houseofanticipation - Tumblr blog

houseofanticipation · 1 month

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It's impossible to count the number of times you've imagined this moment. Late at night, under the covers; in the bathtub, and the shower; on slow days at the bookstore, the summer before senior year; during Mr. Madrigal's long, droning lectures. You fantasized so vividly you could see each scene on the back of your eyelids, hear each sound between breaths. Many a time your hand migrated southward, almost of its own volition. If you were in public, you'd hold it against your crotch, pressing it into yourself with the force of your clenched thighs. In private, you'd be far less subtle.

In all those fantasies, you never imagined it would look quite like this.

The hallway smells like cigarettes and industrial cleaner. The haphazardly patterned carpet is coming up at the edges. The yellow tube light overhead might be attempting morse code, the way it flickers. Paint peels from the door in front of you, and one of the metal digits in the room number has been replaced with one that doesn't quite match: room 233. You raise your hand, your knuckles inches from the door, and then you pause. You're not sure if you can go through with this.

Before you can decide, the door opens anyway.

You started posting pictures in your first year of college. It was just your tits at first. You'd been quietly following those subreddits and tumblr blogs for a while, and you thought it would be a bit of fun, a little thrill. You didn't expect the response you got: dozens of people telling you how much they'd enjoyed it, asking for more. So you posted more, and the people asked for different things. Post your ass. Post your cunt. Post your fingers in your cunt. Post audio of you moaning as you came. The more you revealed of yourself, the more attention you got, and the more attention you got, the more you wanted to show. People wanted to send you tips, so you set up a Cash App address. You never got much, a few dollars here and there, but it was nice to get a free coffee now and then.

And somewhere along the way, apparently, you let slip that you were a virgin.

The message came late last semester, from a Cash App user whose name was just a string of numbers. It read, "I will buy your virginity for $100,000. So you know I'm serious, here is $7000 for you to keep, deal or no deal. Let me know if interested."

It was like one of those hypotheticals you talk about with your friends at the dinner table. Would you work nonstop for a year if it meant you never had to work again? Would you cut off your hand if it meant you never had to die? Would you let a stranger from the internet take your virginity for a hundred thousand dollars? You thought about it for weeks. The 7 thousand in itself was a windfall you never could have imagined. It was the new laptop you needed, four times over. It was a large iced coffee ever day for three and a half years. After graduation, if you were smart, it could be your living expenses for the better part of a year. But a hundred thousand might be a house, or a car, or a few years of freedom to pursue your goals. And when you asked how you could trust him to pay when he'd gotten what he wanted, he told you he'd be happy to pay up front.

So here you are, in a dingy hotel, face to face with the broad-shouldered, potbellied older man in front of you. "I saw you through the peephole," he says. There's something impish about him. Maybe it's the toothy grin, or the way his ears stick out from his head, or the obvious glee in his voice as he looks you up and down. "My, you're much better in person. Come in! You got the money then?"

You nod. You didn't leave the Lyft until it was there in your account.

"Good," he says, throwing the dead bolt. "Let's get to it then, shall we?"

"What should...I mean, how do you want to..." you feel yourself talking strangely. Breathing in the wrong places, words tumbling over each other. "Maybe we should...talk first? Get to know each other?"

"No need for that," says the man matter-of-factly, unbuttoning his shirt. His chest is smooth, his skin a mottled pink. He waves a hand at your body. "Go ahead and get those off."

Back in high school, one of your recurring fantasies involved Jason Meier having his way with you in the back of that beat up convertible he used to drive. That old thing used to get you so wet. It was a piece of junk, but something about the exposure of it...In the fantasy, he's driven you out to some secluded spot outside of town. Cicadas drone all around. The night sky shines bright with stars. He cups your face with one hand, strokes your cheek with his thumb, asks you if this is your first time. He kisses the side of your mouth, then your jaw, then below your ear, then down your neck. As his hands undo the top button of your blouse, he tells you he'll be gentle.

The man is watching you expectantly. With his shirt on, he looked like a portly old man. Without it you can see that every inch of that stocky build is hard muscle. That pink skin strains against his mass, muscle rippling beneath it as he moves. "What are you waiting for?"

Your legs tremble. Your knees feel like they're about to buckle. You can hear your heart pounding in your ears. Your body has never done this before. You didn't know you could feel this kind of fear, and yet there's nothing to fight, nowhere to flee. You agreed to this. You decided this was what you wanted. Slowly, you pull your shirt over head.

He groans in the back of his throat, a long, growly sound. His face is a mask of focus, the impish joviality gone, his eyes fixated on your breasts. "And the rest."

You kick off your shoes, pull off your socks. An inch at a time, you slide your shorts and panties over your ass, down your legs, past your trembling knees. You step out of them, and now you're completely exposed. You cross your arms over your chest, then lower them when he grunts disapproval. Almost urgently, he unbuttons his pants, pulls out a long, rigid cock, and begins to stroke himself.

You didn't discover internet porn until your senior year, and before then the only penises you'd seen were a few drawings in your health textbook. In the fantasy, you unbutton Jason Meier's pants and fig. 7.5, "The penis becomes engorged when in state of arousal," pops out of his underwear. You take it in your hands, feeling the weight of it, the girth, and look up into those beautiful brown eyes of his.

This cock is much...realer. It has bounce, texture, even a sound as his hand slides up and down its length. It's longer than the one in that old fantasy, too, and it leans slightly to the left. For years you've wondered what it would be like to see a cock in person, and now that you're here it terrifies you.

"Come here," says the man, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Get on your knees."

You falter. "You didn't...I mean, we didn't agree to that."

"I bought your virginity," says the man. "You ever suck cock before?"

You shake your head.

"Then your mouth is just as much a virgin as your cunt. Get down here."

It's almost a relief to get off your legs, the way they've been threatening to give out. Close up, you can see the purples and blues of the veins under his skin. The head of his cock pulses with anticipation as your lips part, your tongue extends...

You don't think you can do this.

Then his hand is on the back of your head.

You always imagined Jason Meier whimpering as you took him into your mouth. You were never quite able to picture what he would feel like between your lips, on your tongue; the movie camera of your imagination always panned up at that point, to focus on his face. He would let his head fall back in pleasure, eyebrows knit with sensation, lips slightly parted. Now, though, there's no camera to pan. You are here. This is real. And his powerful hand is pushing your mouth onto his cock.

A sound you can't control comes out of you. Your back arches, your hands flail, and then by pure instinct they're on his belly, pushing against him, away from him. Spit runs down your chin, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand. "I'm sorry," you say, looking anywhere but at his face. "I'm sorry, I can't, I thought I could do this but I can't."

There's a horrible darkness in his voice. "I already gave you the money."

"I know, I'll give it back, I'm sorry." The words trip over each other on the way out of your mouth. "I'm really sorry, I shouldn't have, I just, I thought I could..."

His hand is on the back of your head again, and this time his fingers are curled tight into your hair. He jerks your head back, forcing you to look at him, and his eyes are cold and predatory. "I'm not interested in returning what's already bought and paid for." He jams himself back into your mouth.

You always imagined yourself savoring it, taking your time to explore every inch of Jason's length with your tongue, but there's no time for that now. The veiny, throbbing thing in your mouth bypasses your tongue entirely, forcing past your uvula. You gag, then gag again. Your stomach churns and you convulse as your body tries to remove the foreign object, but the man just pushes harder. Your eyes water as he slides deeper, deeper, making your throat bulge, your limbs spasm. As his balls touch your chin, you close your eyes and try to relax your throat.

He holds you like that. You gag for a third time, and thick saliva explodes through the gaps around his cock, dripping down your chin and collecting in a long, dangling rope. Tears roll down your cheeks as you try to acclimatize to the feeling, try to convince your body that nothing is wrong. You think you've got it, and then he moves slightly, and you're gagging again. He groans, grips your head tighter, and in the back of your throat you feel his cock swell slightly. He likes it when you gag for him, says a voice in the back of your mind. The motion is pleasurable for him.

You've got another problem rearing its head. You can't breathe. It was fine at first, but the man shows no interest in freeing up your airways, and in all the gagging and crying, you haven't exactly been conserving your oxygen. You pat his leg, trying to signal to him, but all he does is clap you on the side of the head. Your ear rings, you gag again, and his cock throbs. Black walls are closing in on your vision. The effort of struggling against him becomes too much, and your arms fall to your sides. Your eyelids flutter. You're going to pass out. You're going to pass out, and then what will he do to you?

But just before the world fades to black, he pulls your head back again. You feel every inch of his cock as it slides out of your throat. He lifts your face, and your eyes struggle to focus on his as you take lungful after lungful of glorious air. Drool spills across your lips, but you don't care. You're alive.

The man slaps you hard, leaving a stinging impression of his palm on your cheek. You whimper. Two of his fingers are in your mouth, pushing on the back of your tongue. Not knowing exactly why, you close your lips around them and shut your eyes.

"That's better," he says.

The first time you saw a male sex toy in use was in an ad before a porn video you were watching. You were taken aback by the way the performer had pounded it over his cock, barely more than an extension of his hand. You're reminded of that image as he parts your lips again, and the rape of your throat begins in earnest.

You haven't thought about Jason Meier in years, but at this moment he's the only thing keeping you sane. As your face rams up and down, up and down, you retreat to that beat up convertible, and Jason's soft, thoughtful face. As the man tightens his grip, Jason runs his fingers through your hair. As the man grunts and growls with pleasure, Jason coos your name. With each stroke of his cock down your throat, each spasm of your body, you focus on a different part of Jason's body: his large hands, his long fingers, his shoulders, his jawline, his liquid brown eyes. By the time the man finally releases your hair, you can barely feel your body any more. The convertible is far more real than the squeaky motel bed. The hands on your body are Jason's, soft and tender.

He climbs over the center console straddling you. You lock lips, feel your tongues in each other's mouths, kiss so deeply that it feels as though you share the same breath. He pulls the lever to lay your seat back, and then he's over you, on top of you, lifting your skirt, pulling your panties to the side.

This is the part where, in the old days, you would have slipped a finger or two inside yourself. But this time you don't have to. This time you can feel him inside you, really feel him, and he fills you up like your fingers never could. There's some pain—they told you there'd be pain, didn't they, your first time—but it falls away to the thrill, the lust, the pleasure. Jason whimpers as he slides into you, deeper, deeper, and you moan into each other's mouths as his pelvis meets yours. You take a moment to savor it, breathing each other in, and then he begins to thrust.

You feel drunk. It's exactly like you always imagined it, and somehow better than you could ever have expected. Each movement of his hips brings another sensation: a spasm in the arches of your feet, a hitch in your breath, a churning, swirling need in the depths of your abdomen. Deeper you tell him, harder, and he obliges, pulling you into him, and him into you.

You can feel the orgasm building, but it isn't like any you've had before. Every time you've ever cum, you've been in control. This time, Jason is in control. Jason decides when you cum, how you cum. One hand supports his weight as he leans over you, and the other slides up your belly. You used to watch those hands obsessively. The way he held a pencil, the way he bit his knuckles when he was thinking. Now that hand slides up, caresses your breast. Now that thumb brushes your hair out of your face. Now those fingers close around your throat.

You know you're safe with Jason, but the pressure on your throat triggers some animal fear response in you. You try to squirm away, but his arm is strong, and his hand his firm. Your hands go to his wrist. "I don't like that, stop." He just smiles. It isn't his usual sweet smile, either. This one is cruel. Predatory.

Your face feels tight. Your eyes bulge. You're beginning to panic for real now. "Jason, seriously, stop!" You beat at his arm with your fists, but he easily takes both your wrists in one hand and pins them over your head. You try to kick at him, but he's already past your defenses, between your legs, pushing them uselessly apart. His grip tightens, his rhythm increases, his cock swells inside you. He's getting off on this.

All at once you're back in the hotel room. The man's sweaty red face is inches away from your own, and the lust in his eyes is obvious. His cock seems to push deeper with every thrust, and the horrible thing is that the orgasm is still coming. It's close now, you can feel it, and it's like he knows exactly how to bring it out. You feel floaty, tingly, and that awful pleasure is welling up inside you, a pot about to boil over...

"That's right," he says, his eyes locked on yours. "That's what I was waiting for. That perfect mix of...pleasure...and...fear." He punctuates each of these last three words with a long, deep thrust, and it's these that send the orgasm spilling over. A choked moan pushes itself out of you as your back arches, your toes curl, your legs wrap involuntarily around his waist, tears roll down your cheeks. That floaty feeling has combined with the orgasm to create something like how you imagine heroin must feel; a wave of mind numbing, soul deadening ecstasy. Your insides feel hot, and at first you think that must just be what it feels like when you cum from sex, but then you see the look on his face and realize that he's cumming too. His grip relaxes and he pounds away a few more times at your now-limp body. You stare at the ceiling as he moans, buries his face between your tits, pumps round after round of his warm, thick cum into your cunt, your womb. After one final push he collapses onto you, his cock still inside you, his bulk crushing you into the bed. You don't move.

He strokes your cheek. Fondles your nipple. Kisses your neck. Then he kisses your mouth, his tongue pushing your lips open, his breath like damp earth. You barely see him.

It must be almost ten minutes before he finally gets up, his limp cock sliding out of you at last. You can feel his cum dripping from your cunt as he puts on his underwear, then pants, then shirt, then shoes. "The room is paid for the night," he says with his hand on the door handle. "Thank you for struggling. Taking someone's virtue is so much better when you actually get to take it.

You don't respond.

You don't know how long you lie there, motionless, dripping cum. Oddly, the man who just raped you isn't the one burned onto your mind's eye. Try as you might to return to that sweet teenage fantasy, all you can see is Jason Meier as he held his hand to your throat, and that cruel, predatory smile on his face.

#CW im told this one is realer than usual so be warned #r@pe fantasy #cnc free use #cvmdump #cvmslvt #breeding toy #r@petoy #r@pe kink

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houseofanticipation · 2 months

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Now I lay me down to tuck

I pray the Lord my holes to fuck

and if my mouth should stand agape

I pray the Lord my throat to rape.

Amen.

#r@pe kink #rapekink #cnc free use #ls this anything

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houseofanticipation · 4 months

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You wake because a shifting balance of weight on your bed has caused your mattress to shake. For a moment you think it must be Christmas morning—that'll be your little brother, jumping on your bed to wake you up—but your room is still dark, and the clock on your bedside table reads 12:00 exactly. You squint at the person sitting on your bed. Definitely too old to be your brother...maybe your dad? But no, this person's frame is too wide, too bulky. The figure leans forward, and it suddenly occurs to you to be afraid, but all he does is pull the chain on your bedside lamp.

The man in your room is Santa Claus.

It doesn't occur to you to think this is a man dressed as Santa. One of your classmates might; you know most people your age don't believe in him, and you've learned to hide your own belief, lest you embarrass yourself, but you've never stopped believing privately. You know this man is Santa Claus in the same way you've always known Santa Claus was real: it's a feeling in your heart, a knowledge that you are loved, no matter what. You get that same feeling from this man.

"Santa?"

"Little Susie Summers," he says, brushing a lock of hair away from your eyes. "It's so wonderful to finally see you in person. You know you're one of my favorites?"

Your eyes widen. "Really?"

He nods. "I mean it. You've kept me in your heart all these years, long after most children abandon me. I've so loved watching you grow into this beautiful, confident woman I see before me." His voice deep and warm and smooth, like hot chocolate. His eyes glitter behind half-moon glasses, and his enormous white mustache only accentuates his fatherly smile.

"I always knew you were real," you say, breathlessly, eager to impress. "Even when everyone called me names, I kept believing. I always stayed on my best behavior for you."

"I know you did," he says. "I have your list right here." Seemingly from nowhere, he produces a length of rolled up parchment, which he begins to unfurl as he reads. "All those times you helped young Cristopher with his homework, even when you wanted to go out with your friends...the way you check in on old Mrs. Rasherton every week...you're a real paragon of your community."

Your chest swells with pride. You'd do those things anyway, of course; goodness is its own reward. But it feels so wonderful to have your good deeds recognized by this man you so idolize.

"Of course, you've had some encounters with the naughty list, too. What child doesn't? That time at camp, for instance, when you allowed Trent Lipski to touch you under your underwear?"

You can feel your cheeks flushing. "I'm sorry, Santa. I tried to be extra good to make up for it."

"Or those times in the bathtub, when you put your private parts under the faucet?"

You look away. You can't stand the disappointment in his eyes. "I'm so sorry Santa."

You feel his hand on your cheek, gently pulling your gaze back to meet his. "Don't worry, Susie. No one can be perfectly good all the time, and your good deeds have vastly outweighed the bad. You are a good girl, Susie Summers, and that's why I'm here."

"Really?"

"Yes, my dear girl. You see, you're eighteen now and—"

"Almost eighteen," you say helpfully. Your birthday is January 7th.

"Close enough," he says. "You're growing into a woman, which means this is the last year I'll be able to bring you presents."

This comes as a surprise. You always known Santa Claus brought presents to children, but it never quite occurred to you that that meant he didn't bring presents to adults. "You mean...you'll never come here for me again?"

"I'm afraid so," he says sadly. "This will have to be goodbye. But because you've been such a good girl all these years, I've brought you one final parting gift, in addition to the ones below the tree downstairs."

"Really? What is it?"

