. How her father ceased asking about her once Paul assured him she was well in hand. How her phone has long stopped ringing with calls from her mother, Emily… and Stephen. He tells her that last bit with relish, taking pleasure in the way the tears stream down her face when he reads the “I can’t do this anymore” text to her. He asks who Stephen is, if he’s the boy she introduced to her dad. He’d thought they had broken up already.
He lashes her when she lies. He doesn’t need to leave her skin intact anymore, not when she doesn’t have school to go to, a roommate to fool. He doesn’t hold back. Each lash is harder, sharper than the last. Her skin splits. She bleeds, and screams, and begs him to stop, she tells him that she’s sorry, she’s so sorry, but he doesn’t stop until her back and buttocks are a red, bloody mess. He doesn’t stop until her screams stop, until she has passed out from the pain.
She can’t even drag herself into bed after she comes to. He leaves her on the floor and she sobs herself to sleep.
But she never lies again.
A few days after the whipping Paul fits her with a leather collar. A box sits on one side of it. He fastens it around her neck and a pair of metal prongs rest against her skin. She’s never had a dog, but she doesn’t wonder long what it’s for: the next time she displeases him he shows her the button he can press on the remote control that sends 400 volts of electricity right into her neck. He tells her, while she yelps in pain and yanks at the collar, that the highest setting will fry her brain.
“Not that there’s much left to fry,” he says. He laughs at his own joke and Celia nods her head, agreeing with him.
She makes fewer mistakes after that.
She learns never to question him. She has stopped asking if he will let her go and commits herself to serving his whims: she wears what he wants, does what he wants, says what he wants. She learns his schedule and makes certain that she is always one step ahead: breakfast and dinner ready for him, lunch packed, everything cleaned and put away by the time he sits to eat. She lays out his clothing for him. Does his laundry, his cleaning, takes care of everything that needs taken care of. Vacuuming, scrubbing, sanitizing. Everything has its place. Nothing is ever out of order, not here. She becomes proficient at removing blood stains from clothing, carpeting, suede, leather, tile. She learns how to clean away bodily fluids without leaving a trace, even under a black light.
He expects perfection from her. He punishes her small mistakes harshly, and if she repeats them he uses the collar on her. It leaves small, circular burns behind on her neck that never heal properly. She only sees them when he takes off the collar for her to bathe.
He curates a new wardrobe for her, though it consists of what she has come to expect with him. Pleated skirts, collared shirts, blouses, white socks. Sometimes he lets her pick her own outfits, and other days he selects them for her, then helps her dress. He puts panties on her those days, soft cotton things in white or baby pink, holding them out for her to step into so he can slide them up her legs. He blows raspberries on her belly, tells her how quickly she’s growing up, but how she’ll always be his little girl.
Those days he makes her call him Daddy and he wears her father’s face. Those are the days that find her perched on his lap, her face buried against his chest, her small frame shaking with the effort of her sobs while he tells her that it’s okay, to let it out. Those are the days he dries her tears with his thumbs, where he kisses her brow, where he tells her that he she is his special little girl, that he loves her. He touches her gently those days, even when he makes her strip in front of him, when his hands fondle her breasts, when he pinches her nipples. Those days he has her take a bath rather than a shower. He scrubs her back for her and washes her hair, covers her eyes with his large hand when he rinses the suds from her head. Sometimes he sits behind her in the tub and simply holds her in the warm water. Once, thus cradled, she dozed off in his arms and only woke when he deposited her in bed.
Those are the days he fucks her cunt. With her father’s face, after he has treated her gently, he lays her out on her back and kneels between her legs to find that button with this tongue, with his fingers inside of her, coaxing her toward a wantful, shuddering climax. Then he fills her, his body above hers, her legs around his waist, he pushes inside. He lets her cum again while he’s inside of her. Ensures it, that her body clamps down around him, that she can feel every inch of him, that she looks up into his eyes while her daddy fucks her. He kisses her brow. Moves slowly, so she can enjoy it. Kisses her throat. Holds her hands above her head while she presses up against him, another little game of struggling that she doesn’t really seek to win. Kisses her lips, parting her mouth with his tongue, and only then lets her hands free so she can pull him close. He cums inside of her, every time.
