u/EscapeOoat

Author’s Note:

I’ve gotten plenty of requests for an epilogue to No Need to Worry. You guys really want to see some ponygirl action, huh?

Well, as a treat and a thank you to all of you for sticking around and reading so much of my twisted writing, here’s a little more on each of our three female senators and their fates. I hope you all enjoy! I made sure they all suffered just for you, readers.

Female Downfall Masterpost:

https://www.reddit.com/u/EscapeOoat/s/rpyyVKKc35

Previous Part:

https://www.reddit.com/r/BDSMerotica/s/Ej0wBVfsJE

First Part:

https://www.reddit.com/r/BDSMerotica/s/w2snPlYFAu

~~~

There was a period early in the mid-2040s that saw an explosion of artistic creativity, in which the culmination of complete liberty with female bodies to freedom of artistic expression created a space in which the nude body of a woman was the ultimate canvas.

Many firsts happened during this time.
Some were grisly and almost medical in nature. When you don’t concern yourself with the comfort of a living subject, you don’t stop to think of how grotesque what you may be doing is, truly. There were cases of women transformed into furniture, or modified into living blow-up dolls with sensitive and massive lips, breasts, rears, so on. One peculiar artist had his “canvas” subjugated to a surgery in which her clit was enlarged to uncanny proportions and then she was dangled by a tight full body canvas in the midst of an art museum. Guests were encouraged to flick at the flesh, and find out how high pitched her screams could become. This was par for the course in these early days of the “Wild West” of utter female objectification.

But not all were so unnatural. Many others saw the beauty in the sincere female form distilled to its bare essentials. Many women ended up encased in displays were only their most intimate parts could be seen, almost like hunting trophies. These were all perfectly legal and, slowly, accepted as entirely moral.

Who had any right to tell a man what to do with his property, after all?

Jackeline, of course, was for the rest of her days wholly unaware that her torture was absolutely considered a normal state of being.

Her tenure as a wall display was several decades long. It need not be said how it ended, as that can be imagined. And yes, what you’re imagining is entirely correct. (Suffice to say, you’re probably only halfway right. It was probably even worse than that). But if she was aware of it, the irony is that she could have probably freed herself from her confines.

You see, by technicality, her imprisonment was illegal. Not out of concern for her health, mind you, but because of her status as legal property. When women lost all rights, they defaulted to the ownership of the man with the most authority over them, or they went straight to the pockets of the government to be re-distributed through differing corporations in a variety of ways.

However, Senator Sammuells never bothered with this paperwork to confirm himself her rightful owner. By technicality, she was abducted while still considered a citizen, which was unlawful. Once the constitution was shifted, she had no immediate male owner. So, she would have been sent off to a storage facility until shipped off to a department store where ultimately she’d spend her days as a fashion display mannequin. That is, if the law was followed and the senator had no interest in buying her.

But this did not happen. Instead, she stayed in a debasing pose with a rubber cock down her throat for the rest of her life, pumping bitter nutrients down to her stomach every several hours to keep her looking fresh and healthy. Jackeline would lose feeling in her feet once the muscles began atrophifying from lack of use in a couple years. But she’d stay squatting regardless, as her restraints gave her little leeway.

Every few weeks, someone glanced at the bare, framed cunt and tits that jut out of the wall in the senator’s home. This wall slowly accumulated dozens more, all belonging to well-known or publicly present women prior to the shift in society. They were all labeled, even Jackeline’s. But no one ever found out her position was technically theft.

Why would they care?

——

Sugar stamped her feet. Owner had missed feeding time.

She didn’t like feeding time, but owner liked her to pretend she did. So she did. Because that’s what owner wanted. And Sugar always did what owner wanted.

Life was not easy for Sugar. She was always so sore and so tired. But the sounds in her head from her harness always did such a good job reminding her that she was supposed to be sore and tired.

Good Ponies hurt for men

It would say, in that soothing female voice

Sugar deserves this

It would repeat all the time

Sugar is a plaything

And on and on and on…

Sugar could remember a little of the time when she wasn’t Sugar yet. When she was bitchy and earned the treatment she got now.

Sometimes she got upset at it, and would wish she wasn’t such a dumb mare. She could’ve been allowed to lie down to sleep, but she lost that privilege. So now she caught little bits of sleep at night in her little spot in the barn, when she stopped shivering from how cold she was as a nude little mare.