His hand is on your thigh, caressing you gently. "You've been so good for me, Susie," he says. "I want to make you feel good. I want you to be extra good for me, one last time." His other hand is on your stomach now, furry white glove slipping under your sleep shirt. You're starting to be unsure if you want this gift, but you know it's rude to act ungrateful. "Can you be good for me, Susie?"

You nod nervously.

Slowly, one finger at a time, Santa slips the gloves off his hands. The skin underneath is like aged leather, wrinkly and soft. You gasp when he lifts up your shirt. "Look at this," he says, fondling your nipples. "Already so hard. I knew you had a naughty side to you."

No. You can't. You push his hands away, gently as you can. "I'm sorry Santa, I'm flattered, really, but I can't—"

Santa makes a clicking sound with his tongue, and all of a sudden your hands are being yanked back, toward the headboard. Some kind of cuffs clamp around your wrists, holding your arms far away from Santa's creeping, explorative hands. You look to your left and right, and see that they're not cuffs at all, but arms; thin, sinewy arms attached to a pair of thin, sinewy people no bigger than your forearm. They stare at you with large, unblinking eyes, and grin with mouths full of pointy teeth. They're strong, in spite of their size. You struggle against them with all your might, but neither seems remotely phased.

"You're a lucky girl, Susie," he says, playfully circling your areola with his thumb. "Most boys and girls never get to see a genuine Christmas elf. Meet Pepper and Ginger, two of my most trusted lieutenants. I could never do my job without their help."

The elf called Ginger—you can tell which is which because they wear name tags reading G. BREAD and P. MINT—pins your hand to the bed and sits on your wrist. She closes her eyes and begins grinding against the nub of your wrist bone.

Santa chuckles. "Of course, I make sure they get to enjoy themselves. I think that's the hallmark of any good boss, don't you?" He bends down and wraps his lips around your nipple, sucking and nibbling and groping at your other breast while he does it. You're afraid, but it feels kind of good, too. And you know Santa has your best interests at heart...doesn't he? When he comes up for air, Santa sees the tears running down your cheeks. "Oh, hush now, my dear, don't cry." He lays a tender hand on your face, wiping away a tear with his thumb. "I promise I'll be gentle with you. I'll make you feel good." He gets up on his knees and unbuckles his belt, pulling down his red pants to reveal white thermal underwear. This he unbuttons, and out comes...

You've seen a penis once before. Earlier this year, Daryl Dennis let you touch his at a party. You held it in your hand and stroked it up and down, delighting in the way he moaned and kissed you and told you how good it felt. When he came on your hand it snapped you out of whatever madness had taken you over, and you fled the room to wash it off. You hated yourself for weeks after that, tried to work extra hard to earn your place on the good list.

Suffice it to say, Santa's cock is about three times the size as the only other cock you've ever seen. It stands up so stiff that it actually touches his overhanging belly, and defined veins pulse up and down its length. He smiles when he sees you looking at it. "You came so close to letting Mr. Dennis be the first cock you ever felt inside you. I wish you could stay pure forever, but you're becoming a woman now. You should at least know what a real cock is like, so you have something to compare against."

He hooks his fingers under your waistband and pulls off your pajama bottoms and you panties all in one go. You're too afraid to fight back; those elves' teeth are sharp, and besides, you've spent so long trying to stay off the naughty list. A good girl would lie back and take it. You are a good girl. You are a good girl.

Santa's head is between your legs now. He's kissing your thighs, sniffing deeply, running his tongue along the outside edges of your crotch. One hand strokes his cock, and you can see he speeds up when his nose gets close to your pussy. "You know, Susie, I've found in all my years of life that the sweetest girls have the sweetest cunts. Did you know that?"

You shake your head.

"It's true. And you just might be the sweetest girl I've ever seen. So you can imagine how eager I've been to get a taste of this perfect, beautiful cunt. Let's get your juices flowing, shall we?" You gasp as his leathery fingers pinch the hood of your clitoris and pull it back, and a sound you didn't expect escapes your lips when his wet, warm tongue flicks across your exposed clit. He starts to trace slow, steady circles around it, taking his time, letting the desire build until your clit is throbbing with need. His moustache tickles your pubis as he closes his lips around your clit and begins sucking, first in long, slow pulls, and ramping up into quick, agonizing pulses. You begin to feel that feeling in your groin, the one you felt when you touched Daryl Dennis's cock, or when Trent Lipski put his hand in your pants, or when you hold your privates under the bathtub faucet. It's a tightness, a warmth, a wetness, and Santa must notice it too, because he smiles up at you. "Good girl. Let's find out what you taste like."

Suddenly his tongue is inside you, and you're moaning and arching your back and crying a little bit, because you're so scared but it feels so good. The elves grin and give you little kisses on your arms. Somewhere along the way Ginger has removed her pants, and she moans as her little elf pussy glides across your wrist. On the other side, Pepper's hands are on your pinky, lining it up with her exposed cunt, drooling as she pushes it inside.

When Santa comes up for air his glasses hang crooked on his face. "Hoooh, Susie, you must have the sweetest cunt I've ever tasted. Like caramel apples and candy canes. You really are one of the nicest girls who's ever lived."

You can't help but swell with pride at this praise. You've tried, really tried, and to know that it's paid off...it makes everything worth it. All the work, all the self-sacrifice, it wasn't for nothing. It's left a real, detectable mark on your body, and Santa can taste it in you. "Thank you, Santa," you manage to say.

"You're very welcome, Susie," says Santa. "And now that you're ready for me, I think it's time I made use of you." He straightens up, and flops his cock down on your stomach. It feels even bigger against your skin. You're afraid again. You know what's about to happen, and you're afraid it's going to hurt.

He throws his head back and moans with pleasure as the head of his cock parts your pussy lips. Your teeth grit and your heart pounds as you brace yourself for the pain, but it doesn't come. When he begins to push inside you, it's like he's stretching you out from the inside. There's no pain, only pressure, and increasingly, pleasure. He fills you up an inch at a time, expanding inside you, making you feel full in a way you never knew you could. You never should have doubted Santa. He knows what's best for you. He knows what you need.

"Ooohoho god, Susie," he says, picking up the pace now. "I knew you'd be worth it. I always know which good little girls will have the most delectable cunts. Girls like you, natural whores who make the choice to be nice, deny their nature to be sweet just for me...saving yourself for me...you know, somewhere deep down, that your little cunt is mine for the taking..."

He's right. He's completely right. When you fled the room after Daryl Dennis came in your hand. When you felt so guilty after Trent Lipski. What were you saying, implicitly? My holes are not for him. My holes are for Santa. You're moaning indiscriminately now, arching your back, your eyes rolling back in your head. The elves seem to be enjoying themselves, too; they moan squeakily as they ride your hands, apparently no longer worried about you trying to fight back. Santa's belly rolls across you with each thrust, and the heft of it is like a weighted blanket, comfortingly immobilizing. He grunts and moans with each thrust, the ball on his hat bouncing haphazardly. You feel something growing inside you, something wonderful and intense, something far better than the faucet on your clit, or Trent Lipski's fingers in your cunt. Your body is beginning to tremble, your legs bending and your toes flexing involuntarily. Suddenly you're afraid again; the sensation is too much, you can't handle it, you need to get away. Some animal part of your brain takes over; you're wrenching your hands free of the distracted elves, pulling yourself away from Santa's relentless cock, flailing your legs, kicking Santa in the solar plexus as he tries to grab at you. He doubles over, wheezing, and you know instantly you've done something terrible.

For a long moment the room is stock still. The elves seem just as frozen in fear as you are. Santa coughs, steadies himself against the bed. When he looks up, there's a darkness behind his eyes that wasn't there before. He clicks his tongue again, and the elves spring into action, grabbing you by the hair and turning you around so that your head hangs backward over the edge of the bed.

"I was going to give you a special present," says Santa, upside-down over you. There's a sick mirth in his voice that makes you shiver. "A Christmas present like no one's ever gotten before. But you had to go and be naughty." He says the word like it's the most vulgar epithet he can think of. "I was going to give you a son. My son. My heir. But my seed can't grow in a womb despoiled by filth." You feel a pressure inside you; it feels sort of like Santa's cock did, only harder, rounder, and growing. You lift your head to see what's going on down there, but it's all internal. It's getting painful now; you start straining to push it out. "The only thing your cunt is good for now," says Santa, a merciless twinkle in his eye, "is coal."

With a painful stretching sensation, a black mass crowns out of your cunt, spreading your pussy lips and stretching them wide as it pops out of you. It's a smooth, roughly spherical lump of coal, about the size of a baseball.

A leathery hand cups your chin and pushes your head back down. Santa's cock is inches from your face. "You're not going cocktease me, naughty girl. I'll get mine, one way or another."

Tears well up in your eyes as his cock parts your lips. You've never gotten coal in your stocking before, not once. You've spent your entire life being the nicest you could possibly be, and you had to go and ruin everything. You imagine what it would have been like to have Santa's seed growing inside you, your belly swelling with his son, your breasts inflating with peppermint-flavored milk. Instead you have his wrinkly, low-hanging scrotum slapping your face, and another lump of coal already forming inside your stupid, naughty cunt.

Santa forces his cock past your tongue, down your open throat. You gag, convulse involuntarily, but the elves hold you down, not to be caught slacking again. His belly drags across your face as he pulls back, and you spend a few seconds coughing and sputtering before he forces himself back down your throat again. Again, you gag, and when he pulls out this time you spit out a globule of thick saliva that collects around your nose and runs down your cheek. It goes like this for several more pumps: you gagging, struggling, crying, and him continuing to rape your throat anyway.

No, you think. Enough crying. You did something naughty, and now you pay for it. What do you always do when you catch yourself slipping into naughtiness? You're extra good to make up for it.

You steady yourself. Relax your throat. Santa is your king. Your god. Your everything. Your whole life, everything you do has been to please Santa. Now is no different. You start licking his shaft as it pounds away at your mouth. You can't see his face past his belly, but you can tell he likes it: the veins on his cock bulge under your tongue, and he groans with pleasure. Slowly, making sure the elves know you're not trying to fight, you lift your arms and grab the backs of his thighs, pulling him into you with each thrust. He takes the encouragement, picking up speed and enthusiasm. With one hand you begin to tenderly massage his balls, and with the other you stroke the base of his cock, the part that can't fit all the way down your throat. This is right. This is correct. My holes are for Santa, you think again. It's not for you to choose how he uses them.

You pop out another two lumps of coal, though you find that if you don't let them get too big it can be a somewhat pleasurable experience. You wonder how many nice things you'll have to do to stop them coming. You hope it isn't too easy. You moan as another one presses against your clit on its way out of you. You're desperate to rub yourself, but you can't take any attention away from Santa's beautiful, enormous, swollen, throbbing cock. That is your purpose.

With a long, shuddering groan, Santa presses his cock as deep as it will go. You feel hot cum shooting down your throat, collecting in your esophagus. He holds you there for a long time, your face in his overhanging belly, coal growing in your cunt. When he finally retreats you cough a huge glob of cum into your mouth. It tastes like cinnamon and nutmeg.

"Oh, little Susie," says Santa admiringly. "Even when you're being punished, you try your best to be nice." He sits next to you on the bed and begins gently massaging your throat. "It isn't enough to put you back on the nice list, but it's a start." He seems to think long and hard about something. "I'm a believer in second chances, Susie. I'll have to come back to this house next year for your brother anyway. Maybe I'll check in on you, and if you've been extra good..." he shoots you a twinkling wink. "I just might give you your special present after all."

Your head falls back in relief. You haven't squandered your chance! Santa is a merciful and loving god! The elves lay their heads on your breasts, petting your skin and cooing approvingly. The next thing you know, Santa is pulling up his pants, tucking in his undershirt, buckling his belt. He puts his hand on the knob of your bedroom door, but he turns back over his shoulder before he goes.

"Susie...you were right. Your holes are mine. No other cock, nor finger or tongue or any part of another person may penetrate them. But now that you're a woman...I believe it would be alright if you touched yourself, if you like. And know that I'll be watching." With that he's out the door, Pepper and Ginger in tow.

You get into a comfortable position in bed, head on your pillows, legs spread. You're slowly amassing a small pile of coal on your bedspread, and you're ready to go for another. You let this one grow a little while inside you, expanding until you can't take it anymore, then arch your back and close your eyes and furiously rub your clit as you birth it.

As a ball of coal the size of a small cantaloupe rolls to a stop on your sheets, your bedside clock clicks over to 12:01.

#r@pe fantasy #r@pe kink #cnc free use #cvmdump #cvmslvt #r@petoy #breeding toy #have you ever written a line that made you say 'jesus christ what is wrong with me'#anyway happy holidays to all you lovely filthy people out there

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houseofanticipation · 5 months

Note

Hi!! I don’t mean to bother you but do you plan to ever post more of your writing? It’s unlocked some desires I never knew I had in me and I would absolutely love more of your content 💛

So glad you like the stories! I enjoy writing them but I also write for a living, which means sometimes I don't feel as much like writing in my free time. Still, I definitely plan to do some more eventually, and hearing that people want it is definitely motivating, so thank you!

#ask

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houseofanticipation · 7 months

Text

After six months of leaving your window unlocked, someone finally took the bait.

You frequent some dark corners of the internet. When tumblr wasn't enough to get you wet anymore you turned to reddit, and when that stopped working you moved to 4chan. These days the sites you cum to don't even have names, their URLs are just strings of random letters and numbers. It was in one of these places that you saw the symbol.

The only identifying feature of the original poster was an off-putting avatar image of Sonic the Hedgehog's gaping asshole. The post was a single photo of the symbol, written in thick marker on a scrap of looseleaf paper. Below it, the text read: place this symbol in your window to let passersby know it's unlocked, and you're ready to be taken advantage of.

You came when you saw that symbol. (You had been touching yourself for hours at that point, but still, the symbol is what pushed you over the edge.) You saved a screenshot of the symbol, and in the nights that followed you touched yourself to it again and again, daring yourself to do it, imagining the things strangers could do to you in your sleep. When your better judgement finally caved to that insatiable need, you touched yourself again. You sat there for an hour, edging and watching that symbol in the window, until your mind felt slow and stupid with fantasies.

You did that a few more times in the following nights. But the after a week the fantasies alone weren't doing it for you anymore, and you were increasingly realizing something that probably should have been obvious from the beginning: most people aren't into the same disgusting shit you're into. The people in those ugly little corners of the web lived all over the world. What were the odds one of them would just walk past your first-floor apartment one day?

So you forgot about it. Mostly. You left it there, of course, but the more time went by the less you believed anything would ever come of it. You turned to other places to make you cum. Lately you've been getting off on posting pictures of yourself, letting strangers describe the ways they'd like to use and abuse you.

And then this morning you found three polaroid pictures placed neatly on your kitchen table.

All three pictures are of you, naked and asleep in bed. You started sleeping naked ages ago, at the advice of a tumblr post detailing how to be more of a slut. You're glad you did now, because the feeling you get looking at these pictures is like nothing you've ever felt before. It's electric, a vibration in your brain and the pit of your stomach that makes your legs wobble and your knees press together. The first picture is of your body, undisturbed, sleeping on your stomach with your ass in the air. The second is a view from the foot of your bed, your pussy pressed against the sheets and your legs open. The third is of your face, an unfamiliar hand brushing back your hair and an unfamiliar cock resting on your cheek.

Before you can even think you're falling to your knees, masturbating desperately and furiously to those pictures. When you cum it's labored, almost painful, your breath catching in your chest, your moans short and agonized. You manage to stand long enough to take the pictures to your bed, where you're able to scrape together the self-control to edge for about five minutes before you cum for a second time.

The one you can't tear yourself away from his that cock on your face. The knowledge that someone was that close to you without your knowing. Touching you. Pleasuring himself to you. When you cum for the third time, it's to the thought that he didn't rape you, as far as you can tell. That means he intends to come back.

That night you feel like a kid waiting for Santa Clause to come. You toss and turn, too excited to sleep, but terrified that he won't follow through with it if he can tell you're awake. You close your eyes and stay as still as possible. If you can't be asleep, the best you can do is appear asleep.

You wake to sunlight streaming through your window, a little surprised to realize you fell asleep at all. You can feel immediately that something is different; you've been violated, you can feel it in your clit and in your cunt. You hurry to the kitchen and find three new polaroids. The first is a close up of your pussy, already swollen and wet. The second is taken from the same angle, but this time there's a hand in frame, three fingers pushed inside you, stretching you out. The third sends a thrill up your spine. In this picture, a man with a Halloween mask pulled up to his forehead has his head buried between your legs. His face isn't visible from this angle, but it's clear he's eating you out. What really excites you, though, is the out-of-focus smudge in the corner of the shot: you're certain it's the edge of someone's finger. There was a second person in the room with you last night, holding the camera. You wonder if he was there the night before too. You wonder if anyone else has been in your room without you knowing.

When you've cum twice, you're able to think clearly enough to wonder how you managed to sleep through all this. This isn't a cock brushing your face; this is penetration, stretching, clitoral stimulation. That isn't the kind of stuff you sleep through, is it? You get off for a while imagining you really are just that much of a whore, that you can have three fingers inside you and barely notice a thing, but then you spot the cylinder in the corner of the third picture. It's a metal canister, like an oxygen tank, connected at the top to the kind of plastic mask designed to cover your mouth and nose. They drugged you. That's why you didn't wake up. They put you into a deeper sleep so they could do what they wanted with you. Your clit is getting sore at this point, but when you come to this realization you can't help but cum one more time.