Those nights she falls asleep in the circle of his arms. Her dreams are soft and sweet, a reprieve from the darkness that she has come to normalize in her life. She tells him one night, while she is half asleep, while her cheek rests against his chest and his semen dries on her thigh, while her fingers trace idle circles across his firm stomach, that she’s sorry she’s stupid. She tells him that she’s trying. And she tells him that she loves him.
In the darkness of the room Paul, wearing her father’s face, smiles. He knows he has her.
Celia: He brings his friends back after that. Four of them, all with their own depravities. Jamal is with them, but she knows Jamal. She is not afraid of him anymore. When he comes to see her she smiles prettily for him and bends over like he asks her to. She puts her ass in the air the way he likes, buries her face in the mattress, and lets him fuck her. Sometimes he prefers to take her on her back so he can “watch her tits bounce,” and sometimes he wants her to ride him. It’s difficult, that, without the lube. He has her face away from him, legs spread, and uses his hands to pull her cheeks apart so she can slide down onto him. He never gets tired of her ass, he says, or the way her entire body shudders when she cums, or the noises that she makes. She doesn’t even mind when he comes to see her. Looks forward to it, even, and is ready and waiting for him by the time he makes it up the stairs and down the hall to her room.
He tells her that she’s a good whore. A good slut. He tells her that he’s had girls like her before, but she’s better than the other ones. He tells her that he pays good money to fuck her, and that he likes how tight she is, how she’s a little white cunt who does everything he asks her to. He’s never had a white bitch before, he says, and here she is, his for the taking.
She tells him, shyly, that she’s never been with a black man before, and that she’s happy he’s her first.
Celia: She doesn’t know the name of the man who wants to see her pierced. That’s all he says after he’s done fucking her, that he wants to watch her dance. Her collar is designed to send shocks to her body, Paul assures him, but that isn’t enough for the man.
The next time he comes over he brings a kit with him. It’s similar to the sort of gun she’s seen at the mall that pierces a girl’s ears, but he doesn’t have such innocent places in mind. He has Paul restrain her so she can’t squirm. Doesn’t want to miss, he says, and Celia is glad that she doesn’t get the opportunity.
There’s ice involved. He trails it across her nipples while she shivers beneath the frigid touch. But it does its job in numbing her, and she almost doesn’t feel it when he starts to pinch her nipples until they’re hard. Have to be hard to pierce, he says, they do this in all the tattoo and body piercing shops. She doesn’t know if she believes him—it’s hard to imagine a woman letting some stranger touch her nipples for a piercing—but she doesn’t have a reason not to believe him.
Then the gun. It slides around her nipples, first one and then the other, and he warns her there will be a pinch. She nods to show she’s ready. He counts back from three, but he presses the plunger at one the first time and two the second time, so she doesn’t have time to tense. It slides the barbell neatly into her flesh and he fastens it with a little ball on either side. He likes her in gold, he says, and she smiles at him through the tears. Even though she’d been numbed it still hurt. Her nipples ache, both of her breasts ache, and when he tells her that it’s time for him to do her clit she almost says no.
Only almost, though. She remembers what happened last time she’d asked Paul not to do something, and he’s standing over the bed staring down at her, so Celia just nods her head and spreads her legs like the man asks.
“Beautiful little cunt,” the man says. Celia squirms beneath his gaze, keeping her legs open for him through sheer will. She jumps when he touches a finger against her clitoris and she hears him laugh. “She’s still shy?”
“Still shy,” Paul says fondly. “Our little whore likes to pretend she isn’t just a slut, doesn’t she?” He pats her cheek. “Are you piercing the clit?”
The man shakes his head.
“The hood. Clit will kill the nerve endings there.”