But mostly Sugar did her job. She made herself amusing. She whinnied and led carts and took whippings and did what girls should do. She made herself a plaything for men.

And when owner came walking up in his big riding boots and grabbed her a sugar cube, she’d pretend she loved how it tasted after he stuck it up her cunt and then shoved it on her mouth. Because he liked that.

And when the Better Cunts who were allowed to pretend to be people a little more than her came and brushed her long, long mane and put it in a ponytail and waxed her long hooves that never came off her legs, that went up to her thighs and put her standing practically on her tippy toes underneath. Well, Sugar would let them run their tongues all over her body while the men watched and would make such cute noises so that the men enjoyed it. And when she wouldn’t cum, she’d neigh and pout and seem so so dumb.

Because Sugar was dumb. She know it. She hasn’t been a Good Girl when she had the chance.

So now she was sore and tired and pulling carts and being ridden on and had her cunt stuffed with things she didn’t want and her ass filled with a fake tail made of hair she shore off ages ago.

And Sugar would always be like this. And it would always hurt.

Because Sugar knew now.

Sugar is a plaything. Sugar deserves this. Good Ponies hurt for men.

——

“Of course, sir! Do you want to make me choke again today? I’ll do it if you like! I love choking for you.”

“Oh, of course! I’ll bend over again! Do you want to see my pretty holes? It’s so degrading and it makes me so wet!”

“Don’t bother going to the urinal. Feel free to just use my mouth. No need for a man to waste any energy even walking a couple of steps when a perfectly willing cunt is right here!”

Her days filled with these constant sentences. And Senator Violet meant every single one of them.

Her routine was very similar every day. She woke up just when the sun was coming up, and swapped out the heels for jogging shoes. And she jogged the courtyard. In the winter, they let her wear tight-fitting but nonetheless warm winter clothing. Every other season, she was nude. Which became the standard for most women quickly.

Then, she used the shower in the men’s room, reapplied her makeup, and waited for her first meal while kneeling, her legs splayed wide, her stance upright, the dumbest look of eager anticipation on her face.

Within an hour or two, a man clad in a suit, often even more than one, would come in and relieve himself in her throat. Sometimes she was his first orgasm of the morning. Sometimes, she fulfilled the duty expected of a urinal. She never really knew which to expect.

Violet thanked every single man who came in. She wanted them all to feel very special, because they were. Moreso than her and every female object out there.

Frankly, she felt more equal kinship with the other urinals and the trash can than the men. She was as much a receptacle as them.

In her first week, she’d actually had meetings with several of the officials that had allowed her this promotion. They’d confirmed that she still had the title of Senator, as it was agreed she fulfilled the role of female liaison.

On an official level, she was the one that could be consulted on matters of female autonomy. By extension, the men’s room was her office. It even said so, right below the “Restroom” sign.

“Senator Violet, Liaison and Representative of Female Agency”

They even conducted the odd discussion with her regarding women that attempted to flee or escape. They’d bring their paperwork and read it aloud to her so she could voice her opinion on of the woman was within her legal rights and protections.

For example, gurgling on the meeting representative’s cock until she drooled all over her tits generally meant “throw the book at her”

And turning around, wiggling her ass with her cheeks spread wide to unveil her pink asshole meant “I can agree, this requires further consultation”

Of course, cooing in soft, feminine tones while worshipping the legs and thighs of the male representative could mean “I think we need to get this to judicial”

But that was all up to current interpretation.

It could be agreed, Senator Violet had a tough role to fulfill for a woman. But she did it well. And every night, she earned her rest all cuddled up in the janitorial closet with the towel she used as a blanket, surrounded by all the other bathroom tools on shelves. Sometimes, she even let her fingers part the folds between her thighs and treated herself to an orgasm. Something she knew few cunts could get. But she had to give herself the odd treat. Being a representative of the objects that were once people was hard work.

Author’s Note:

Yes yes, it’s been a little while.

Now, a slight update. I plan on continuing Her Prayer, for those interested. And an epilogue for No Need to Worry is on its way. But life has come first, so there’s no timeline on any of my projects for now.

This, however, is a completely “isolated” (pardoning the joke) story. You don’t need to have read anything else.

I hope you all enjoy! My work thrives on comments, critique, and compliments. Please feel free to let me know your thoughts.

Other Female Downfall tales:

https://www.reddit.com/u/EscapeOoat/s/OHy7rAAOCX