In your dreams that night someone is holding you down, kissing you, shoving his tongue down your throat. You're afraid and excited and wet, and you want to scream for help but you can't remember how to speak. Someone is saying something, but the words don't mean anything to you, and the relentless sucking on your clit is making it hard to focus on anything else. You want to moan, to arch your back, to press your legs shut, but your body isn't your own. Maybe you cum. Maybe you don't. It's hard to tell.

You come to slowly, blearily. You become aware of your surroundings one thing at a time, and out of order; first you notice the wetness, then the soreness, then the sunlight behind your closed eyelids. You stretch and rub the sleep out of your eyes, but your hands come away with more than the usual eye grit on them. With a jolt you realize your face is painted with cum, and looking down you can tell that it isn't just your face. There's cum on your tits, on your stomach, even your thighs and feet, and a hand between your legs confirms its inside you too. Hands shaking, you scoop it off your thighs and stomach, trying to get as much as you can into your pussy, fingering it deeper and deeper. You must have really taken a pounding last night, because your pussy is sore and your groin feels bruised, but the feeling of that cum inside you is worth every ounce of pain. You put a few pillows under your ass, trying to keep your hips elevated, keep it from spilling out for as long as possible. You imagine it taking root in your womb, changing your body, making your breasts and belly swell with motherhood. You imagine men you've never seen coming into you home while you're asleep and hungrily drinking your milk, squeezing and sucking so you wake up with your nipples sore. You wish one of them was here to fuck the cum deeper inside you, but you make do with your fingers. This time when you cum it's different. It isn't like the first orgasm of the day. It feels like maybe the fifth time you've cum in the last few hours; barely pleasure at all, just spine-tingling, mind-numbing sensation. Is it possible to cum in your sleep? It feels like it shouldn't be allowed, but you're having trouble thinking straight...

You need to stop touching yourself. You're sore and trembly and weirdly exhausted for someone who just woke up, but you can't stop thinking about those strangers in your bedroom, the cocks that must have been in your cunt and your asshole and your mouth. Your clit throbs, begging your fingers for just one more release. You make a compromise with yourself. You put on some panties to keep too much cum from leaking out, and you go to the kitchen to look at the pictures. But there are no polaroids on the kitchen table. Just a cheap plastic USB drive with your name in permanent marker on the side.

It shouldn't be a surprise that they know your name. They've been in your house, they can obviously find your name on your mail or your computer or your driver's license. But seeing it there in unfamiliar handwriting, one more tiny violation of privacy, makes your clit throb again, as if to remind you of its presence.

The voice of your elementary school librarian echoes in your head as you retrieve your laptop and return to bed. It is profoundly stupid, she reminds you, to plug an unfamiliar drive into your computer. There's no telling what kind of malware it could contain, and that kind of access could allow hackers to take complete control of your computer. But you've already done the most profoundly stupid thing. You've done it repeatedly, in fact, and you're in deep enough now that there may not be any going back. The drive contains a single folder, also with your name on it. The folder is full of pictures and videos, hundreds of them, from different cameras and different perspectives, every angle you could possibly want from the events of last night. Men in rubber masks, too many to count, taking turns raping your lifeless body. Stuffing their cocks down your throat and laughing as you choke reflexively. Squeezing your tits, pinching and biting your nipples. Playing with your pussy, intermittently fucking it and trying to shove ever-larger objects inside it. There's a closeup video of your face as one of the men ejaculates onto it. Another of your pussy as a cock pulls out, allowing a fat glob of cum to collect just at the entrance of your unresponsive hole. The last file in the folder is a .txt file, containing a single line of text: a string of numbers and letters that you recognize.

Right there on the first page of your favorite site is a picture of you, asleep and drenched in cum. Below it is your home address, and a short note:

Found this tasty slut by accident at the above address, just noticed the rapeme in her window and figured I'd come back that night. Good pussy, and she must like what we did to her because she hasn't taken it down yet. Stop by if you're in town; we like a limp body, but I bet she'd put up a nice fight if you'd rather forgo sedatives. Just make sure to gag her lol. don't want the neighbors complaining and ruining our fun. and remember to leave her a souvenir! She especially likes polaroids ; )

By the time you've finished reading you're in a daze. Your eyes can't seem to focus on anything. Your mind can't form a coherent thought. Your clit is no longer asking for your attention; it now demands it. As you begin to pull the panties back down, you notice something: the light next to your laptop camera is on.

You place the laptop on the bed between your legs, and begin stuffing the panties into your cunt.

#cnc drugging #cnc free use #cnc cumdump #rapekink #r@pe fantasy #r@pe kink #cnc somno

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houseofanticipation · 7 months

Text

You need this job desperately. This is the first interview you've had in weeks and there's no telling how long it'll be before you find another one. Bills are piling up, and it won't be long now before you start losing things: internet first probably, then electricity, then your apartment, then food. You know you can do the job—it's a bookkeeping position, the exact kind of number juggling you've always been good at—but you don't have much professional experience to rely on. You need to impress this interviewer.

The interviewer is a man in his 50s, neatly groomed and smartly dressed. He makes you think of the character of a US president in a b-tier action movie: handsome, dignified, serious. He glances up from your resume to look you up and down, assessing. "It says here you're proficient with QuickBooks? How'd you pick that up?"

"I took a course at the library," you say. "Aced my final exam." Not that the course gave letter grades, really, but the instructor did say you had a knack.

The interviewer raises his eyebrows knowingly. "This class; I suppose it was taught by a man?"

"It was, yeah," you say, though you're not sure what that has to do with anything.

The interviewer just smiles a little and nods like you're confirming the obvious.

He scans your resume a bit longer before giving an amused little snort and pushing it aside. "Listen, sweetheart, I get it." He's taken on a fatherly tone, sympathetic and understanding. "I'm sure you're very hardworking, you'll do your best, but this position is important. I can't have our data getting corrupted because you got confused and divided when you should have multiplied."

Your face is going hot. Anger and embarrassment fight for dominance in your head. You point to your discarded resume and mumble something about the library course, but he just chuckles.

"A beautiful girl like you? Of course any man's going to pass you, just for a chance to get in your pants." He raises a placating hand as you protest. "I'm not doubting your virtue, no doubt you tried hard and gave it your all, but you really can't expect that instructor to give you a fair assessment."

Anger is winning out, but it's manifesting in the worst possible way for getting a man to take you seriously: tears. They're welling up against your will, streaming down your face in quantities too great to discreetly wipe away.

His expression shifts from amusement to concern. "Oh, darling, I'm sorry. I can tell you had your heart set on this, but it just isn't the right fit for you." His brow furrows, and then his expression brightens, like he's had an idea. "Hold on...I may have just thought of a way to make this right! We have another job opening that might be better suited to you. Would you be interested?"

You do your best to quell the tears. No doubt it'll be something you're overqualified for, but you're not in a position to refuse work. You nod you head.

"Well, the thing is, we ask a lot of our employees. The work we do isn't easy, and it can take a lot of long hours and late nights. No surprise, a lot of the boys in the office start to get pent up, need to let off steam. That's where you'd come in."

You don't like where this conversation is going. Hoping he isn't saying what you think he's saying, you ask, "what exactly would I be doing?"

The interviewer leans forward, hands clasped on his desk. "Oh, it's easy! You just wait in our break room until someone needs to use you. You can't be asked to leave the break room, and they can't break your skin, but otherwise you just do whatever anyone asks of you."

You stand up, anger hardening into cold hate. That condescending smile makes your skin crawl, your blood boil. "So that's what this is then? No one wants to touch your shriveled up little dick, so you have to pay someone for it?"

He looks hurt. "Why, my dear, there's no need for personal insults. I believe I recognize a latent natural talent in you! That's something to be proud of!"

You spit on his floor. "Go fuck yourself. I'll find somewhere else to work."

You're halfway out the door when he says, conversationally, "no you won't."

You turn back to him. "What do you mean?"

He gives you another infuriating smile. "You won't find anywhere else to work. I can make sure of that. Our company is very influential in this area. If you walk out of here, I'll make sure no one wants to hire you. You won't be able to find a job cleaning toilets."

Your head spins. You're trapped. He can't do that. Can he? What if he can? If you can't find work, you'll be homeless. You'll starve. Is your pride worth that much?

You sit back down, grudgingly. "What's the salary?" He tells you a number that is significantly lower than that of the job you came here for, but after some quick mental arithmetic you think it should be enough to get by on, maybe even start putting away some savings if you're frugal. You give a defeated sigh. "I'll do it."

He laughs. "Hold your horses! I appreciate your enthusiasm but I'm not quite done with the interview. I have one more thing I need to check. Why don't you come over here?"

You sigh and stand up, sitting as directed on the desk in front of him. He's professional in the way he touches you: quick, appraising, not lingering unduly. He runs his hands up and down your bare legs, pushing up your skirt to reach your thighs. He unbuttons the top of your blouse and pulls your bra down to grope your breasts and pinch your nipples.

There's no way the interviewer can know this about you, but you love having your nipples played with, and on a purely physiological level the way he's touching you is beginning to get you aroused. Not that the whole situation doesn't disgust you, embarrass you, make you more than a little nervous...but when he pulls your panties aside and slides a couple of fingers inside you, he doesn't have to worry about lubrication.

He beams. "Look at that, a natural, like I said!" He moves his fingers around, feeling you out, pressing against your inner walls. You hate him, hate yourself for letting him do this to you, hate the world for putting you in this position. And you hate your stupid cunt for the sick, awful pleasure that's beginning to build there.

He slaps you hard across the tit, leaving behind a hot, stinging glow on your skin, and you feel something that isn't exactly a moan, but then again isn't entirely not a moan, escape your lips. Your pussy clenches around his fingers, and your head lolls back on your shoulders. You're dripping on his desk now. Pathetic.

He withdraws his fingers and wipes them neatly on your skirt. "I've seen what I need to see. You've got the job, my dear. How soon can you start?"

You come in on Monday for your first day on the job. Your official title is "Office Slut," which you're not thrilled about, but you don't suppose some euphemistic title like "on-site stress relief therapist" would really change anything. You're expected, as laid out in your employee handbook, to leave your clothes and other personal effects in the cardboard box marked SLUT. Your domain is the slut corner, a corner of the breakroom most prominently featuring a sturdy table with some stained padding and a handful of velcro straps affixed to it with heavy duty staples. There's also a chair there for you, and in a thoughtful touch, a short bookshelf of porn magazines and erotic literature. You're not allowed to have your phone out, or bring any books or activities of your own, so making your way down the shelf helps pass the time.

At around 10 in the morning, a couple of men come into the breakroom, chatting about the upcoming quarterly report. One of them notices you and stops mid-sentence to say, "oh, hey, are you the new slut?"

It's sort of a silly question, as you're wearing no clothes and sitting in the slut chair, but you nod. The handbook recommends trying to keep talking to a minimum: "Remember," says the busty clip-art mascot, Holly Whore, "Nobody likes a mouthy slut!"

The man waves you over. "Come on, lets try you out."

You approach them, but the reality of the situation is catching up to you, and you're suddenly very self conscious. You've never felt this exposed before, this vulnerable. You cross your arms over your breasts, trying to cling to some scrap of modesty, as the men start to feel you up. Hands are running down your back, pulling your hair, prying your arms away and fondling your nipples, groping your ass, running over your labia...

"Stop!" You push them away, and they each take a step back. "I'm sorry, I don't think I can do this."

They look at you, and then at each other, and then they start laughing. One of them says, "you take her arms?" and then before you realize what's happening they're grabbing you, lifting you off the ground. One of them has you under the armpits, his hands firmly grasping your tits. The other has your legs pinned together under his arm. You flail, try to fight, but they're both larger than you and you don't have much leverage with your feet off the ground. The put you on the slut table and pin you down while they strap you in: each ankle is secured to one of the table legs, and one of your arms is strapped to the end of the table, above your head.

When he enters your pussy, you cry out in surprise and pain. You're already wet, luckily—you spent the morning reading a stained paperback from the shelf, which turned out to be surprisingly hot—but he's too big for you, and the way he's stretching you feels like you're about to split down the middle. You try instinctively to pull away, but the straps are secure. There's no getting out of this.

You start to cry. This pain, this violation, this humiliation, it isn't just happening now. It's happening all day. It's happening all day every weekday for the foreseeable future. If you don't let them rape you as often and as violently as they like, you'll starve to death. They might as well have a knife to your throat.

Something inside you hardens. It's only rape if it's against your will. You think. So will it. This is your job. Do your job.

The other man is standing next to you, jerking off as he watches you struggle against his coworker's cock. With your free hand you reach out and take over the work, trying to match his pace as you stroke up and down his shaft. He moans and lets you pull him closer, get his cock up to your mouth. You begin sucking and licking his head as you continue to jerk him off; the angle makes it tough to actually take him down your throat, but he seems to be enjoying himself just fine,

As you get into it, the pounding in your pussy begins to take on a more pleasurable aspect. He's really able to fill you up, and every thrust sends a shock up your spine. It still hurts, but you're coming to enjoy the pain. You can't stop thinking about that interviewer slapping your tits, the way it felt. You spit out the cock, just long enough to say, "you can hurt me if you want," and then get back to sucking. The guy in your pussy likes that: you can feel him swell at your words. You're expecting him to slap you around a bit, but instead he uses both hands to pinch your nipples and pull. The stinging pain of the pinch, combined with the stretching sensation in your skin, amplifies the pleasure by orders of magnitude, causing you to close your eyes, buck your hips, and moan loudly into the cock in your mouth. He moans as you tighten around him, leaning over you and trying to control himself, let the fun go on a little longer.

Now that he's unlocked the secret to making you squeeze his cock, he isn't shy about it. He pinches you, slaps you, pulls on you, everything he can think of. The surprise, you discover together, is part of what does it for you, so he's continually experimenting with new ways to hurt you, never letting you get your guard up. The guy in your mouth is getting close, his cock twitching more erratically each time you tickle his head with your tongue. You're ready, kind of excited actually, to swallow his cum, but he pulls out at the last moment. "Want to cum on your face," he gasps. "Mark you." Without missing a beat you keep stroking. It doesn't take long: one, two, three strokes up and down his shaft and he's shooting hot ropes of cum across your face, chin, and extended tongue. Maybe it's coincidence, or maybe seeing you like that turns him on, or maybe it's because the feeling of cum on your face makes you clench up again, but within seconds the other guy is filling you with his seed, making you moan and rub your clit. The men laugh as you make yourself cum, writhing on the slut table, your dribbling pussy adding another stain to the decrepit padding.

"Being a slut clearly isn't just a job for you," one of them teases. You can feel yourself blushing, but you can hardly deny it: something came over you just now. Maybe you do have a natural talent.

You learn some important lessons in your first week. Most important is to hold off on cumming when you can manage it. You spend so much of your work day with a cock in one orifice or another that it simply isn't feasible to cum every time you're fucked. It feels good the first, second, third time, but by the end of the day your head feels spinny and your clit is sore. Better to space it out, let it build until you can't resist anymore, and then let it out in one ecstatic release.

You also learn that not everyone is the same. The office is full of different bodies, different cocks, different preferences, different perversions. What works on one guy won't always work on another, and the things they make you do are many and varied. One guy likes to cum in your hair: whether he's fucking your mouth or your pussy or your ass, or just jerking off over you, he always makes sure to finish on your hair. You always know when you see him coming that you're going to need an extra half hour in the shower that night. Another guy refuses to touch any part of you besides his cock in your ass. He makes you lay on your stomach, legs apart, arms by your head, and he keeps his hands behind his back the entire time. If you try to touch him at all—you once made the mistake of reaching a hand back to guide him in when he came out—he screams at you and beats you mercilessly with his belt. They aren't allowed to break your skin, but he's pushed up against the line a few times. He's your least favorite, and by the way you've seen him interact with other guys over the water cooler, you think he gives everyone around him the heebie-jeebies.

The strangest, and honestly one of the most pleasant, is Barry. He's one of the only guys whose name you know, because he introduced himself and shook your hand the first time he met you. Barry comes in every day at fifteen past noon. You could set your watch by him, if you were allowed to wear a watch; fifteen past the hour, on the dot, every day. He wants two things: to suck on your toes, and to cum in your mouth. He doesn't want you to suck him off. He doesn't want to fuck you. He wants to jerk off with your toes in his mouth, and when he's done he wants to paint your tongue white. For a while you tried the "Come Around" method (your own private terminology): You lay flat on the slut table, your legs raised so he can get to your feet. When he's almost ready, he runs around the table and you open wide. The problem with the Come Around is that Barry want to spend as long as possible sucking your toes. He doesn't want to waste any time he could be sucking your toes on running around the slut table, and he's not the best at judging when he's going to cum. More than a few times he's waited too long and started unloading before he gets to you, which means, by the rules laid out in the handbook, that you have to get down on your hands and knees and slurp his cum off the linoleum. ("A good slut keeps her workspace clean!" as Holly Whore would say.) You've had much more success since introducing the "Bend and Deliver" method: In this method, you lay facing him, your head hanging off the table, and he lifts your legs up toward him. With you folded in this manner, he can suck to his heart's content, and cum straight down your throat without ever taking your toes out of his mouth.