There’s a hesitation. Celia gapes up at Paul as she watches the wheels turn in his head. He looks down at her and smiles that thin, bland smile of his. She closes her eyes, praying that he won’t do it, that he won’t mutilate her like that, that he won’t take it from her—
“We can’t have that,” he says at last, “she makes such delicious noises when she gets to cum.”
There’s no ice this time. Just a hot needle sliding into her flesh while she holds herself absolutely, perfectly still, then the little circular ring that he slides into it and the tiny ball he screws onto the end. He touches it when he’s done, flicks his finger across it, and Celia jerks her body and yelps at the sudden pain.
“Needs time to heal before it can be played with,” the man tells Paul. “Then you can put the rest of it on.”
Rest of it? There’s a rest of it? There can’t be a rest of it, there can’t be more that they want to do her, more things they want to stick inside of her, more trauma and humiliation they plan for her body…
But there is. There is more, and it’s worse than she imagined. After all, it’s not like Paul is going to give her the six weeks off that it took for her hood and nipples to heal.
“His name is Bruce. Brucey. Isn’t he cute, Celia?”
Celia stares at the dog. It’s a large breed, some sort of mix of Cane Corso or pit mix or bulldog, the kind of dog that people use for home security. It looks like it weighs more than her, with a thick body and a square face. The kind of dog the Blackwatch guards use to patrol the perimeter of Audubon. In fact, she’s positive that she has seen this dog before. Spiked collar. Cropped ears. Red tag. Why the red tag? She’s heard the guards talking, overheard them when she wasn’t supposed to. Red means the dog has blooded someone before. Killed someone. A troublemaker trying to get in, maybe. Does it matter? It’s a killer.
So is his owner. Large. Imposing. Celia’s head barely comes to his shoulder. Wide shoulders, too. Thighs as thick as her waist. Hands that wrap around her upper arm with finger space leftover. Hands that, she’s sure, could beat her until she is black and blue without a scratch on him to show for it.
Celia doesn’t give him a reason to touch her. She sinks to her knees as soon as he snaps her fingers at her, then puts her hands in front of her so that she’s on all fours when he gestures for that as well. Another snap, but she doesn’t know what he wants. The dog rolls over, so Celia rolls over too. The man smirks at her. He rubs her belly.
“Good bitch.” A voice as hard as the rest of him, thunder striking concrete.
“Beg,” he says, so Celia says please.
He tells her to remove her clothing, so Celia shimmies out of her skirt and shirt. It leaves her naked in front of him. He spends a moment looking her over, touches her hair, her nipples, dips a finger inside her pussy. She holds herself perfectly still for his inspection, and finally he looks back at Paul. When he smiles she notices that he’s missing a tooth, but it’s hard to see behind the bushy beard that takes up most of his face.
“Good condition,” he says to Paul. “How many tricks does she know?”
Paul gives him a thin-lipped smile.
“Enough,” he says.
That seems to appease the man because he nods. He smiles down at her again, pinches a nipple between his thumb and forefinger while Celia writhes beneath him. Then he pulls something out of his pocket. It looks like a beef stick. Brucey’s ears perk up, but the man shoots him a look and he wilts. He waves the stick in front of Celia’s face.
“Treat for my new little bitch,” he says.
Celia reaches for it. A jolt stops her in her tracks, her lips parting in a whine as the zap singes her neck.
“With your mouth,” he tells her. She rolls onto all fours again and leans in to accept her treat. Salty, meaty, full of preservatives. But she doesn’t complain. She doesn’t complain when he tells her to sit, then lie down, then offer him a paw. Paw, not hand. She doesn’t complain when he pets her head after she’s completed the tricks and gives her the rest of it. When he sits down and pats his lap she crawls toward him on all fours. She understands this game, at least, and she thinks that, compared to some other things they have her do, acting like a dog is fairly tame.
At least he doesn’t try to fuck her, right?
He tells Paul that he’ll be happy to train his new bitch for him. That he’s been looking to break someone in who is “new to the lifestyle,” whatever that means.
“She shows promise,” he says, “you already get her started?”