~~~

Buzzing. Constant buzzing.

Mind-melting, droning, inconsistently fluctuating buzzing of florescent lights. That same sound that one hears in a museum hallway as they’re surrounded by small alcoves filled with artifacts of those long past.

That was the only hollowed-out sound Hanna heard anymore.

And it was the only sensation, other than exhaustion and soreness, she truly felt day-in and day-out.

She truly didn’t remember much before her time in her display. Scattered pieces from years before things changed. If someone asked, she could tell them she was pretty sure she used to be an athlete of some sort. Maybe gymnastics? Or some competition sport. Either way, she knew she’d honed her body. She still felt half-forgotten pride at her toned yet slender legs, her core muscles that had tapered out but barely still remained near her stomach. But the specifics were lost, available to others but never again to her.

She knew a very long time ago she used to care how little she had control. How much she could feel her memory slipping by every damn second in this little box. But even that had faded, smoothed down to ebbing nothing by slow, relentless time.

Time that didn’t show on her body. It terrified Hanna. She knew that once she knew enough about the body that her condition would have been unnatural, even impossible once. Despite horrible lengths of time she could not measure spent standing in a pose one could only describe as “sexed-up 1950s pinup doll”-esque, her entire body rigid and her legs completely erect in a tantalizing, dehumanizing manner, Hanna felt no physical passage of time on her physical form. Only that ache that she knew thousands of hours had been spent still, no mercy granted to her torturous confinement. There was no relief, not to the terror, not to the stillness, not to any of the monotony.

The once-girl, now-display stared ahead. Her cheeks stopped hurting a long time ago, which was the faintest of reliefs. The fake look she wore was permanent. Not by her will, of course. None of this was. But she knew the consequences for slipping up.

Her body was aesthetically pleasing to look at in every sense. She knew it, because the mirror in front of her showed her pose back to her, allowing her to avoid mistakes or slip-ups. Her curly red hair sat in waves across her scalp, simultaneously appearing effortless to maintain and yet also intrinsically done up down to every detail. Her posture was with a tilt, the torso at an angle so as to push out her chest and pull back her hips, with both arms straight to the sides and her hands curved upwards by inches. The legs were tightly kept together, smooth and hairless for years now, as was her pussy mound. Which was its own concern, as Hanna had never had any hair removal surgery done to her memory. But there were many things she no longer remembered, what was one more?

Draped across her skin was a mockery of privacy. A tiny, frilly piece of black fabric was kept to her hips by a waistband, giving the concept of a skirt. It covered nothing, of course, and her hairless cunt was completely visible. Accented to this was a pair of red garters that held up twin pairs of thigh-high striped stockings. Terribly tall red stilettos adorned her two aching feet. As for her upper half, a cupless lacy black brassiere gave enough support to her large breasts to jut them out to the world, this appearance helped by her dainty stance. Nothing of her tits were covered, her nipples almost always hard because of the slightly-cold temperature in her box. Long black gloves ran up past her elbows, which meant she was most covered everything but her ass, chest, and womanhood.

The entire look she exhibited gave her the plastic air of delighted, cute feminine display. One would imagine it a snapshot of a girl receiving a new set of “clothing” for a special occasion, or a squeaky-voiced doll of a woman saying hello to a man she was fond of. Snapshot was the correct term here too, as she never faltered from her position.