You found the toe thing a little weird at first, but Barry's grown on you. He's one of the only people in the office to make polite small talk when he's using you, taking a short break from sucking to ask you how your weekend was, or what you're having for lunch. (You once joked, "you're about to deliver my lunch, Barry," and he told you seriously that cum does not constitute a healthy meal.) It also kind of turns you on just how hard he gets for your feet. Not your fetish, but you like being there to fulfill his.

A little over a month into your tenure as office slut and it's the Friday before a long weekend, the end of the quarter. As three o'clock rolls around the breakroom is seeing more and more activity. Most of the actual work is done, and everyone's antsy to get home and start their weekend; you included. But you're all being paid to work until five, so five is when you will leave.

You're currently engaged in a game a few of the guys like to play, wherein one holds you down by the throat and keeps time on their phone, while the other tries to make you cum as quickly as possible. They track their high scores on a little whiteboard on the wall. The fastest so far has been 11.21 seconds, but it's not exactly a fair game; the time depends heavily on when you last came, how long you've been edging, and how horny you already were when they started. The current guy, for example, isn't getting very far with the light-speed back and forth of his fingers over your clit—a strategy the sometimes works quite well—because it's the end of the day and the end of the week and you're overstimulated beyond all comprehension. You can't focus on anything: not cumming, not the words anyone is saying, not the way the guy twists your nipples (also usually a surefire strategy). Finally, you arch your back and make a half-hearted attempt at a moan just to get the guy to stop. He doesn't bother writing the time on the board.

A man with curly hair and reading glasses gets to talking with the other guys standing around you, laughing and joking at the dazed look on your face. "Did you guys know," he says, "that the slut actually applied for my job first?"

There's a chorus of laughter, mixed with some "now way"s and a "you're fuckin' with us!"

"I'm not! Hand to god I'm not, Gene told me! Can you imagine that? A slut accountant?" The laughter bubbles up anew.

"How's she supposed to give finance reports with her tits out?" says someone.

"IT would hate her, always gettin' her keyboard covered in cum!" says someone else.

The accountant raises his hands. "Hey, c'mon guys, maybe the slut has a secret talent for numbers." He looks down at you. "Are you any good at numbers, slut?"

You nod distractedly. You feel like you should be angry, or at least annoyed, but that buzzing in the back of your brain is making it hard to feel anything very strongly.

"I have an idea," says the accountant. "Let's play a game. I'll ask you math questions. Every one you get wrong..." he looks around, and his eyes fall on an open box of sharpie markers (a fresh pack—people keep taking them). He snaps to get someone's attention. "Hey, bring those over here. Every question you get wrong, you get one of these in you." By way of demonstration he slides a sharpie into your pussy, butt-first. "For each one you get right I'll take one out. You win if we can't take any more out. You lose when we can't fit any more in. Got it?"

You nod.

"First up," says the accountant. "Fifteen times fifteen."

You think. This should be easy—you have the squares memorized up to thirty by thirty—but you can't seem to recall the exact number. You can feel it there, somewhere in your memory, but this buzzing seems to stand between you and it. "One ninety six," you say.

"Ooh, too bad!" says the accountant, doing a mock gameshow-host voice. "That's another marker for you. Next up, let's have you do...eighteen divided by six."

That's simple. Eight goes into sixteen twice. Is that what he asked? No, eighteen divided by six...what number goes into eighteen six times? It must be a whole number, right? Before you even know why you're saying it, you're blurting out, "six!" You wince. Six times six is obviously not eighteen. What's wrong with you?

"Not even close!" the accountant chortles. People are gathering around now, enjoying the show. "That's another sharpie for you, really digging yourself into a hole here, if you'll pardon the pun."

It goes on like this. With each wrong answer he adds a marker. With each new marker you feel your pussy stretching a little further. The further you stretch, the better you start to feel. At ten markers you're barely coherent, gingerly tapping your clit and moaning out answers without even thinking. At fifteen you have to hold a hand over them to keep them from falling out, and you're not even bothering to answer anymore, just letting them penalize you for not responding. It's stopped being a math game, really, and just become a game of how many sharpies can fit inside you.

The answer turns out to be seventeen. After the seventeenth sharpie they're all just barely inside you, and you're having to push quite determinedly to stop them squeezing each other out. After failing to place the eighteenth—the areas around the edges are all stretched almost to breaking, and it's impossible to squeeze one in the middle of the pack without you letting your hand go and releasing them all—the accountant finally gives up, and begins to applaud you. "Seventeen markers! Maybe not the smartest, but definitely the most elastic slut I've known!" the other men begin to clap too, and you can tell by their faces they aren't being mocking. They're genuinely impressed. Your cheeks glow with pride and arousal as you give your throbbing clit the last little bit of attention it needs. Markers explode out of you as you cum for the final time this week, exhaustion washing through you.

You spend the final hour of the day in a pleasant haze. A few more guys stop by to cum in and on you, but you barely notice. You are the slut. It feels good to take pride in your work.

#r@pe fantasy #r@pe kink #cnc free use #cvmdump #rapekink #degredation kink #object insertion

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houseofanticipation · 7 months

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Read from the beginning

You're having a nightmare. In it Master has his cock down your throat. You're gagging, trying to breathe, but he's not giving you a moment to rest. His cock seems impossibly long, and your esophagus impossibly deep; every time you think you've reached the bottom of his shaft, he seems to go a few inches deeper. Tears are streaming down your face, drool hanging off your chin, sweat collecting on your forehead. But the rape—in the dream you know it's rape, though you have no idea how you got here or where you are or even what your surroundings look like—the rape isn't what makes it a nightmare. In fact, for as violent as it should feel, the rape is actually fairly peaceful. The part that terrifies you, fills your dreaming mind with such inescapable dread, is how badly you want it.

His cock must be miles long at this point. His thrusting is speeding up, his broad hands gripping your head more tightly, his nails digging into your skin. You feel him begin to bulge, expand with what must be liters of cum, but his cock is so long that the process isn't instant. The bulge of cum travels down his shaft, like a cartoon character shoved through a pipe too small for them. You feel, and somehow also see, the bulge shooting down your throat, ever deeper, seeming to gain size and speed as it goes. It will be at the head any second now, and when that happens this desperate hunger inside you will finally be sated. You find yourself trembling with need, and simultaneously gripped with absolute terror at just how complete that need is. The two feelings merge into one, a heart-pounding breath-catching spine-tingling skin-crawling something that is too intense to be either good or bad. You know the moment his cum hits your throat, everything will change.

And then you wake up.

The dream ends before you open your eyes. For a long moment you can't move at all; every muscle in your body is seized up in fear, and you can't seem to remember how to relax. You feel something running down your perineum to your ass, and you realize with disgust that your pussy is dripping wet.

The bed of the slave suite is nicer than the one you have at home. (Had at home. It's not like that stuff is yours anymore.) The mattress is huge and perfectly goldilocks-ed between soft and firm, and the silk sheets feel incredible on your naked body. You never sleep naked, but in sheets this soft you might not mind being forced to. As your body begins to relax and you're able to move again, you find yourself stretching out, luxuriating in the bed, allowing its softness to envelop you.

You hear the electronic whir of the lock on your door, and moments later Master is there in a black silk robe, watching you. You sit up and lift the sheet to cover yourself—an odd time to get self conscious, maybe, but you feel the need to control something—but he gives his head a little shake. "Take that off. There's no hiding your body from me." You let the sheet fall, and resist the urge to cross your arms over your breasts. But you sit with your knees together, so he can't see how wet you are. That, at least, he doesn't seem to notice.

"Today is obedience training," says Master. "I doubt it will be enough to completely break your will; that takes time. But at the very least you'll learn my rules, and what happens when you break them. Now, time for your first lesson. Lay on your back and spread your legs."

You wonder how much you can allow before it becomes your fault. Last night you had no choice, you were tied up. You couldn't move, much less stop him as he fucked you. Raped you, you remind yourself. But you're not tied up this morning. You could fight back, at least try to fight back. If you don't try to do anything to stop him, doesn't that mean a part of you wants him to do it again? You need to prove that you don't want him to do it again. You press your knees tighter together and stare at him defiantly.

He just smiles. "Mmm, you're resistant. That's good, it means you get to learn this lesson early." Before you can think he's lunging toward you, his robe billowing open behind him. Under it he wears only a pair of black silk boxers and through them you can see how hard his cock is. This is his favorite part.

He's on you in less than a second, and you're relieved to find that your fight-or-flight response really does kick in. With no option to flee you find yourself beating against him with your fists, kicking with your legs, trying to wrestle out of his grasp, but he is larger and stronger than you in every count. He gets on top of you, his swollen cock twitching against your stomach, and wraps his hands around your throat. You tug at his arms, try to buck him off, but the harder you struggle the tighter his grip gets, and the weaker you feel. You look up into his eyes and see them gleaming with amusement. You stop resisting.

He holds you there a moment longer, letting you plead with your eyes, letting spots play across your vision, before he relaxes his grip and allows you to gasp for air. He does not get off you, nor does he fully release your neck. "I am stronger than you. I am faster than you. I am smarter than you. You cannot overpower me, you cannot outrun me, and you cannot outthink me. Do you understand?"

You stare into his eyes. You can't be sure how clever he is, but he's definitely not lying about the other two. "I understand." Then, remembering yourself, you add, "Master." You feel his cock move when you call him that.

"Good," he says. "Now, because you resisted me I'm going to have to hurt you. You're still learning the rules, so I won't go too hard, but understand that the more you resist the worse it will get. Are you ready?"

What else can you say? "Yes, Master."

He slaps you very hard across the face. Pain shivers across your skin, making your eyes tear up. You thought he hit you yesterday, but that was nothing. That was just getting your attention. He pulls his hand back and when he hits you again it's a little better, because you can steel yourself for it, and a little worse, because he hits harder. As the immediate pain fades, the skin he struck feels tingly and hot. You close your eyes as he raises his hand again, and then he's taking your nipples between his fingers and pinching quite hard. This one surprises you—you suspect that was the point—and you yelp, though to be honest the pain is brief and not as bad as the slaps. You feel his cock strain against his boxers, and take a mental note: he likes when you cry out. Does that mean you should be more vocal, hoping he'll get what he wants and move on, or stay quiet, hoping he gets frustrated and gives up?

You don't take Master for a man who gives up easily.

Indeed, it seems like he's done punishing you for now, though whether that was always his intention or he was waiting for you to cry is anyone's guess. He rubs your cheek tenderly with the same hand he was just using to strike it, brushing away the tears the pain brought to your eyes. "There, there," he says. "I don't want to hurt you..." He looks down at his cock, rock hard against your stomach, and laughs. "Well, you can probably tell that's a lie, but it's no fun when you haven't earned it. Do as you're told, try your best, and I won't hurt you very badly. I may spank you for making mistakes, but that's just responsible slave keeping. Now, are you ready to cooperate?"

He's shown you it's useless to resist, at least head-on. All you'll get for fighting back is more pain, and he promised to make it worse next time. So you say, "Yes Master."

"Good," he says, finally getting off you. "Now. Spread your legs." You do as he says, and notice with some surprise that you are no longer ashamed of your nudity. Maybe those slaps knocked something loose in you, whatever part of your mind was still clinging to the idea of preserving your honor. You're going to have to give up on pride if you want to survive this situation.

Master kneels at the foot of your bed to get eye level with your groin, and makes an appreciative sound. "It really is a beautiful pussy. You'd go for quite a lot with a pussy like that, even with that attitude of yours. Not that I'm planning on selling you anytime soon. Anyway, go ahead and play with yourself."

You lift your head to look at him, trying to tell if he means what you think he means. What else could he be talking about? It just seems out of character, having you pleasure yourself without pleasuring him. "You heard me," he says. "Masturbate, like you would in your own home. This is your home, after all."

"Yes, Master." You lay your head back on the pillow and lower your hand to your pussy. It's still quite wet from the dream, but you take a moment to warm up anyway: running your fingers over your pussy lips, tracing wide circles around your clitoris, just waking yourself up, getting used to the touch. Then you dip a finger inside yourself, getting it nice and wet, and start using it to touch your clit. Softly at first, just quick swipes across, then longer, slower. You're afraid to tell him you won't get far without something to get you in the mood, something hot to read or watch. But you soon realize that this clit routine is working better than expected: you can feel the orgasm building up faster than you'd have thought for the situation. It's like your pussy doesn't know the difference between fear and arousal. Anything that gets the blood pumping is good enough for me, sweet pea.

As you begin to moan, you find your mind straying unbidden to the way you felt last night, completely helpless, Master on top of you and inside you. You remember the way his cock swelled up when you struggled, the way his eyes looked as he rubbed your clit. You think of the dream, wonder what his cum would have tasted like. He takes you by the wrist and pulls your hand away gently, but before you can protest there's something else touching you, wet and soft and wonderful. It's his tongue, you think, but you don't look. Seeing him doing it would remind you where you are, and you don't want to be reminded. You just want to stare at the the ceiling and lavish in this sensation.

He does it exactly like you would have done it. Somehow, just by watching you for a few minutes, he's figured out exactly how you'd like to be touched. Only somehow he's doing it better. It's like he know what you want next before you do, understands your pussy better than you understand it yourself. As the pleasure mounts you begin to close your legs around his head, barely even noticing as you do it, but without stopping he presses them firmly back into the bed and holds them there. You arch your back, close your eyes, allow yourself to moan unabashedly.

And then he pulls back. The feeling lingers for a moment before falling back, settling down, leaving you twitching and whimpering. Operating on instinct you reach down to bring back the pleasure, but he catches your wrist. "From now on any pleasure you feel comes by my permission. You do not touch yourself without my say so. You do not cum until I feel you have earned it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master."

"Would you like to earn it?"

The feeling has receded enough to let you think more clearly, and the shame is creeping in on you. Knowing how much you needed him in that moment, how you would have done anything for him to make you cum, let him hurt you or degrade you or humiliate you. You hate giving him that power; you know the more power you give him over you the harder it will be to escape.

You also know how desperately you want to cum.

"Please Master," you say, voice shaking. "Let me earn it. Let me earn the right to cum."

You can see in his eyes and in his cock how much he likes that. "Good girl."

Being Master's fuckdoll turns out to be more than just sitting around and waiting for him to pump some cum into you. Your entire life is to be dedicated to increasing his pleasure. After breakfast (a bowl of plain oatmeal that you eat with your hands, no spoon having been provided) Master shows you how he likes his shoulders rubbed after a long day at work. You take to it quickly, and you're surprised how satisfying it is to hear his appreciative groans as you dig your thumbs into his tense musculature. He puts his tongue on you again, this time laying you out on the living room sofa, letting you whimper and moan, but he still doesn't allow you to cum. The next thing he teaches you is how to greet guests when they come over: where to put their coats, how you're expected to touch them, if and when to suck their cocks. You make a few mistakes in the practice runs he makes you do—it's a lot to take in, and it gets harder to focus each time he brings you close to orgasm—but you do pretty well. When the lesson is over he lays you across his lap and spanks you mercilessly, his cock hardening again as you whine and cry and beg his forgiveness. When he's done he says, "only ten spanks is better than most girls get for that lesson. You're a natural learner." You have to remind yourself not to be proud of that accomplishment. And then he licks you again, and any thoughts in your head go out the window.

That's the pattern for the rest of the day: Master gives you a lesson in how to behave in his house. He spanks you for each mistake you made during the lesson. Then he brings you right up to the edge of orgasm. He teaches you how to mix his favorite drinks, and when he'll want one. He ties you up in a number of different ways, showing you the right positions to assume to make it easier for him. He shows you the different ways he likes you to sit with him in the living room as he reads a book or watches a movie: your favorite is when he stretches out on the couch and lets you cuddle his leg, your head in his lap. He pretends not to notice as you gently grind your clit against his bare calf, but the swelling of his cock betrays him. As long as you don't cum, you think, he'll let you get away with it.

Each time he stops you from cumming you get a little more desperate, a little more delirious. You make more mistakes as the day goes on, and he has to spank you more with each lesson, but a funny thing is starting to happen. Because spanking always immediately precedes his tongue on your clit, you find yourself starting to get wet as soon as his hand strikes your ass. It hurts, but you don't mind the pain—you kind of like it even. It's exhilarating, makes you feel warm and tingly, and you think it heightens the pleasure when he starts touching you more tenderly. By the end of the day he doesn't even have to spank you: you can feel yourself getting wet as soon as you're in position.

It doesn't escape Master's notice. He runs his fingers along your vulva, sending a delicious chill up your spine, and gives your head a scratch. Nobody's ever done that to you before, but since he started doing it this morning you can't get enough of it; you whimper with pleasure, melting into the couch and into his lap. "You're beginning to like your punishments," he says. "You're a good girl, good girls know how good it feels to get what you deserve. Just so long as you aren't acting up on purpose to make me spank you. If that starts happening I'll need to find another way to hurt you."

You shake your head vigorously. "No Master, never!" And you mean it; it wouldn't feel as good if you knew you hadn't earned it for one of your stupid mistakes.

"Good," says Master. "I think you're ready for your final lesson of the day." He moves you off his lap without giving you your spanking, which disappoints you a little, but when you get your face out of the sofa and turn around your heart leaps with sudden thrill. He has removed his boxers, letting his erection hang in front of you. "It's time you learned how to suck my cock."

Without you quite noticing, most of the shame has slipped away from you throughout the day, but you're reminded of it in this moment. You remember how much you wanted to taste him in your dream, how it felt disgusting and ecstatic and violating and thrilling all at the same time. You hate yourself for what you've already become; a day of orgasm denial and you're already his simpering little slut? Are you really that weak?