Paul affirms, says that she’s been here for a few weeks already, that he’d started six weeks prior to that even. The man considers it, then finally nods. He quotes a fee. Tells Paul that he can take her home to train, but Paul says no, she has to stay here. He offers the man the bedroom, says that he can stay on the premises until their training is complete.
They strike a bargain.
Celia never learns what the man’s name is. He doesn’t give her a chance to ask. Training starts immediately, and there are rules to follow. She isn’t allowed to talk. Ever. Even if she needs something, even if she’s hurt, even if she’s asked a direct question. She is to remain silent. For the first few days the man muzzles her to make sure that she understands, to quell the “natural womanly inclination to run your mouth.” She gets used to the weight of it on the end of her face, gets used to communicating in whines, grunts, and the occasional yip.
The master—she comes to refer to him as that even in her mind, just Master—makes her walk everywhere on her hands and knees. Her back aches by the end of the first day, and her knees become bruised, but she does it. She isn’t allowed to use her hands for anything. When he catches her trying to eat with them he beats her until she is a sobbing mess on the floor, and then he fits her with a pair of gloves that pinch her fingers together and leave them useless. She does better after that. He adds another collar to the one around her throat, a leather collar with her name on it carved into a silver heart. There’s a bell that chimes with every move that she makes, and sometimes he makes her walk on a leash while they’re outside so he can show her the proper place at his side.
He puts her through her paces out in the yard, hidden behind the tall security fence that Paul had installed when he’d moved in. He makes her run, fetch, sit, stay, roll over. He teaches her new tricks, combinations of tricks that she learns to associate with the way that he snaps his fingers, and he has her show Paul what she learned each night before she is allowed to retire.
He dehumanizes her in every way possible. She isn’t allowed to use the human toilet. They make her go outside and squat to do her business, and once, overnight, when she couldn’t hold it anymore she had an accident on the floor. Master had shoved her face in it while he beat her ass for it.
Perhaps the worst, though, is the sleeping arrangement.
They don’t take the bed away from her, but Master sleeps there now. Celia is confined to a crate. It’s barely large enough for her to lay down in; she has to curl in on herself, using her own arms as a pillow, in order to fit. There’s a bowl of water they keep for her in one corner, and the bottom of it is padded so she isn’t lying on hard metal, but she still misses the bed. Master tells her that once she has been properly crate trained they’ll get her a doggie bed, and if she’s really good she can sleep with him.
For a week she is stuck inside the cage at night, the bars pressing against her, and she listens to Master snore from the bed. She is exhausted the following days, hardly able to keep up with him when he makes her run around the yard on the end of the leash.
Paul and Master have dinner together most nights. Celia isn’t allowed to sit at the table with them anymore. She sits at Master’s feet and sniffs the air while her stomach rumbles, and he swats her for begging if she ever makes a noise. The first night had been the most difficult. They hadn’t fed Celia at all since the prior evening, and by the time dinner rolled around she had a headache from her hunger and her stomach was cramping. She’d thought she might get some sort of table scraps, but Master had something else in store for her.
Dry kibble.
He put it in a ceramic bowl and set it on the floor, looking at her expectantly. Celia had stared up at him, then looked back at the bowl.
“You’re a bitch now,” he said to her, “this is what you get.”
It had taken her two additional days of no food to bring herself to eat the kibble. She thought that she could wait them out, that of course they wouldn’t let her starve. But they don’t seem to care how weak she gets from not eating, how lethargic she moves when Master takes her outside.
The dry texture makes her gag. It’s nutty, sour, some undernotes of meat. And it takes a lot to crunch through an entire bowl of it. Her jaws ache with the effort of getting through it, as if the taste alone weren’t enough to put her off. She looks up at him after she has finished her first mouthful, shame in her eyes.
She finds him crouching in front of her.
“Good girl,” he croons, and if she had a tail she knows it would be wagging at the praise. He runs a hand through her hair, scratches his fingers against her scalp. “You’re such a good girl for eating that after your indulgent diet, aren’t you? Yes you are. My good little girl. Can you take another bite for me?”