Once, a long time ago, Hanna had allowed herself the slight rest. She’d moved her hand so slightly to relieve a cramp.

She would shudder at that moment if she was afforded the movement. A flash of white hot pain and scorching waves of agony had coursed through her body. But worse still, she had not screamed, she had not flinched. She’d been trapped within the prison of a pose during the process. It had felt like forever, but could’ve been only seconds. When the feeling had passed, she felt the ability to move return to her body, the strange locking having run its course. But she did not enjoy that tantalizing freedom. The message had been clear. Movement in any capacity meant enough voltage would run through her body to lock up every muscle. Right now, her unclear captors granted her the privilege to know she could move. But they could take it away. And so, for now, she stands still.

A long time ago, Hanna had wished for freedom. She’d wished for oblivion. She’d tried to amuse herself by telling stories to herself, recounting memories, or even just seeing how high she could count. She imagined the most cruel deaths for her captors that seemed to have cursed her to such a hell, and then found it in her heart to forgive them, and once again hated them. For a time, she was unfathomably horny, imagining how much those that watch her must be enjoying her body. That gave way to base disgust, both at herself and the ones she was posed for. Those feelings had become, slowly, greyed away. Most of them were momentary at best by now. Freedom seemed so distant it was impossible. Her life had become this and would only be this. A doll. A display. Nothing more. She did not truly mourn it any longer, nor did she embrace it. Simply, Hanna accepted.

The only wish she possessed now was that one day she may stop thinking.

——

Tony looked through the viewing side of the two-way mirror at the pretty redhead within.

“Hey, Shaun. How long have you had this thing now?”

He looked towards his longtime friend, sprawled out on the sofa. The two were comfortably enjoying a quiet evening together at Shaun’s place. He’d rigged up a killer sound system, a massive soft couch, a few gaming systems new and old, and the perfect flatscreen for gaming. A petite brunette manned the bar in the back corner, in tight lingerie. She spent most her time waiting to be useful, either by pouring drinks, making snacks, or getting fucked. Shelves were set up with movies, video games, and pop culture trinkets. Posters clad the walls, of all kinds of franchises and sexualized women.

All in all, a few decades ago, this would have mostly been considered a “man cave”. Aside from the handful of living women scattered in various spots around the room as decoration and utility.

Some were hung from the wall in X shapes, nude aside from tasteful tattoos as art decorating their bodies completely. The bartender, of course, stood at the mini-bar. A couple were kneeling by the stairs, waiting to have their holes filled by an order given.

Indebted into the south wall was a two-way mirror, the observers able to look in but the occupant not able to look out. A cutesy-posed redhead stood inside, still but for faint breathing and the odd blink.

Shaun passed the game he was playing, the sounds of simulated gunshots abruptly cutting out.

“Yeah. That? Must’ve been five or six years ago now. I think? You’ve never asked about her before. Finally notice her?”

The visitor, Shaun’s friend, glanced back towards the display girl. He leaned in for a slightly closer view. By his estimate, she was probably a D, maybe double D cup. Good condition. Late twenties, probably. But not exactly a model. There was too much visible muscle and just a little arm flab. Telltale signs of a decently high grade cunt but not high enough to break the bank.

“Yeah,” Tony replied while keeping his eyes travelling her waist, “I think I’ve spent practically days down here with you and I’ve never actually looked at it for more than a second. Is she supposed to be that girl from that anime that was huge a while back?”

Tony turned down the volume, and turned back on his game. “Yeahhhh. I had a phase. Got really into it for a while. Had her installed for cheap. One of those isolated units, yknow?”

“Oh, so she’s completely stale in there? She’ll never age?”

“Not for decades at least, if you keep it sealed up. If I ever sell this place,” he patted the couch to refer to the entire house “she’d probably be part of the deal. But eh, that’s tomorrow’s problem.”He glanced down at his finished beer. “At least she doesn’t need any uptake, unlike other cunts. No need for food, or water, or a bathroom. God, it’s cool how far science has come.”