But what else should you do? Fight for your life, be punished over and over, live your life in a cage waiting until someone is ready to rape you? Isn't this way better? Why force yourself to be miserable when you can feel this good all the time? You can still work on your escape plan. It doesn't mean you can't enjoy yourself along the way. So you leave your shame behind; let it fall off you like a coat you've grown too big for. You get on your knees in front of Master. You look up into his cold eyes. And you begin to suck his cock.

He likes you to look at him. That's good, because you like looking at him too. You like to see his face react to each movement of your lips, each flick of your tongue. His head is dripping with precum—you realize today's activities have probably teased him just as much as they did you, and he didn't even get the release you did. It's warm and salty and just flavorful enough to tease you after the three meals of oatmeal you've had today. You feel yourself dripping with anticipation of what his cum will taste like. You feel insane. You don't know if you've ever been this horny in your life.

He likes it when you lick that strip of skin on the underside of his head, but it's too much all on its own. He shows you how to switch it up, swirling the head of his cock around your tongue, pushing up and down his shaft with your lips and cheeks and throat. He's not interested in shoving himself down your throat with every thrust—he likes throatfucking, he says, but that's not what this is about. This is about you servicing him, not him masturbating with you as a proxy. Still, he likes it when you take his whole cock down your throat, especially when you use your hand to play with his balls at the same time.

At some point he transitions to sitting down, and you to laying belly-down on the couch with your head bobbing in his lap. He lays his head back and moans softly, and you swell with pride at how good you're able to make him feel. His hand is on the back your head, not pushing you onto him, just running his hand through your hair, scratching your scalp with his manicured nails. It feels so good you almost can't keep sucking. You wonder if anyone has ever cum from having their head scratched.

He's getting close. You can feel it in the way his cock swells, the way his fingers become more frenetic on your scalp. You close your eyes and you're back in the dream, watching the bulge of cum speed toward you, dying to know what he tastes like. Then he's gripping you by the hair and lifting you off him, letting your cheek rest on his thigh. "That's enough," he says. "Or you'll make me cum."

"No!" you say, whipping your head up to face him. "I mean, I'm sorry Master, just...please, please may I taste your cum?"

He stares into your eyes, that appraising expression seeming to penetrate your mind and slither through your darkest secrets. He strokes your cheek. "Usually I prefer to cum in your pussy," he says. "But today I'll make an exception, because you've been such a good girl."

You almost weep with relief. "Thank you Master. Thank you so much." You return your attention to his cock, and he moans with renewed pleasure. You feel his weight shifting, and a moment later his hand is sliding between you and the couch, and his fingers are working your clit exactly how you like it. You moan into his cock and lift your ass up to give him better access.

It doesn't take either of you very long. He was seconds away from bursting a moment ago, and you've been in a state of sustained arousal since this morning. He tells you to finish him off with that move he likes, licking under the head, so you do just that. As his fingers quicken across your clit and his cock stiffens in your mouth, you suck your lips onto his head, stroke his shaft with your hand, and flick your tongue across that strip of skin as fast as you can. His fingers reach a fever pitch and you find your ass raising further in the air as your legs straighten, your toes splay out, your back arches. A wonderful, aching glow pours through your pussy and into your stomach and you close your eyes as his cock finally erupts into your mouth. Mouthful after mouthful of warm, thick cum shoots out of him, almost faster than you can swallow, and you feel the dream of this morning melting away. The dream was hot, sure, but it can't stand up to real thing. The texture of his cum on your lips and tongue. The pleasure radiating through your body as his fingers softly stroke you clit and labia. The way it feels to have him in your stomach, like a part of him is becoming a part of you. The feeling of his softening cock against your lips, his balls in your mouth as you run a sensual hand through the hair on his legs. You close your eyes, trying to capture this moment forever.

He lets you stay there as he turns on the TV. You don't understand the show he's watching—it's in a language you don't speak, and your brain is too fluttery at the moment to follow the subtitles—but it doesn't matter. The feeling of his skin against your skin, his cock against your cheek, his hand playing absentmindedly through your hair...it's perfect bliss. Just this morning you were thinking about how to fight back, how to escape. Why would you ever want to leave if you get to feel like this everyday? You'll probably feel differently in the morning, but for right now you allow the moment to take you, let yourself be carried away on a wave of warm, happy calm.

Some time later you are dimly aware of him lifting you, carrying you, placing you in your bed. You snuggle into your lovely sheets, only half awake, and the last thing you remember is him lowering his head between your legs to give you a good night kiss.

#r@pe fantasy #r@pe kink #cnc free use #cvmslvt #cvmdump #r@petoy

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houseofanticipation · 7 months

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You're sitting with your friend Sam at a coffee shop, catching up. She's telling you about an instagram ad she keeps getting for some audiobook streaming service. "It's just crazy," she says, "because I was just telling Lucille I wanted to start reading more books but I never have the time, and then it's like instantly I'm getting these ads all the time."

"So what," you say over your steaming mug, "you think they're listening to you?"

Sam shakes her head. "Honestly I think it's almost scarier than that. They have so much information about us, they don't even need to listen to our conversations. They just know, based on everything they've gathered about me, that I'm probably someone who wants to listen to audiobooks."

"Well they can't be that smart," you say. "Because the only ads I've been getting lately are for something called Slut Cream."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "You must know I'm going to need more details."

You take out your phone and find an ad to show her. It's not difficult; literally all of the ads you see on instagram are like this. They're even showing up in other places now, on webpages you visit or apps you use. This one is one you've seen before: a beautiful woman in a crop top that just barely covers her nipples is proudly displaying a squeeze tube of the kind you'd buy sunscreen or toothpaste in. The caption says, "Being a slut isn't a hobby—it's a lifestyle! Step up your slut game with Slut Cream! Shop Now"

"I don't even know what slut cream is," you say. "All you get when you look it up is a bunch of porn."

"Well, obviously it's a way to step up your slut game," says Sam sagely. "What does it say on the website?"

"Oh, I'm not clicking the link," you say. "I don't want to encourage them! What I want to know is why suddenly this ad is all I can seem to see!"

Sam shoots you a wink. "Maybe you're just a slut. These data brokers know us better than we know ourselves."'

What neither of you know is that it's actually quite easy to buy online ad space, and they let you get pretty specific with your intended audience.

I live in the next apartment over from you. I've been watching you for a long time, studying you, listening to you through our shared wall. We've talked a few times, some terse conversation at the mailboxes or in the hall, which is how I knew enough about you to place those ads, with audience parameters so specific that probably only you and about five other people would see them. I had fun making them; hiring the model to do the photoshoot, dusting off the skills I picked up in that college graphic design course, creating a website for this fake business (though I'm disappointed you still haven't clicked through to see it). If you actually tried to buy slut cream, the website would tell you we're currently closed due to high traffic, and to check back later. Nowhere on the website does it explain what slut cream is.

A number of strange things happen to you over the course of the following day. On your lunch break you walk down the block to the deli by your office. You're in here every weekday, but today the energy here is different. People are staring you, side-eyeing you, having whispered conversations that stop abruptly when you get too close. As you're walking back to work, an old woman spits on the ground as you pass, you'd swear you heard the word "whore!" hissed under her breath. You wonder if you should say something, stand up for yourself, but she's elderly, probably confused, and you decide to be the bigger person.

In the hours after lunch, you're propositioned by no less than seven of your male coworkers. You've had to refuse a few invitations to dinner in your time, but seven in a day is completely out of the ordinary, and the things these men are offering to do to you go way outside the bounds of first date stuff. One guy tells you the conference room is empty, if you want to go for a quick fuck; another guy tells you he hasn't cum in a month, and if you sucked his cock he'd pump so much cum down your throat that you wouldn't need to eat dinner. Your boss even tells you he and his wife are looking for a third and he thought of you first, like he's offering you a big promotion. The strangest thing is that all of these men seem genuinely surprised when you turn them down. Like this sort of thing usually works with girls. One guy even says, "sorry, I was just trying to help."

It was pretty easy to hire actors for the deli and the street. You go to the same place every day, so I knew where they'd have to go and roughly when they'd need to be there. The harder part was getting your coworkers to play along, especially because I was picky about getting people who could sell the act. For a few of them all it took was money. A few of them I had to blackmail. For your boss I had to call in a favor, get his boss to threaten his job. He protested, but I think it made his cock hard, thinking about fucking you alongside his wife.

I keep this up for a few weeks. Anywhere you go I have people watching you, talking about you behind your back. I have people approaching you on the train, at the park, in restaurants, offering to fuck you like they're doing you a favor. You stay firm in your refusal—I wouldn't have expected any less from you—but I can tell it's beginning to eat at you. I watch you try to figure out what you're doing that seems to give all these people the wrong idea about you; you start to dress more modestly, talk less, even walk a little less confidently. But none of this will change anything. All it will do is make you feel more repressed.

After a month, I decide it's time to make my move. I could probably wait longer, but the anticipation is getting too much for me, and besides, you're beginning to get a little wild around the eyes. I'd hate to break you before I've had my fun. One evening, when I know you're home, I unlock your apartment with the duplicate key I had made two months ago. You're in the kitchen, washing dishes with headphones on; you didn't hear me come in. I leave the door open as I approach you, admiring the way you shake your ass to whatever it is you're listening to. I get right up behind you and stay there for a moment, lavishing in your innocence, feeling my cock strain at my belt as I imagine taking it away from you. Then I reach around front of you with both arms and plunge my hand into your panties

You shout in shock, fight back, try to push me off as the headphones fall off your head. But I've got you pinned against the counter, my full body weight against you, one hand down your pants, the other groping your breasts. Once you realize that fighting won't help, you stop struggling and ask me what I want. "Please," you say. Just hearing that quiver in your voice almost makes me delirious with lust. "Please, let me go. I don't want this, please."

I bury my face in your neck, kissing and breathing you in. You smell incredible, like fear and sweat and sex. I bring my lips up to your ear, let them brush against you as I speak. "Of course you want this, baby. You've been trying so hard to hide it, but you don't have to hide with me. Look, you left the door open for me." I let you turn your head enough to see the door hanging open just as my fingers find your clit. I'm rubbing you gently, tenderly, just the way I've watched you touch yourself through the webcam I have in your room. My other hand is under your shirt now and I'm squeezing your breast, rolling your nipple between my fingers, feeling it slowly grow full and erect. You try to stifle a soft moan and I kiss your neck again. "It's okay, baby. You don't have to be ashamed. It's okay to want to feel good. Let me make you feel good."

You clutch your face in your hands and let out a cry of frustration and humiliation and agony and pleasure. You barely know me; I'm the guy next door who sometimes looks at you a little too long. The guy you speed up to avoid in the hall. But that feeling radiating from you clit... You think how exhausting it's been, doing everything you could think of to change people's perception of you, get them to stop looking at you as a slut, how none of it has done you any good anyway. You wonder if you'd have had more fun fucking Jim in the conference room, or swallowing Dylan's cum, or having a threesome with your boss and his wife. And that throbbing in your clit, the agonizing pleasure...You remember that beautiful woman in the ad: "Being a slut isn't a hobby—it's a lifestyle!" You think about how happy she looked, how fulfilled. You remember Sam's words: "These data brokers know us better than we know ourselves."

It does feel good, doesn't it? To let me touch you, pleasure you, to let go of this act you've been holding on to. Isn't it okay to want to feel good? Why did you ever let anyone make you ashamed of that? You try out another moan, letting the pleasure well up through your chest and out your mouth. It feels good, so you try another, and another, and then you're leaning back into me, grinding up against me, delighting in the feeling of my hard cock against your ass.

"Good," I say. "You're letting go of those silly hang-ups. Now we can have our real fun." My hands still around you, controlling you, I half lead-half carry your trembling body to the bedroom. I throw you on the bed, face up so I can get a good look at your eyes, see what I've done to your mind. Those same eyes that have avoided me in the hall so many times now gaze hungrily up at me, wanting me, needing me.

Who am I do decline?

I pull off your pants and panties as a single unit, letting you take care of your shirt for yourself. I kick of my own bottoms, letting my throbbing cock slap against your leg as it springs from its confinement. Don't think I don't notice the way your whole body shivers when it touches you. I lift your legs and push your knees up towards your ears; you're remarkably flexible. It must be all that yoga I've watched you do at the place downtown. I've greatly enjoyed your visits to that place, so it's nice to see they weren't in vain.

You're afraid of me, all of a sudden. Maybe some part of you is seeing sense, realizing you'd have to be crazy to let a guy like me come into your home and fuck you like this. But what was the alternative? Have me rape you? Let me tell you, darling: I would have raped you. You feel the head of my cock gliding over your skin, exploring your inner thighs and pubic area, and tremble at my touch. I want this, you tell yourself. This is what a slut like me needs.

All the same, you cry a little bit when I penetrate you. It's not because it hurts—it does hurt a bit, but you're wet enough, and it's not entirely a bad pain. It's not because you're afraid—well, maybe in part, but that's not the core of it. You cry because you're finally letting go. Letting go of the person you used to be, or thought you were. It's the relief of knowing you don't have to pretend anymore, wrapped up with the mourning you feel when you lose a potential version of yourself. I lean across you as my cock fills you up, and tenderly, I kiss away your tears. "Hush, my darling. I'm here. I will always be here. I will love you despite what you are, when everyone else turns away in disgust."

My weight on you feels good, comforting. The way I press down on your legs, stretching you out, driving my cock so deep inside you that it brushes your cervix. It hurts a little, but is that any better than you deserve? Could a slut like you really expect to find better than this? Better than unconditional love and a desire to give you the pleasure you need?

I'm speeding up now, my face something like an animal, furious and insistent as I gaze down at you. There's darkness behind my eyes, you think, something cold and cruel. You thank God I'm on your side. My hips are like a hammer on your pelvis now, and with each thrust you feel my cock bulging inside you, throbbing and pulsating with anticipation. When I finally plant my seed in you, groaning and growling and pressing you further into the bed, you find there's something comforting about the warmth of my cum inside you. Maybe my seed will take root, make you swell up with me, make you mine. As I roll off you, huffing and panting, the tears begin to stream down your face again, this time from joy.

What did a slut like you ever do to deserve someone who loves you like I do?

#r@pe fantasy #r@pe kink #cvmslvt #cvmdump #rapekink #rapetoy #breeding toy #mind conditioning

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houseofanticipation · 8 months

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This is part 2. Read part 1.

You're in the grocery store. In the canned goods aisle. You pick up a can of potato leek soup and notice the mascot, a burly chef with his arms crossed, is pretty good-looking. This makes you wet.

It's been a month since you first took that stranger's cum on your face in the mall bathroom. Since then there have been few new specific tasks to complete; most of your benefactor's instructions have been simple rules to follow. You wish there would be more tasks—you liked the thrill of leaving your actions in the hands of a stranger, not knowing what shameful, disgusting thing you would have to do next—but you can't deny the rules have been keeping you busy.

The first rule, the one about cumming whenever you feel like cumming, has been more time consuming than you'd have expected. You always knew you were hornier than the average person, but now that you're paying attention you realize just how often you've been suppressing the urge. Now a day when you only cum three times feels downright ascetic.

Your favorite place to cum is the bus. There's a spot in the back of the older busses with a handrail that, when you step over and straddle it (you no longer bother with panties), seems to rub your pussy like nothing else in the world. So many factors come together to make it work: The thickness of the pole spreads your pussy lips just so. The height of the rail puts it just slightly above your normal crotch height, meaning it presses into you in just the right way, and you can stand on your tip toes if you want to vary the pressure. When you grind your clit into the rail the vibration of the bus makes for the most exquisite sensation, a throbbing, shuddering feeling just adjacent to pain that almost always elicits an involuntary moan from you. You've done it enough times now that you're beginning to recognize the best places to cum on the bus route, where the roads are bumpier or the potholes more frequent.

The best part, the part that gets you making up errands when you have no reason to take the bus that day, the part that makes you so wet you're dripping on the sidewalk before the bus even arrives, is thinking about just how dirty the rail is. All the hands that have touched it before you, all the germs they brought with them, all the particulates and oils and grimes. It looks clean enough, but just thinking about it fills you with such shame and disgust that you could almost cum without any stimulation at all.

Shame has been a problem for you. Shame is an elusive dragon, and each time you catch her she becomes harder to catch again. Fingering your cunt in public used to cripple you with embarrassment, and now it barely seems worth working up a flush over. You've found yourself considering ever deeper acts of depravity, just to elicit the same feeling you once got from blowing a guy to completion in a public bathroom. It worries you, a little; what will you cum to once you can't sink any lower?

But there is still so much further to sink.

Another of your benefactor's rules, instituted after your first week, is that any sexual suggestion, advance, or threat is to be considered an absolute command. A guy in a bar grabbed your ass and said your lips would look pretty around his cock, and you were unbuttoning his pants before he could even get you to a private corner. A man in the park told you he'd fuck you till you were screaming his name, so you sat down on the grass and lifted your skirt (though in point of fact he came in you after about thirty seconds and you wouldn't have known his name if you had been inclined to scream it). A construction worker whistled at you as you walked by, and before you knew it you had cum dripping from your every hole and an angry foreman telling you to get off his site and stop distracting his guys.