She rubs her face against his hands, then looks back to the bowl. Her stomach clenches at the thought of taking another bite, but Master tells her how proud of her he’ll be if she manages to finish it, and she’s so hungry. She bends down and continues to eat while he runs his hands along her back, murmuring encouragement. She finishes the bowl.
Master brushes her teeth for her that night. He takes her into the bathroom and has her sit back so he can clean her mouth for her. It’s an altogether strange experience to have someone brush her teeth, but he is both thorough and gentle and even lets her rinse out her mouth when he’s done and spit it into the sink. It takes away the nasty taste of the kibble that still clings to her tongue, and once they move back into the bedroom to sleep Celia takes a moment to rub her face against his leg to show her appreciation for what he has done for her.
Being a dog gets easier after that. Celia does what she is told. She turns her brain off and lets her body respond to commands: she goes naked as they ask, wears her collar, goes potty in the yard, eats her bowl of food twice per day, gets into the crate at night without Master needing to tell her to do so. After a while he stops locking the door of the crate, and once he sees that she is able to control herself he follows through with the promise of a dog bed. It’s larger than the crate, memory foam and soft, and she sleeps better on that than she has in the weeks since Master came to train her.
She seeks his praise constantly. She searches for new ways to impress him, ways to get the reward of physical affection. He rarely needs to punish her once she has learned what he is looking for, and more often than not their evenings are spent together as master and dog, with her curled up at his feet or, rarely, on his lap while he watches TV. She takes treats from his hands and licks his face, holds still for him in the tub during bath time, and otherwise follows at his heels throughout the day.
Even Paul remarks how well behaved she is one night at dinner. He holds a piece of chicken in front of her nose and she sniffs at it. Her belly grumbles, but Celia doesn’t reach for it. She watches Paul, waiting for the command that she knows is coming.
“Sit,” he tells her, so she does. Then “lay down. Roll over. Up. Paw. Beg.”
She whines.
Paul tells her she’s a good bitch. He gives her the chicken, the first real food she’s had since Master came to visit. She licks his fingers when she’s done chewing.
“More, Celia?” Paul asks her. She whines again. He pulls another piece of chicken free from his plate and gives it to her. She licks his hand again when she’s done. Paul grabs at her once she starts to pull away, winding his fingers through her hair. He spreads his legs beneath the table and uses his free hand to unzip his pants, pulling out his flaccid cock.
“Suck,” he tells her.
It isn’t a trick that Celia learned as a dog, but it’s one she knows well. Paul hasn’t touched her like this since Master came to visit, but she knows who is really in charge. She licks the head of his cock, then slides her lips around him. She blows him beneath the table while he sits and eats dinner with Master, kneeling between his feet. He’s quiet, but it doesn’t take long for him to get hard, to pull her face up and down on his cock, and soon enough he cums. Celia swallows it all, and Paul rubs his fingers across her head.
“Is there more to teach her?” she hears Paul ask while she rubs her face against his thighs.
“She’s well-behaved,” Master says. “Learned all of the tricks fairly quickly. Doesn’t need much punishment or encouragement. She knows her place. Can’t imagine her ever rebelling.” There’s a pause. “Could be one more thing, if you want it.”
He doesn’t say what it is, but Paul agrees.
Master doesn’t spend the night with her. He leaves, and Celia is alone in the room. It’s Paul who puts her to bed that night, who points at the crate and tells her to get inside. Celia casts a long look toward the doggie bed in the corner, but a kick from Paul has her scrambling inside the cage. For the first time since Master took over her training, Celia cries herself to sleep.
Paul comes to see her the next morning. He squats outside her cage and stares in at her, his smile never reaching his eyes. He puts two fingers through the bars and Celia crawls to him, rubbing herself against his hand, licking his fingers.
“We have a special visitor coming tonight. Do you want to meet them?”
Celia nods her head.
“But you’re filthy. We should bathe you, shouldn’t we?”
Another nod.
“I’m going to let you out of your cage, Celia, and we’ll go to the bathroom together.”
Celia nods her head again, nuzzling at the hand he’s pushed into her cage.
“Good girl.” He pulls a key from his pocket to unlock the heavy metal steel that keeps the cage shut. The door swings open and Celia crawls out. She keeps her head down, but when he runs his fingers through her matted hair she looks up at him. She rubs her face against his leg, then follows him down the hall to the bathroom on hands and knees. When he points at the shower she starts to rise, but a smack from Paul has her bent back over in no time. She crawls instead, clambering into the tub and sitting back on her heels once she’s inside. She looks up at him again… and gets a face full of water when he turns on the shower head. Sputtering, she lifts her hands to protect her eyes, but another smack and she puts those down as well.
“Even as a dog you’re stupid,” Paul tells her. “Maybe the trainer was wrong.” Celia’s cheeks heat, but she offers no comment. She stays still beneath the spray of the water that he runs over her. It’s cooler than she likes, but she doesn’t complain. After a while she even enjoys it: Paul lathers her hair with shampoo and then rinses, then conditioner. He lets it sit in her hair while he rubs the rest of her body, making sure to get every bit of it. Beneath her arms, between her cheeks, behind her ears… even inside of her, the hose once more attached to the spreader she has in her anus, and he flushes out her insides with a spray of warm water. He rinses her once he’s done, his fingers scraping against her scalp in a way that makes her want to melt. Even here, she wants him to touch her. Even on her knees, treated like an animal, she craves the affection. It ends too soon. He snaps his fingers at her and she clambers out of the tub to rest on the bath mat. Paul dries her with a towel. Her hair is a fluffy mess by the time he’s done with it, but that doesn’t seem to bother him.
Another snap of his fingers has her following him back down the hallway to the bedroom.
“Sit,” he tells her, so she does. Then, “stay.”
Celia stays. She watches him disappear down the hallway.
He doesn’t come back.
For hours Celia sits where he left her, staring at the door, looking for some sort of sign that he is coming back, straining her ears to hear what’s going on downstairs. Nothing. No sound makes the journey up the stairs to the bedroom at the end of the hall, and no matter how she thinks of herself as a dog she does not possess the physical capabilities of one. So she sits, and stares, and waits.
Hours pass. She does not dare move. She scratches at herself when her body itches, but that is the extent of the allowances that she makes. She sits. She waits.
When he comes back she’s on her hands and knees in an instant, head lifted to watch him walk through the door with a handful of others behind him. Two she recognizes: the man who pierced her and Jamal. The other two are strangers. Jamal closes the door behind the five of them, and they look her over. Five sets of eyes on her naked, freshly washed body. Five hard cocks behind five pairs of pants; Celia shivers in anticipation. She wants them. Wants them to fuck her. Wants them to own her, to show their dominance over her. She crawls on hands and knees toward Paul. He is her master, her true master, and she owes it to him to serve him first. Her hands, back in their mittens, offer little in the way of help. She uses her teeth to unzip him, her mouth to unbutton his slacks. She nudges the pants down his thighs with teeth and lip and chin, until his cock juts out in front of him. She doesn’t need to look to hear the others do the same, to know that they are following suit. Five bared cocks in front of her, but she starts with Paul. Brings him into her mouth, sucking eagerly to show him how much she missed him, how much she missed this. She likes being on her knees for him. Wants to be on her knees for him, to be his whore. But she can’t tell him that, dogs don’t talk, so she slobbers on his cock instead, blows him while he smiles at his friends, and finally, finally, is rewarded with a hot load of jizz in her mouth. She swallows it down and licks his rapidly softening cock until its clean.
“Good slut,” he tells her. She sits back on her heels, smiling proudly up at him, and he rubs a hand through her hair. “Such a good slut. Isn’t she, boys?”
Celia yips. It’s a high-pitched almost bark, and the sound draws laugher from two of the men behind her. Celia flushes, but only has eyes for Paul.
“She’s learned so much so quickly, haven’t you Celia?” Paul asks. She nods her head.