These rules have made it pretty much impossible to hold down a job, but you've been finding it increasingly easy to function without spending money. You first noticed it on the bus, after you'd already been riding it to cum every day for a couple weeks. One day as you were boarding, preparing to swipe your fare card, the woman behind you practically shoved you out of the way to reach the card reader herself. You stumbled, caught yourself, and then realized the line was moving on, and the driver wasn't telling you to pay. You didn't argue—the cost of these bus trips was beginning to add up already—but it did strike you as strange. The next day you didn't try to pay at all, just walked right on board, and once again the bus driver didn't stop you, barely even seemed to notice you. You wondered on this during you cum session, sliding your sopping wet pussy ponderously up and down the length of the rail. It occurred to you just as you approached the climax of a particularly intense and vocal orgasm what your benefactor had said in his very first message to you.

when i am done with you strangers on the street will perceive you as a Thing.

Was it already happening? Were you already so below a human being that you couldn't be expected to pay your way on the bus? Were you just a Thing that drifted in sometimes, to be ignored or put up with until it drifted off again? As you screamed your pleasure and gushed into a puddle on the floor, you looked out at the people. They looked at their phones and put in their headphones, and not a one of them looked at you.

It made sense when you thought about it. You'd been fucking and sucking and cumming and being cum on all over the city at that point, and you hadn't had a single problem with the police. You'd even let an officer stick a nightstick up your ass once. Your theory seemed all but confirmed when you realized the bus no longer bothers to stop if you are the only one waiting.

So you look at the can of potato leek soup. At the oddly sexy little chef, with his rosy cheeks and his muscular arms and what you can only assume is a rock-hard cock standing to attention behind the brand name. You feel that pressure below your stomach, a buildup of tension as your nether regions begin to moisten. You turn the can over in your hand, wondering about its exact diameter.

Moments later you're on the floor, trying to fit a soup can in your pussy.

It takes some time. You have to play with your clit for a while to get the lubrication you need, and even then it takes some determination. The edges of the can are hard, uncomfortable, but that little bit of pain is enough to just tickle the massively overstimulated shame receptors in your brain, making your face flush and your clit throb. Once the base is in it's just a matter of slow persistence, working it into your pussy inch by inch, until your lips just close around the bottom rim. It's not completely swallowed up—the base is still clearly visible, like a metal wall across your hole—but you think it's as deep as it's going to go. And god it feels amazing.

You push on it with your finger, gasping as it presses against your insides. This is the most full you've ever been, the most stretched you've ever felt. You rub circles around your swollen clit, holding your free hand over your pussy to stop the can from coming out. You're moaning now, closing your eyes and throwing back your head and feeling yourself contract around the unyielding metal.

"Hey, are you the girl from that video?"

You open your eyes and look up to see a pair of young men looking down at you. One of them holds out his phone to show you the video of your bathroom encounter a month ago. He's even been thoughtful enough to scrub forward to the moment the first rope of cum hits your face. You know that video well; it's been your masturbation aid many a night. The act itself no longer carries much shame for you—you've done much worse things much more publicly—but watching the video, seeing the look on your face, brings you back to the way you felt in that moment, if just an echo of it: the lust, the shame, the exhilaration, the disgust. It might seem forward, showing porn to a stranger in the grocery store, but in their defense, you do have your legs splayed open and a can of soup in your cunt.

You nod your response to the initial question, unable to speak as the pleasure swells inside you. You find yourself speaking less and less these days; most of your interaction with human beings involves them fucking you in some way, and all you really need for that is the right body language. Case in point: when one of the men stammers out something about being a fan of your work, all you need to do is roll over on your knees, plant your face on the scuffed linoleum, and spread your ass cheeks open. That's plenty invitation, and you never even had to open your mouth.

One of the guys (you can't see which, but they seem basically interchangeable) pours lube on your asshole and begins to rub it with his fingers, pressing first against it, and then into it. You have no idea where the lube came from, but you're thankful for it, and you're glad he takes the bait on your asshole instead of trying for your pussy. You'd have to let him use it if he wanted to, but you're not ready to take this can out yet. It slipped a little when you took your hand off, and pushing it back in feels fantastic. Especially as this guy massages your insides with his fingers.

A pair of powerful hands takes you by the shoulders and hoists you up, putting you eye level with the other man's cock. You can see the blood is pumping, but he's not fully hard yet. That just means you have a job to do. Using your free hand to support yourself you take him into your mouth, swishing his cock around with your tongue, feeling it inflate and stiffen in real time. It's bigger than you'd have guessed, and as it reaches its full length you find it pushing further back, past the your tongue. You relax your throat and extend your tongue, tears welling up in your eyes as you push deeper, deeper, trying to get far enough to give his balls a little lick. It's at that moment the guy in the back decides it's time to put his cock in you.

The combination of the dick in your ass and the can in your pussy is like nothing you've ever felt. It's a fullness, a pressure, painful in the most intensely pleasurable way. You take your hand off the ground, leaving the full weight of your torso in the hands of the man whose cock is in your throat, and go back to masturbating the way you were before these men showed up: one hand to stimulate the clit, the other to push the can in and out, in and out.

Now in full control of your upper body, the man at the front begins to thrust more aggressively. Long ropes of saliva dangle from your chin as you gurgle happily, throwing yourself into each thrust, tasting his precum when he pulls out far enough to get it on your tongue. He's getting close now, you can feel it in the throbbing of his cock and the urgency of his thrusts, but before he can burst he pulls back. "Let me see my cum on your tongue," he says breathlessly. You oblige, sticking out your tongue and trying to cup it so the cum doesn't slide off.

The two men cum at the same time. You hadn't noticed the guy in your ass was that close—you suppose you were too focused on the front. He bends over you as his cum fills your ass, pinching and tugging your nipples through your shirt. The other man spills load after load onto your tongue, watching in satisfaction as it slides down into your throat. You used to dislike the taste of cum, but you've begun to think of it like coffee or wine: the more of it you taste the more you enjoy, and the more complexity you're able to discern in the flavor. This man's cum makes you think of an oyster; slimy, salty, with an undertone of freshness like that of the ocean.

As both cocks withdraw you roll onto your back to finish yourself off, but before you can even touch yourself the man whose cum now sits in your stomach is grabbing you by the wrists and pinning them to the ground. A sound you didn't know was in you, a growl of animal frustration, wells up in your throat as you struggle against his weight. But the sound subsides when the other man begins rubbing your clit himself. He's faster about it than you would be, less subtle, and quickly the pleasure becomes too intense. You buck and jerk, trying to pull back, but his hand chases your clit each time you manage to make space, never letting up for more than a second or two. You scream and gnash your teeth as shivers chase each other up and down your skin, your legs tremble, your eyes roll back. The force of your pussy contracting into the orgasm is enough to push out the can, making a sound that can only be described as a schlorp! as it comes out of you. Your own cum mingles on the linoleum with the cum dripping out of ass. You fall limp, gasping for air, staring up at the ceiling.

The men laugh and take a few pictures, and by the time you're able to sit up, they're both gone. You stand on wobbly legs, brushing yourself off, and see your phone on the ground. It's always falling out of these tiny pockets.

On your phone is a message from your benefactor. A single sentence, accompanied by a pinned map location.

go to this location and await further instruction.

You pick up the can and look at the chef again, now thoroughly soaked from his time with you. You wipe it on your skirt and make for the exit. You doubt anyone will mind if you take this with you.

#degredation kink #dehumanization kink #cvmdump #cvmslvt #cnc free use

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houseofanticipation · 8 months

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You've always been an outdoor person. You're a camper, a hiker, an explorer. You feel at home in this forest; miles upon miles of trees in every direction, the only hints of civilization a handful of campgrounds and the odd ranger station. Years of experience have made you comfortable here, in the cool, quiet air.

Maybe too comfortable.

It's late morning when you first notice someone behind you on the trail. You don't see them when you look back. You just their footsteps, the sound of cracking twigs and crunching leaves. You expect them to pass you, as you're taking a pretty leisurely pace, but the footsteps always seem to be about 20 feet behind you. You start to get annoyed. This person's thousand-pound feet are ruining your nice, quiet walk. You step to the side of the trail and wait the person to pass.

And so do they.

That makes you nervous. You start walking again, and they walk with you. You stop, they stop. You begin to think you might be in trouble. Careful to keep the noise at you front, you take the folded trail map out of your pocket and begin to scan it. There's a ranger station not far ahead; if you can just make it that far, you might be safe.

You break into a brisk walk, and your pursuer keeps pace. This trail was made intentionally with a lot bends in it, so each hiker or group of hikers could feel like the wilderness was their own, without running into many other people. It means your pursuer can stay relatively close to you without ever entering your line of sight. You're close now, you recognize the little footbridge over this creek, so you break into a run, skidding on mud and dried leaves as you make a mad dash for safety. The footsteps crash through the forest behind you, and you're too afraid to turn around but you're sure they're gaining on you. You see the ranger station up ahead, a little log cabin with a green door, and you practically fly up the front steps, through the unlocked door. You slam it shut behind you and throw the deadbolt, sliding down the door in a mess of exhaustion and nerves.

The ranger station consists of a single room, with a ladder up to a small loft space where the ranger sleeps. You were hoping to find help, but the ranger isn't here at the moment. That's okay. Just the locked door on its own makes you feel a lot better. You listen intently for any sound outside, but all you hear is birdsong, and wind through the trees.

Then someone is trying to turn the door handle. The sound makes you jump, but you try to stay brave. You're still safe. They can't get in.

You hear a man's voice on the other side of the door. "Hello?"

You summon your courage and call back. "Leave me alone! What do you want from me?"

The voice sounds surprised. "I...I don't want anything from you ma'am. It's just...well, you're kind of in my office." You get to your hands and knees and crawl to the front window, just peeking over the sill. Outside is a flustered looking man in a ranger uniform. Relief floods your body. You let him in.

"Thank god," he says. "I'm not supposed to leave the station unlocked, I thought at first some teenagers had gotten in here and...hey, what's wrong?" He's seen the look in your eyes, the way you're still panting, the state of your hair. You explain to him about the footsteps, the chase through the woods, how you hid here for safety. His eyes grow wider with your every word. "Shit, that's terrible. Drink some water, get yourself hydrated while I check around out there." He offers you his canteen. You begin to tell him you have your own water, but he waves you off. "No, no, I can't let you use your own rations. I've got extra water reserves here just for unprepared hikers, I won't run out. Please."

You take the canteen and drink, sitting on a hard folding chair while the ranger goes back outside. Now that you think about it, you're actually incredibly thirsty. You finish off the ranger's canteen, and feel a little bad about it, but he seemed insistent that you should have it.

You're exhausted. It had already been a long day of hiking, and then you went and spent the rest of your energy running through the forest. You were probably overreacting, you think as your eyelids begin to droop. Maybe it was just an illusion, your own footsteps somehow echoed back to you by the forest. In the warmth and safety of the ranger station, the fear you felt before seems almost silly.

Your limbs feel sluggish and disconnected. Your head seems to be full of rocks. Your eyelids fall closed, and you're out before you hit the floor.

You come to little by little, slowly becoming aware of several odd sensation at once. The first thing you notice is that you feel good. Incredible, actually. You're having trouble wrapping your head around why exactly—you're having trouble putting thoughts together, connecting raw sensation to ideas or meanings. But you like how you're feeling, you know that much.

There's more to it though, because you also hurt, which you don't like. There's something rough pressing up against your back, and your arms and legs are sore. You're cold, too, colder than you've been in a long time, and a cool wind stings your bare skin. Why is your skin bare?

You open your eyes. You're in a forest clearing, a place you recognize. It's a popular camping spot, secluded but not far from the trail. You're on a tree—tied to it, you realize, that's the rough thing on your back, and the reason you're so sore. Coils of rope around your wrists are pulling your arms up and behind you, like you're giving the tree a backwards hug. Something similar is happening with your legs, and a rope across your throat is keeping you from pointing your head down.

You are naked.

The ranger is there, leaning into you, and for a confused moment you think he's trying to untie you, but then the whole picture suddenly falls into place. He is raping you, slowly and indulgently, moaning openly as he slides cock up and down, in and out of your pussy. Fear jolts you awake, your fight-or-flight response taking control, but you you have no way to fight and now means of fleeing. You begin to scream, thrashing against your bonds, but they're solid and secure. You're not going anywhere.

"Oh good you're...oh!...awake," says the ranger, still inside you. "I have to tell you, I thought you looked cute when I decided to follow you, but I had no idea you'd be this...o...oh, fuck...this good. I think you've got the tightest little cunt I've ever fucked."

Just because that pleasurable feeling isn't wanted anymore doesn't mean it's going away. With every thrust of the ranger's cock, the feeling builds inside you, threatening to spill over. "Please," you whimper. You can't cum, not here, not to this. "Please stop, let me go."

The ranger grins and looks at you. He gives you an extra deep thrust and you moan in spite of yourself, your muscles contracting and your pussy tightening around him. "Why would I...oh, fuck that's good...why would I stop when you're clearly enjoying this just as much as I am?"

Tears stream down your face. You can't control it now. Waves of tension wash your body, each one making you seize tighter, arching your back, straining your bonds. As the final wave crashes over you the ranger gives one last moan and buries his face in your neck, his cum seeming to warm your shivering body from the inside. You go limp, wobbly, all the tension draining from your body with the cum that spills forth as he withdraws his cock.

The ranger buckles up his pants and leans over, hands on his knees, panting. "Fuck, girl. I can't just keep that cunt to myself. People need to know!" He goes behind you somewhere, and you can hear leaves rustle. When he comes back he holds a stake in his hand: a signpost, with a printed metal sign attached. He shows it to you:

Elk Trail Cum Dump

The park thanks you for your patronage. Feel free to use this receptacle as you see fit.

"I had this made up a few years back." Says the ranger as he hammers it into the ground in front of you. "We've had a handful of cum dumps, but I'll tell you what, you're definitely the best." He looks you up and down, then steps forward and sticks his middle and index fingers up inside you. You tighten reflexively, and he whistles. "Fuuuck me that's good! Alright, I'll probably be back tonight with some friends. New cum dump always attracts some attention. Stay tight, honey." He gives your cheek a little slap and walks away.

It hurts for a while. The bark against your skin. The ropes digging into you. Your shoulders, supporting your weight for so long. But after your sixth hour or so it all just fades into a general, dispassionate numbness.

People walk by sometimes. You hear them on the trail and call out for help. They come, usually but they don't help. A pair of young women laugh and take selfies with their fingers in your pussy. And old man rapes you breathlessly while is wife rolls her eyes and laughs good-naturedly. A middle aged woman with a big backpack says she's going to help you out, which turns out to mean producing a vibrator and giving you the most mind-melting, earth-shattering orgasm of your life, before saying a polite goodbye and leaving you tied up.

When your bladder gets full you just piss right there. It's not a bad way to do it, really; with your legs pulled back like this, you manage not to get much on you. You're a little more concerned about what happens when you need to shit, but you suppose there's a chance you can hold it until you die of hunger or thirst.

A man with a bushy beard gives you a long look before leaving and coming back with a long branch, one end whittled barkless and smooth. He inserts the smooth end into your pussy and sets the other end on the ground, held up only by your natural grip. He instructs you to bounce up and down on it while he masturbates. It's a little thick for you, but it actually feels pretty good, and you try to put on a good show for him as thanks. He lets you keep in there when he leaves, as a way to pass the hours.

You fall asleep just as the sun is setting. You find if you rest your head against the tree just so, you can relax without it falling forward and choking you on the rope across your neck. When you wake again it's full night, and someone has built a little fire in a circle of stones. A dozen or so men are lounging around, laughing, chatting, drinking beers out of a cooler. And raping you of course, but you barely even notice that now. All it really means to you is that someone took away your nice stick.

The ranger is among the men, though he's out of uniform. He raises a beer to you when he sees you're awake. "Welcome back to the land of the living! My buddies here are loving that little pussy of yours."

"You shouldn't have open flames out here," you croak, your throat dry. "You could start a...a...ah! Forest fire." Your sentence is interrupted when the man currently inside you does a strange sort of twisting thing you don't quite understand, and the jolt of pleasure takes you by surprise.

"Ah, fuck you," says the ranger. "Which of us here is the park ranger and which is the cum dump? I know my way around a fire."

"If you say so," you say as the man adds another load of cum to your collection.

He's drunk, you can tell. They're all a little drunk, their words a little slurred, their movements a little wobbly. As the next guy slides into you, you nod at the bottle in his hand. "Hey, let me get a little of that." He holds the bottle up to your lips obligingly, and while most of it splashes down your chin and across your breasts, you get a few good swigs in. It's a party, after all.

When everyone's had their turn on you the boys decide to play a game called "Hide the Herring," which turns out to consist of everyone scattering to find objects, and then taking turns trying to fit them inside you, the winner being the one with the largest object that manages to fit completely inside you. You get several different rocks, some sticks, big chunk of frozen together ice cubes, One guy tries to fit a full, unopened bottle of beer in you, fat end first. It stretches you almost to your limit but he manages, with a bit of clitoral stimulation, to get it all the way up to the neck. He says, "if you can hold on to it for ten seconds you can drink the whole thing," and you agree gamely to give it a try. He takes his hand away and the whole crowd counts down as you clench around this bottle, harder to do when you can't close your legs. You can feel it slipping, little by little, but when the count reaches zero it's still there, and you let it slip out into its owner's waiting hands. He cracks it open and holds it to your mouth, and you close your lips around it. You don't want to lost any like last time. The group is so impressed by the way you open your throat and let it drain into you that they give you another, and another after that. By the end of your fourth beer you're definitely feeling the alcohol, and the last of the fear and misery of the situation falls away like the last remnants of a lizard's skin. Being the Elk Trail Cum Dump, you guess, isn't so bad after all.