“Place,” he says, snapping his fingers.
Celia goes to all fours in front of him, ass up, eyes down.
“Place,” he says again, snapping his fingers.
Celia lowers herself to the floor, face pressed against the carpet. Her ass remains in the air.
“Place,” he says again, snapping his fingers.
She sits up on her heels, mouth open.
“Place,” he says again, snapping his fingers.
Celia drops back to her belly. She rolls over onto her back, legs spread.
One of the men says something about the piercings. Another nods his head, says there’s a connection for that. Celia pays them no attention; her eyes are on Paul, waiting for another command, another snap, another signal.
“Good slut,” Paul murmurs. He bends down to rub a hand along her belly. Celia smiles up at him. There are murmurs of assent from around them. Celia beams at the praise. She rolls back to her knees and rubs her face against his leg again. She’s his. His whore, his slut, his good girl. She is a good girl. She’s his pet, his favorite, his toy. He can take her, can do what he wants with her.
So can his friends. She lets them. She does the tricks Paul asks of her, spins and twirls and yips and sucks. She’s still while Jamal fucks her ass, sucks the dicks that they put in her mouth, closes her eyes and opens her mouth when the others want to come on her face, her tits, her stomach. She’s the toy of the five men for the hours that they’re with her, used and abused and made to do anything and everything they ask. She’s happy to do it. Happy to show Paul how loyal she is, how obedient. They shower her in cum, in compliments, in physical affection. Sometimes they take her two at a time, one in her ass and one in her mouth, and another one sits beneath her with his mouth on her nipples or fingers on her clit to make her cum. One of them doesn’t want to cover her in cum; he wants to piss on her instead, and Celia follows him down the hall to the bathroom to get into the tub so he can. He’d already jizzed on her face, a second time on her tits, and now he marks her with his piss as well. It’s a pungent odor, streaming down her face when he gets it in her hair, and he makes her sit in while the others eat dinner and recover from their expenditure. She doesn’t move. She waits, eyes on the door, until another one comes in to wash her off. It’s a quick rinse, and before it’s over he has his cock buried balls deep in her ass, blows his load inside her, then it’s back to the bedroom for more playtime. They go again, another round of fucking, and Paul shows them how wet she gets when they spank her. She’s barely coherent by the end of it. Her jaw aches. She’s covered in cum. More of it drips out of her, dries on her skin, and she’s happy. Ecstatic. Eager for more, tired as she is, proud of what she’s been able to do, pleased that Paul is happy with her. He pets her and her ass wiggles back and forth as if she has a tail, and he gives her a treat, a piece of chopped chicken, and she gobbles it down while he strokes her back. The others give her treats in turn, snapping for her to do her tricks before they hand it over, bits of chicken or pasta, and one of them a cookie. The sugar dances across her tongue, sweeter fare than she’s had in weeks, but she licks his hands for the crumbs that remain. Jamal even sits with her on the floor, lets her lick his cheek and nuzzle his chest and rub against him. She’s never said, but outside of Paul he’s her favorite master, and she lavishes him in attention.
When it’s all over, when the men have had their fill, they bring in Bruce.
Master walks him in on the end of the leash, the large dog trailing at his heels like she had once done. She looks up at Master and smiles for him, then looks at the dog. The dog whines, and Celia looks up to Paul.
“He’s your special treat, Celia. You get to fuck Bruce.”
Fuck Bruce. She gets to fuck Bruce.
She stares up at Paul as if he might be joking, but he just motions her forward. Celia drops her eyes to the ground. He wants her to fuck a dog. She is a dog. It makes sense that he wants her to fuck a dog, doesn’t it? She’s his whore. His pet. His bitch. Bitches fuck dogs. She can fuck a dog. She’s happy when he’s happy, and this will make him happy.
Celia crawls forward. Master snaps his fingers and Bruce sits, though his eyes remain on Celia. She pauses, then lowers herself onto the ground. Her ass remains in the air. She yips at him, waiting, and he barks back. Celia pushes forward, chest dragging against the ground. Bruce barks again, a lower sound, and Celia halts. She swallows her apprehension. Bruce was trained by Master. Master is the best trainer. Master won’t let Bruce bite her. But Bruce has bitten before, hasn’t he, that’s why he has the red collar. Maneater.
Celia whines again, the sound low in her throat. She slides forward. Bruce is a hulking figure in front of her, a huge powerhouse of a dog with giant jaws that can take her fingers off if he is so inclined. Celia presses her face against the floor, feels his breath hot against the back of her neck, his teeth against her flesh. She doesn’t move, doesn’t dare move. After a moment he lets her up and Celia rolls over onto her back, belly and throat exposed. Bruce sniffs at her, licks her cheek. Celia kisses his muzzle. He sits back, content, and she eyes the furry sheath where his cock hides. She uses her feet to push her forward until it’s just in front of her, rubs her cheek against the sheath. Bruce whines, but holds still. Celia nuzzles him again, pressing soft kisses against the skin of his belly, the fur of his sheath.
“That’s not how bitches mate, Celia,” Master says to her.
Celia ceases her action. She whines, shimmying out from underneath Bruce to look up at Master.
“Place,” he says, snapping his fingers. Celia rolls to her knees. He makes a circular motion with his hand and Celia turns around. “Place,” he says again, snapping his fingers. Celia lowers her face to the floor. She’s rewarded with a “good girl.” Nails click against the floor. Master swears, then something cold and wet presses against her ass and Celia yelps. A long, canine tongue flicks against her and the yelp turns into a sigh, a long, soft sound that passes her lips. She lifts her hips higher, pressing back against Bruce, and he laps at her pussy with his tongue. He finds her clit for a moment and Celia sighs again.
But it isn’t enough, not for either one of them.
“Up,” Master commands, snapping his fingers. Bruce pulls back, then mounts her. His forelegs come down on either side of her waist, and something long and wet moves against her from behind. Bruce thrusts, trying to find her hole; finally Celia reaches back to guide him inside, then puts her hands back down on the floor in front of her as the dog’s cock fills her. It… isn’t what she expected. Long, thin, still flexible. She holds still while Bruce humps against her—then she feels it, his cock hardening inside of her. One moment it’s a thin thing, the next he’s thrusting something long and thick and firm into her waiting pussy. Her lips part, eyes closing while the dog fucks her. He’s quicker than the men are, fucking her like a dog fucks its bitch, and she realizes that’s what this is. She is his bitch. Her back arches, lips parting in a series of gasps and moans and yips that lets Paul know she’s enjoying his gift to her. Enjoying the giant dog cock inside of her, the thick, hot dribble of pre-cum that slips into her and makes her that much more wet—
Then she’s yipping, groaning, when Bruce twists and lifts a leg, and she feels something even harder press into her cunt, and her moan cuts off into a strangled cry when Master reaches down to shove it inside of her. The knot. The big, hard knot, tying to her, holding her still, forcing his cum into her. And it is cum. Like someone turned a hose on inside of her, she can feel it like she’s never felt any of the rest, splattering inside of her. Filling her. Thick, hot. She presses her face into the carpet while the men watch and Bruce spills his spunk inside of her.
She doesn’t know how long she’s left like that. She’s vaguely aware of the men filing out, some of them patting her head, others ignoring her completely. One of them spits on her and she takes it without complaint, which makes the one who’d pissed on her earlier ask if he can do it again, and he dribbles a small yellow stream on her face when Paul gives him permission. He makes her open her mouth for the last of it and she does so, swallowing it like he wants.
And, finally, it’s over. Bruce pulls out of her. Master leads him from the room after giving each of them a biscuit, and Celia eats hers off the floor like a good bitch. She’s exhausted by the end of it, hardly able to hold herself up, but when Paul snaps his fingers at her she scampers across the floor to sit at his heels. Her chest rises and falls as she breathes in, staring up at the man who owns her completely.
For the first time ever, his smile touches his eyes.
“Good girl.”
by:
False_Epiphany