The winner of Hide the Herring ends up being a full ten pack of hot dogs. The entrant opens it up, uses two of the hot dogs to pack the wrapping into your pussy, and then spends about fifteen minutes cutting the other eight into pieces and popping them, one at a time, into your asshole. There's a lot of arguing about whether using your ass is allowed, or if it still counts as one object once the package is open, but it doesn't matter to you. Being filled this full feels amazing, and you manage to convince one of the guys to fuck you with your ass stuffed like this. Chunks of hot dog pop out of your ass, two and three at a time as you cum, and he leaves you dripping, feeling warm and gooey.

You get fucked a few more times as they set up camp for the night. Everyone's cum at least once by now, so the loads are getting a little thin, but that's okay. You feel as though you are melting into the tree, becoming a part of it. When you wake tomorrow, you imagine your arms and legs will have grown into its bark, your hair becoming leaves, your heart and lungs and mind becoming wood. Nothing more than a handful of tight wet holes for hikers and campers to enjoy. With this image glowing in your mind's eye, you drift off into a contented sleep.

#r@pe fantasy #r@petoy #r@pe kink #cnc free use #cvmdump #cvmslvt #rapekink #rapetoy

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houseofanticipation · 8 months

Text

It starts with a guy from work. You've seen him around before; you think he works in IT because he always seems to be at someone else's computer. But you've never spoken to him. You're not even sure if you've ever made eye contact with him.

You must have done something to attract his attention, though, because one day after work he follows you home. You notice him first on the bus. That's strange—you've never seen him on here before. Maybe he usually stays later than you, or maybe his car is in the shop. You wonder if you should say hello or something, but you decide against it. The guy probably wouldn't even recognize you.

It's a few minutes after disembarking the bus before you realize the guy has gotten off too. You hear sound behind you, maybe the scuff of a shoe on the sidewalk, and you turn to look. There he is, about a block behind you, walking intently toward you. Shit. This is not an accident, not some weird coincidence. This man is following you.

You speed up, and you hear him do the same. You glance back, and see he's gaining on you. He knows you're onto him now; he has no reason to be stealthy. Your house is only a block away, but at this pace he might catch up with you before then. . .

You break into a sprint. There's no use pretending now, this is a pursuit and you don't intend to be caught. You hear him give chase behind you, but you don't waste time on looking back. You get your keys ready as you run, so when you arrive at the door you have it open in five seconds flat.

Then he crashes into you. You fall together to the carpeted floor of your front hallway. He's on top of you, pinning you down, kicking the door closed behind him. You struggle, but he's surprisingly powerful for an IT guy; he pushes your head into the ground, rubbing the side of your face raw against the carpet as he roughly kisses your neck. He's grinding against your ass, and you can feel through his pants how hard he is. That's when you finally start screaming.

He hikes up your pencil skirt, grunting with sick lust. You beg him to leave you alone, tell him you'll give him money, give him whatever he wants. He pulls your panties aside, and you feel his lips brush your ear as he leans in close.

"All I want is you."

He rapes you raw, ramming his cock again and again into your unlubricated pussy. You scream in pain and fear and disgust, and soon he's taking you by the hips and pulling you into him, burying his cock as deep as it'll go as he fills you up with his foul seed. You stay there for a moment, the two of you: him savoring the feel of your pussy, you too broken to stop him. Then he pulls out, and moments later you hear the front door open and shut.

The guy goes to jail, eventually. You manage to scrape yourself off the floor, call the police. It's obvious to look at you that you've been assaulted, and the guy didn't bother to cover his tracks. At some point someone swabs your vagina, which is humiliating, but at that point you're too out of it to care much. When the case goes to court, the guy pleads guilty, says he knew there'd be consequences, but he decided it'd be worth it. He shoots you a wink across the courtroom. Says he was right.

You used to masturbate regularly. Just a bit of fun, a way to relax after a long day at work. You try it a few times after the incident, maybe trying to reclaim ownership of your own body, but it no longer seems to do anything for you. You use your fingers, your vibrators, your dildo, but none of them work. You can still feel them, you know they should feel good, but touching your pussy now feels no different than touching your hand. Any sensation of sexual pleasure is gone.

But you're still horny. Maybe hornier than you were before. Your pussy gets wet at nothing, and something deep in your groin aches for an orgasm. Trying to make yourself cum becomes almost an obsession. You spend hours every evening watching every variety of porn you can find, going to town on yourself with every toy in your arsenal, and some new ones you pick up just to try. You pick up guys in bars, fuck them in bathrooms or back alleys, but each encounter just ends with you moaning performatively, telling them how good they feel, and letting them cum inside you just to get it over with. After six months you're so horny that you sometimes have trouble thinking straight, and you've pretty much resigned yourself to the fact that you're unlikely ever to cum again.

And then a man gropes you on the street.

It's broad daylight. You were already getting a bad vibe from him before he crossed the street, and now he's walking next to you, talking to you, asking if you want to go on a date, asking why you don't want to talk to him. Then, without warning, his hand is up your skirt, fingers snaking past your panties, violating you.

You have to press your knees together not to cum right there.

A few passersby pull him off you, throw him to the ground, someone is calling the police. But you don't have time to wait for the police. You have to get somewhere private, now. You duck into the nearest alley, crouch behind a dumpster to block the view from the street, and begin to masturbate furiously. Your fingers come away sloppy and wet, but you feel absolutely nothing. You cover your face with your hands and scream with frustration.

You try not to think about it. For a few long weeks you try to justify it, explain it away, but you know what you felt, and you know in your heart what finally did it. You wonder if it's even worth it, if an orgasm or two is really all that great, but you can't deny the affect this inability to cum is having your life: your work is slipping, your relationships deteriorating. You're lost in fantasies, imagining elaborate scenarios that might make you cum, knowing they never would. The more you think about it, the more you think you don't have any other choice.

One night you take the bus to a bad part of town. You leave your wallet, your keys, everything but the bus fare, at home. You wear an outfit you bought just for this: a skirt that barely covers three fourths of your ass. A shirt that flatters your cleavage, and lets your hard nipples poke out of the fabric. You consider going without panties, but you worry if you give too much invitation it won't work. You hope to god no one you know sees you like this; it's probably more skin than you've revealed publicly since you were a baby.

You walk past three men standing on a street corner. They whistle at you, invite you to let them show you a good time, but you keep walking. Your heart races as you hear them take up stride behind you; it's not that you want to be raped again, per se. You're terrified of being raped, in fact. But you need so desperately to cum that you're willing to ignore the fear, the humiliation, the pain. Tears stream down your face as you turn into an alley and quickly find it ends in a dead end. You turn around to face the men, who now block your exit.

"Come on, baby, you don't have to be like that," say the man in front. He looks like the oldest of the three, has a big bald spot and a belly that hangs over his belt. The other two are a little younger: one is broad and muscular and covered in tattoos, the other scrawny and nervous.

Without a word you approach the older man, one step at a time, trying not to let your knees wobble or your lips quiver. He snickers and makes a joke to his cronies, but you don't hear it—all you can hear is the blood pounding in your ears. You get in close, face to face with him, and he purses his lips in a taunting mock kiss. You spit full force in his face.

He wheels back, wiping his face. The other men look shocked, unsure exactly what to do, but he knows what to do. He knows exactly what to do. "You fucking bitch!" He's grabbing you by the throat, throwing you up against the wall, holding a knife to your throat. "You want to act like a cunt?" He lifts up your tiny skirt. "Then cunt is all you're good for."

It's like fireworks through your body the moment his fingers are in your pussy. You clench around him, involuntarily willing him further inside. An exultant moan forces itself through your lips before you can even think. This is not like any fingering ever was before, by your own hand or someone else's. This is a new height of pleasure, and you have a feeling this is only the beginning.

"This little slut is into it," says the man, almost in wonder. He turns to the scrawny guy. "Keep watch. This bitch needs to be taught a lesson."

He takes you by the neck again and throws you to the ground. You take a few ugly scrapes from the gravely asphalt, but you know now that this pain is minor compared to the reward it'll earn you. At the older man's instruction the tattooed guy holds you down, one hand holding both wrists over your head, the other pinning you to the ground by your throat. You struggle to breath, unable even to turn your head to see what's going on, but you don't need to wait long.

This rape is better than the last one. You never thought you'd be comparing rapes like some kind of connoisseur, but there it is. Face up is marginally more comfortable face down, and starting with your pussy already wet makes a world of difference. The older man has to lift his belly to get inside you, and once he's in he lets it roll over you like a smelly, hairy pillow. The feeling of him inside you is incredible. You thought you liked sex, but now you realize you had no idea what it was. You moan wildly, uncontrollably, and the more pleasure you feel the angrier your rapist gets. He thrusts like he's trying to beat you senseless, but it just makes it better, and before long you're cumming harder than you've ever cum in your life, screaming in ecstasy and thrashing violently against is pelvis. Maybe it's the motion, or maybe it's your pussy squeezing like it'll never let him go, but the man gives a strangled groan and shoots warm, lovely cum into the darkest recesses of your body.

You're still panting when the older man says to the other, "you gotta try this bitch." They trade places, and now the older man is holding you down, but he isn't as strong as other guy, so he has to hold his knife to your throat. The tattooed guy's cock is bigger than the other's, and the moment it's past your pussy lips you know you're going to cum again. This rape is harder; the guy has less to move, so he's able to pound you faster. You feel like his cock is splitting you open with every thrust, but the pain isn't really even pain anymore. It's just another part of the building orgasm. The knife nicks your skin (he's having trouble holding it still with all the thrashing you're doing) and you just squeal with delight. You're approaching another climax, so without really thinking about it you wrap your legs around the guy's waist and drive him right into you down to the balls, eyes rolling back as he fills you with your second load in the last ten minutes. He lets out a surprisingly soft whimper and runs his hands over your thighs, as if enjoying their softness.

The old guy calls the last one over, the scrawny one with the uncomfortable look on his face. The old guy tells him to fuck you. He looks nervously at you, and then back at his leader. Just to play with him, you start begging him, pleading him to let you go. "Don't do this to me. Please, I'm sorry, I won't tell anyone, please just let me go!" He looks like he's going to refuse until the old guy presses the knife into your neck, drawing a thin stripe of wet pain across your skin.

Stammering apologies, the guy pulls out his cock and climbs over you. You don't let him look away from your eyes, begging and telling him you know he's better than this, please, you know he's not like them, and he's inside you and you're screaming. Screaming like a rabbit caught in a trap, a long, piercing scream that erupts into uncontrollable fits of giddy laughter as you mount your third orgasm of the night.

You feel crazy. You feel like a feral animal. Some part of you wonders if you'll be able to go back to normal, go back to work tomorrow like none of this happened. The scrawny guy's cock is surprisingly big; it fills you up real nice. But he's not going hard enough. This is hardly even rape, it's just a sad fuck. You pull your tits out over the low-cut neckline of your shirt, give him something to look at, but all that happens is his cock gets a little harder. You need more.

Before you even quite know what you're doing, you throw yourself up at him. The knife cuts you as the old guy loses his grip on it, but you don't care. You roll on top of the scrawny guy and start fucking him like you need to be fucked, hard and fast and angry. In the spur of the moment you put your hand on his neck and bear down, watching his eyes bulge and his mouth open and close like a goldfish. You're just getting the idea that you should bite into his shoulder, tear something off him, when a pair of muscular arms hook under your armpits and pull you back.

You lose your grip on his neck, but the animal part of you refuses to give up his cock. Your legs lock underneath him, dragging him with you as the tattooed man tries to pull you away. He's close, you can feel it in the rhythm of his throbbing cock. Just a few more gyrations and. . .

When he explodes inside you it's like you can feel his cum swirling through your entire body, filling you up from the bottom to the top. A satisfied warmth washes over you and you let him go, torrents of cum pouring out of you in his wake.

The arms drop you and the scrawny man fumbles to get his pants up. "This bitch is fucking crazy!" says the tattooed man behind you, and before you know it all three of them are stumbling out of the alley.

You flop on the asphalt, exhausted, but completely satisfied for the first time in six months. You let the aftershocks ripple over you, basking in the glow of the blood on your neck, the cum in your pussy. As you stare up at the black sky, you wonder how long it'll be before you have to do this again.

#r@pe fantasy #r@pe kink

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houseofanticipation · 8 months

Text

Don't Want To Be A Person Anymore. Need Someone To Make Me The Lowest Of The Low.

This was the text of the ad you placed on multiple message boards for your city. Most places took it down, a few banned you, but not before you received dozens of replies from guys offering to fuck you, dom you, even rape you. It was nice, being perceived as a sexual object by so many people, but only one seemed to truly understand. The message was simple, with no greeting or identifying information attached: when i am done with you strangers on the street will perceive you as a Thing. send me your mailing address if interested.

You read that message over and over again. You tried to ignore it, got wet, read it again. You knew sharing your address was stupid, dangerous, but wasn't that what you were looking for? Anything they could do to you would just be a step in the right direction, right? For three days you stayed strong, waited for a better offer. For three days you found other things to focus on. For three days you avoided reading the message during your morning masturbation session.

On the fourth day you gave in.

You waited for something to happen. You could barely sleep at night, waiting for some masked stranger to come into your home and rape you. You fantasized about your face being pushed into the bed, your pussy stretched almost to the point of breaking. You imagined begging him to stop, telling him you'd changed your mind, only to have him cover your mouth and rape you harder. You tried to resist the urge to masturbate, but eventually the ache inside you became too great, and you lay face down, humping your hand and repeating to yourself what a worthless slut you were.

You went on like this for six agonizing days, telling yourself each night that this, this would be the night it happened, but you became less and less convinced each morning. Had he forgotten you? Gotten cold feet? Had he ever intended to do more than tease you? You felt ashamed at how turned on you'd been, and turned on by how ashamed you were.

Then, one week after sending the message, you got something in the mail. It was a manilla envelope lined with bubble wrap, something thin and hard inside. It had no address on it—it must have been delivered by hand—but it did have your full first and last name handwritten on it in bold, blocky text. You hadn't included that information in your message.

Inside the envelope was a sheet of looseleaf paper, a pair of panties, and a cheap smartphone. The handwritten message on the paper read:

take this phone and destroy any others you own. throw away your computer, your tv, any other means you have of contacting or connecting to the outside world. do not speak to your family. do not speak to your friends. if anyone comes looking for you ignore them until they go away. if you need to watch pornography, you may ask me and I will share something appropriate. contact me when ready.

Most of the instructions were easy enough to follow. You didn't have friends anymore, and you hadn't spoken to your family in years. The hardest thing to give up was your computer, which you used for all your masturbation material: stories, images, videos, audio files, all the things that got your pussy wet. The more shameful and depraved the better. But you liked the idea of having your porn picked out for you, and if all else failed you knew you could always fall back on your fantasies to make you cum.

When all was done, when your old phone and your laptop and your little brick TV were all in the trash, you opened the phone and texted the only number saved in the contacts. I'm ready.

The reply was quick: good girl. put on the panties and go to this address. the red heart is a remote controlled vibrator. make sure it's lined up over your clit. Attached was a map location.

You examined the panties and found there was indeed a red heart in exactly the place your clit would go, and it contained something flat and hard. Thin strands of drool clung to your old panties as you pulled them away and within moments the new pair were already sporting a wet spot. The vibrator sat in exactly the right place.

The address turned out to be a mall. The person in your phone instructed you to go to the food court and sit at a table, which you did. You waited for a minute, then two, and after three minutes you got another message. Now.

No sooner had you read the word than the vibrator started to work. It started light, barely enough to notice, but it amped up gradually, and it was so persistent. You pressed your knees together, clasped your hands on the table, lowered your head to hide your face. Your phone vibrated. do not try to hide your orgasm. let the people see what you really are.

Your face red with shame, you slowly lifted your head. The panties were pulsing now, low to high, high to low, and you were sure it was visible on your face. You could feel the orgasm coming, and you knew you wouldn't be able to hide it. Already a few people were eyeing you curiously, probably wondering if you were in trouble, or mentally ill. Probably both, you thought to yourself, and came.

Your body spasmed involuntarily. Your hands clenched into fists on the table. You choked out an agonized moan, fighting with your better sense to let it out, let it all out, cum loud and hard in front of all these people. The vibrator slowed, then stopped. Your face burned with embarrassment as you opened your eyes. People were staring. A few were whispering to each other. You were sick. A pervert. A whore. And just thinking about it made your pussy quiver.

from now on, said your phone, you will always come when you feel like coming. touch yourself if you like, or rub yourself against something, but do not deny it and do not hide it. people deserve to know how sick you are.

They should know, you thought. It was wrong to let them believe you were a regular person, someone like them. You were a thing, and it was unfair to them to make them think differently.

go into the men's restroom. sit in the middle stall. await instruction.

You stood, knees shaking. The bathrooms were on the other side of the food court, and you felt dozens of eyes follow you across the open space. You made a point to look as many people in the eyes as you could. They always looked away before you.

The middle stall of the men's restroom clean, if not immaculate. A few drops of dried piss flecked the seat, but you ignored them, checking your phone. a friend of mine will be coming in soon, said the message. suck him to completion. make sure he ejaculates on your face. The prospect made you want to cum again, and you'd been given clear instructions about what to do in that event. You hiked up your skirt, pulled the vibrating panties down around your ankles, and began to stroke yourself. It was easier in here to be as vocal as you wanted. You moaned and whined and whimpered, desperately pleasuring yourself as your pussy drool trickled into the toilet.

You heard the door to the bathroom open and close. You paused for a moment and then, remembering your instructions, got back to work. You were almost ready to orgasm right then, but you decided to hold off, continue to edge yourself until there was cum on your face. It felt only appropriate.

A man came around the bend, standing outside the open door to the stall. He looked to be in his early 20s, with a mop of curly hair and a hesitant expression. You recognized him—he'd been back there in the food court, watching you. You didn't bother to stop edging. You gazed into his eyes, knowing the lust was naked on your face, and he took a nervous step toward you. Impatiently, you hooked your fingers into his waistband and pulled him closer. He made a surprised sound, but didn't resist. The sound of your fingers sliding in and out just made you hornier, and it looked like it was doing the same to him: there was a growing bulge in his basketball shorts, and when you pulled down the elastic his cock sprang forth like an animal freed from its cage.

He moaned as you took him in your mouth. It was a sweet sound, tender, too pure for a slut like you, but you relished in it anyway. He held the tops of the stall for support, gently thrusting into every bob of your head. The head of his cock pulsated in your mouth, and you caressed its every inch with your tongue. With every second your fingers became ever more urgent, more eager, but you willed yourself to have a little more patience. You stared unblinking into his eyes, and he seemed transfixed, unable to look away. You felt like you could make him do anything in that moment, but you didn't have anything you wanted him to do. You just wanted him to cum on your face.

In an act of unexpected boldness, he put his hands on either side of your head and began to guide your motions. You could tell he was moments away, so you pulled him out, took him in your hand, and lunged for his scrotum, taking the whole thing in your mouth in one fluid motion. It took you only four strokes before he was shooting thick ropes of cum over your nose. Stroke. Across your closed eye. Stroke. Into your hair. You were sure you felt his balls deflating in your mouth, and that was the thought you finally came to, screaming your pleasure into his testicles. At long last you released him and looked up again, gingerly wiping his cum away from your eye. All you saw on his face was disgust. With himself, with you, it didn't matter. You had put that look on his face. He hurriedly shoved his cock back in his shorts and fled the bathroom.

You gushed a little more into the toilet.

You looked at your phone. I lied before. I have never met that boy. you took that stranger into your mouth without ever exchanging a single word. he went into the bathroom believing you to be a person, but you have shown him his mistake. you are a foul thing, to be ignored, or avoided, or, if desperate, fucked. take this as your roadmap. one day everyone will see you this way.

An odd sort of bliss washed through you. Finally, for the first time in years, you felt like you were on the right track.

You left the panties on the floor of the bathroom. It was night when you left the mall, face still covered in cum. You took the bus home. On the way, you noticed an old man trying to take a picture up your skirt. You squatted slightly to give him a better angle, and shot him a wink when he looked up at you. The look on his face as he gazed at the picture turned you on, so you took his wrist and stuck his hand up your skirt. He was more aggressive than you'd expected, tried to fit more fingers in than you could comfortably take, but the pain just reminded you of your place.

When you got home you realized you had nothing to do. you couldn't watch tv, couldn't surf the internet. You sent a message to your benefactor. Could use something to watch before I go to bed.

The response was quick, like he'd been waiting. There were no words, just a link to a porn site. You opened the link and there, already with hundreds of views, was an overhead video of you ravenously devouring cock in the mall bathroom.

You decided you could cum one more time that night.

Part 2

#degredation kink #r@pe kink #r@pe fantasy #cnc free use #nsft

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houseofanticipation · 8 months

Text

The room is pitch black. You don't know how long it's been exactly, but you know it feels like hours. Long enough that you've run your voice ragged trying to scream for help. Long enough that the satin ribbons are beginning to cut into your skin. You're desperate to stretch your legs, but all the straining in the world hasn't been able to break the ribbons tying your shins to your upper thighs, and at this point you've run out of energy to fight. You try not to cry again; when you can't wipe them away, the tears begin to make your skin raw.

There's a sound somewhere nearby. You've become sensitive to sounds, in this prolonged period of darkness. The grate of a deadbolt, the click of a latch, the slightest creak of a door. Then the sound of a switch being thrown, and a light comes on somewhere. Not in this room, but it's enough to reveal the outline of your surroundings. You're in a bedroom. You lie on your back on a neatly made king-sized bed. There's no overhead light here: just a handful of lamps around the room. You lift your head to look at your body. Your breasts bulge unnaturally, pushed up and out by the lattice of ribbons. The skin of your pubis is still a little raw from the waxing it received, and a makeshift thong of red ribbon has been tied around your waist and through your ass crack to hold a handmade bow in place over your vulva. You look away. You don't want to see yourself like this. Footsteps approach from the other room. In the light of the doorway, a tall silhouette appears. Then a switch flips and the lights come on.

You have to squint as the room is filled with warm incandescent light. The lamps actually create a fairly cozy ambiance, but compared to the pitch black you've been staring at for hours it's like high noon on a cloudless day. As your pupils slowly adjust, you begin to see the figure in more detail. It's a man, tall and fit, with broad shoulders and big, square hands. His hair is flecked with gray, his chin prickly with stubble. He wears a fine white collared shirt, unbuttoned to his sternum, and a dark blue tie pulled loose around his neck. His gaze is not on you, but on a piece of folded cardstock in his hand. A card of some kind; you can see handwritten text on it.

Only when he's finished reading does he look down at you with curiosity. You're frozen with terror: you can't speak, can't breathe, can barely think as his eyes travel up and down your body, lingering on your bulging breasts, and the bow over your crotch. When he speaks, his voice is smooth and deep. "Well, this is thoughtful."

He sets the card on a little table by the door, and approaches you thoughtfully. Shivers of fear race up and down your skin, but he doesn't touch you. Not yet. He's still appraising you. And by the bulge in his pants, he likes what he finds. "I didn't know Elaine cared this much. Look at you: exactly my type. And fresh too, by the expression on your face. She must have worked hard to get you. You'd be surprised how hard it is to come by a fuckdoll that hasn't been broken yet." This is enough to set you off, and your vision begins to blur with the tears you've been holding in. When the man speaks again you can hear a smile on his voice. "Don't worry. The fear is only temporary. Eventually you'll come to enjoy what I do to you. Now, I suppose it's time I opened my present, hmm?"

Rough hands fall on your knees, then begin to work their way up your thighs, rubbing in gentle circles as they go. "I told Elaine how much I like this part. When you're still afraid, still crying. No training at all; I can turn you into whatever I want. I'm touched she remembered. I'll have to find a suitable thank-you present. But that's for tomorrow. Tonight is for playing with my new toy. Tell me, are you afraid?"

You nod your head shakily.

His eyes shine with amusement. "Tell me you're afraid."

Your voice is little more than a croak after all the screaming you did earlier. "I'm afraid."

He smacks your inner thigh, hard. Stinging pain lingers on your skin. "Address me as Master, always."

You blink away tears and try not to let you voice catch, lest he make you say it again. "I'm afraid, Master."

"Good." His hands creep down to the bow, brushing your vulva as they fumble for the loose ends. "This is a beautiful bow. I wonder if Elaine made it herself." He pulls the ribbon and the bow falls away in a length of red satin. His fingers stroke down the length of your lips, then he spreads them with his thumb and forefinger. You take a sharp breath: the feeling of being touched there against your will is unlike anything you've ever felt. "It's a good pussy," says Master. "Good shape, nice and tight. But it needs to be wetter." He leans over you, placing his hands on either side of your shoulders, staring into you. You want to look away, but there's something about his eyes that commands your attention. "Make your pussy wet for me."

"I don't know If I can just—" he slaps you again, this time across the face. Your ears ring, your eyes water even more.

"You do not refuse me. Not ever." His eyes are hard, intent. Then they soften. "But since you're new to this, I'll be a generous master and give you a hand. Get this wet." He places a finger on your lips. You don't understand what he wants at first, but he's insistent, pushing open your jaw and forcing his way into your mouth. What else can you do? You close your lips around his finger and slide your tongue all over it, trying to cover it with as much saliva as possible. He takes it out and without changing position lowers his hand out of your view.

You gasp as the wet finger finds your clitoris and begins to fondle it. It feels good. You hate how good it feels, it makes you feel dirty, but you can't help it. His eyes never leave yours as your breathing increases, your lips tremble. You try to hold back, but after a few minutes of intent stimulation you can't help yourself, and a gentle moan passes your lips. He smiles and stops rubbing. You're glad it's over, and deeply ashamed of how much you miss it. He pulls away and crouches down at the foot of the bed, surveying. "There, see?" You feel him make a scooping motion between your labia, and he holds out his hand to show his fingers, slimy and slick. "You can cry all you want, but your body can't lie. You're a little slut, aren't you? Say it."

"I'm a little slut," you whimper.

He slaps you across the face again, leaving a little streak of your own cum on your cheek. "You're what?"

"I'm a little slut, Master."

"Yes you are," says Master, undoing his belt. "And little sluts get what little sluts deserve."

He rapes you. He goes slowly at first, savoring it. His cock is too big for you, but he makes you take every inch of it, filling you up, stretching you out. You cry and beg him to stop, try to writhe away from him, but it just makes him swell up inside you. "Yes," he says, "squirm just like that. It feels better when you squirm." He begins to pick up the pace, and as much as it hurts, you can't deny a deep, shameful pleasure there too. Your skin tingles, your clit throbs, and you begin to clench involuntarily around his cock. When he cums inside you the wet, warm pleasure of it makes you feel the dirtiest you've ever felt.

Before he pulls out completely he spends a moment massaging the head of his cock up and down your tingling pussy lips. You let out an anguished moan and close your eyes so you don't have to see yourself spasming with pleasure. "Good girl," says Master. "Always cum when do. I like to feel your little pussy squeeze my cock."

He doesn't bother putting his cock away as he begins to untie you. It brushes your thighs a few times as he leans across you to free your hands, and each time a sick thrill ripples across your body, but it seems there'll be no more fucking tonight. "Come," he says. "The slave suite is empty, you'll stay there." He lifts you up, gripping you by the upper arm and leading you down a hall to another bedroom, this one with a sturdy door of reinforced steel, and an electronic keypad over the handle. There's a beautifully soft bed, a vanity table, and an attached bathroom with a tub and a shower. You don't see a closet or a wardrobe, but you don't suppose you'd have anything to put in one if you did.

"Clean yourself up," says Master, "and make sure you're well rested for me tomorrow. I'm going to teach you obedience, and if you're lucky I'll show you how to give head the way I like it. And if it isn't obvious, this room is reinforced and soundproof. Don't go tearing it apart, or you'll be punished severely." He closes the door, and you hear the electronic deadbolt whirring shut.

You're exhausted, but you know he'll be angry if you don't get clean as he instructed. You let the warm water of the shower wash over you, soothing the raw places where the ribbon dug into your skin. You try to get clean, but every time you think you've got it all you find more of Master's cum dripping down your leg.

You wonder what will happen tomorrow. You wonder if you'll ever get out of here, if you'll escape or he'll let you go. You wonder what his obedience training will entail, and you worry it will hurt.

And in some dark place at the back of your mind, you imagine hungrily what his cock will taste like.

#r@pe kink #r@pe fantasy #cnc free use #r@petoy #fuck doll #sex slave #nsft #potentially tbc #degredation kink

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houseofanticipation · 8 months

Text

You're at the club. Your friend has abandoned you to drink alone. You saw her grinding on some guy earlier, and you guess (correctly) that she's off in some corner somewhere getting railed. You sigh, wishing you could be so lucky.

I watch you take a long sip of your drink. Good. The stuff I put in there is strong, but I still need you to take a few good swallows, or you'll just be sloppy, blackout drunk. Still fun for me, but not what I'm looking for tonight. You set the drink on the bar and turn out to the dance floor. Maybe my little cocktail has given you the confidence to shake your ass a bit, or maybe you're looking for some fresh air. It doesn't really matter, because as soon as you try to take a step you stumble and begin to fall. I'm there in an instant, steadying you, holding you upright as your knees buckle, getting your arm over my shoulder. "Hey now," I say, "looks like someone had too much to drink. Let me get you to somewhere you can sit down."

I give your breast a squeeze as I lead you. it's nice and soft, just like I thought it'd be, and you don't say a word in protest. That means it's working. I take you to the back of the club, where the men's bathroom is. By now I'm basically dragging you, your toes sliding along the floor, your head hanging limp in front of you. I have to put you down for a moment to prop open the door, and the sticky, sour-smelling grime of the club floor leaves a residue on your legs and the ass of your dress. That's fine. You'll be a lot messier by the time the night is through.

This particular bathroom is the reason I chose this club. There's an area where two counters of sinks face each other, each with a huge wall mirror above it. I lift you up to sit on one of the counters, propping you up in the corner so you stay upright. I check your eyes—a little sluggish, but responsive. Perfect. I turn your head to face the other mirror. I want you to see everything. I hike up your dress, and I'm surprised to see you aren't wearing panties. Even more surprising, your pussy is already soaking wet. I look into your eyes again, and I can almost imagine there's something in them. Something hungry.

You're more of a slut than I expected.

Not one to pass up an invitation, I take out my cock and begin to fuck you. You're exactly what I needed: tight, warm, wet. You sit limply as I I pound away at you for a while, watching in the mirror as I use you, Unable to look away. I wonder whether you would if you could.

Then the door opens, and a big guy with a protruding belly comes in. He starts when he sees us, looks like he's deciding if he needs to call someone. I wave him over. "Here, I was pretty much done anyway. Why don't you take a turn?" He's all too happy to oblige, and while he's unzipping his pants I take the permanent marker out of my pocket and take a moment to write on your inner thighs. On one side, the word FREE. On the other: CUNT.

The big guy is eager, I'll give him that much. He starts going to town on you like you're his favorite fleshlight, and he hasn't gotten to cum in months. A few more guys come in while he's doing his business, and after a moment's conference they come over to wait their turn. I watch in satisfaction as the big guy throws his head back, moaning and shooting cum into your pink little pussy. He thanks me, and while he's washing his hands the next guy starts in on you.

The word gets around pretty quick. Before long the bathroom is full of guys waiting to fuck you. The demand is so great, I agree to let them lay you on your side so they can fuck your mouth and ass too. All I demand is that they don't block your view of the mirror. That's the most important part, to me. I want to show you what a whore you are. You're no more than an an object, a collection of warm holes to stick our cocks in. The biggest difference between you and a fleshlight is we don't have to clean you up when we're done with you.

I stay there and enjoy the show for a good few hours, but eventually it's time for me to cum. The hard part is deciding where. Your mouth looks inviting, and I'm sure your asshole is nice and tight, but in the end I decide I didn't get enough of your pussy before. And besides, it's not free mouth or ass. It's free cunt. I wait for the guy currently on you to drop his load—I'm nothing if not courteous—and then I step in and take up where he left off. I try to fuck the cum of all these guys deeper into you, imagining it taking root in your womb. And then I feel something. Your pussy twitches, contracts ever-so-slightly around my cock. I look down at your face, and see you closing your eyes, almost as if in pleasure. Looks like it's time to go; my little cocktail is wearing off. I unload my balls into you, the pent-up cum of hours spent touching myself while I watched these strangers rape you. Maybe it's just my imagination, but I'd swear I hear a soft, desperate moan escape you. Hard to be sure, of course; the cock in your throat mostly drowns it out.

I turn for one last look before I leave. The rush has died down by now, but there's still a good number of guys standing around you. I smile. I doubt they'll be going anywhere any time soon. I turn and walk out the door.

As the drugs wear off, you begin to regain some control of your faculties. You wiggle your toes, twitch your fingers. The dull pounding in your lower regions sharpens into a pair of cocks, draining simultaneously into your pussy and your asshole. Your hips gyrate at the sensation, almost outside of your control. You try to lift your head, but the guy fucking your face pushes you back into the counter, your nose in a puddle of cum. He pulls out and ejaculates on your face—not the first guy tonight to finish in this way, by the feel of it.

He lets go and you attempt to sit up again, this time successfully. The party has gotten the hint that you're coming to, and the last of the rapists are filing out now. You sit your bare ass on the counter and look at your self in the mirror. Your face has received so many loads that it's impossible to distinguish them: they run together into a thick coating of cum. Your dress has been torn open to get at your breasts, which are bruised and sore from all the gripping and squeezing they've taken. Your pussy is swollen and red, and more cum drips out of it each time you move. The marker has bled a bit, but the words FREE CUNT are still very legible, and you doubt they'll wash off any time soon.

Cum runs down your leg as you stand. Your dress is ruined. There's no way you'll be getting your tits back into this thing. Best to wait until everyone's gone home, then make a break for it, hope not too many people see you. That gives you a little time.

You wipe a drop of cum that's run down your cheek and now threatens to fall off your chin. You lick it off your finger, almost curiously. Then you lower your hand between your legs and begin to masturbate.

#r@pe fantasy #r@pe kink #breeding toy #cnc drugging #cnc free use #nsft

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