Tony pressed a button on a small remote attached to several utilities in his home, including the TV, the record player, the lights, his streaming services, and…

The bartender felt a slight shock that meant two beers. She scurried to grab the expected drinks from the mini-fridge, heels clicking on the bar mat.

Shaun flopped onto the couch beside his buddy, and picked up his own controller. The bartender deposited the glass bottles beside the men, and the two cunts by the stairs began crawling over towards the couch, knowing what they should do next without even thinking of it, mouths instinctively beginning to water from years of conditioning to cocks.

Hanna did nothing, continued to do nothing, would never do anything, except pose.

Shaun and Tony tapped their bottles together and took a drink each of the cold golden liquid.

Life was good.

It was a cold apartment. Bare concrete flooring and metal, rudimentary shelves. It had held many, many businesses inside of it over the years. At one point, it was a storefront for a butchery, not one that did very well. For a brief bit, it held a cheap restaurant, but that had failed too. The landlord was, of course, still searching for something to take it over. But no one was interested lately.

It sat in the middle of a run-down part of town, with a lease just a little too expensive, and the right person hadn’t walked past. So it sat abandoned for the past several years.

Sometimes, people squat in it. It had seen a fair share of transient folk, and had accrued a couple ghosts in the process. But usually the most in there were a few scattered rats that fed off what they could find from its previous tenants. Scraps of food forgotten in back corners. But not enough to keep a family of rodents satisfied. Plus, it just wasn’t quite warm enough.

A while ago someone had accidentally broken the front windows. “Accidentally”. The landlord just put up wooden boards to keep the elements outside. The only light came from the upstairs windows, which gave the space an oddly calming air to it. During the night, moonlight bounced into the main room, the where once customers peered through selections of meat or ordered hastily-made food that was no one’s favourite or even least favourite.

One day, though, the building got several visitors. And it was the most exciting the rooms had ever been.

The first was a tall, burly man. He wore a tight dark green t-shirt that made it very clear he was proud of his build. He also wore a ski mask, and held a gun that almost seemed amusingly tiny for his size. Almost. It was still a gun.

He quietly, purposefully scanned each room. Keeping an eye out for druggies and anyone using the space to keep safe. He entered each room and found nearly nothing. The most furniture it held at this point was a metal dining chair left over in the main room, a couple tables stacked in the back room, and inexplicably a gorgeous makeup vanity in one of the upstairs rooms with a profanity spray-tagged over the pane of glass, though not enough to remove its function as a mirror.

Once the green-shirted man was satisfied with his search that this was a safe, if dank space, he went back out the rear entrance he came from.

Several minutes later, he returned. With companions.

The first was another man, not quite as well-built as him. His sandy, dirty blonde hair was coolly windswept. But he wore no mask, which gave him the air that he wasn’t worried in the least bit compared to his friend. He wore a nice jean jacket, and carried something over his shoulder.

What he carried was the third individual to enter the building that day.

She was, without a doubt, gorgeous. If she was standing, she would’ve come to slightly above chest height on both the reasonably-tall men. But she was not standing, she was draped over the sandy-haired man’s shoulder like a rug.

Her hair was pitch black, and naturally curled itself. With ruby red lipstick and the correct amount of blush and foundation, she looked like she belonged in a very nice cocktail bar in the 1920s, seducing a forlorn and home-sick soldier. And, luckily, she was indeed wearing that same ruby lipstick, correct amount of blush, and foundation with nice long trailing eyeliner. Despite the similarly-red ballgag shoved down her mouth and the tight scarf tied around her eyes, her makeup was still absolutely pristine. Which was practically a miracle in-and-of itself. Because she was not going into this building willingly and was the sort of girl who put up a fight.

Of course, her attire stopped this from being easy for her. Or rather, lack of attire. A matching pair of black, lacy panties and bra with gorgeous, thin, see-through fabric held to her most sensitive areas. Strapped along her beautiful, full legs were stockings of the same colour to her underwear, which clipped on to garter belt that rang in black flower patterns of lace along her enticing hips. And, to complete this pin-up doll look, she wore tall black heels with red painted along the bottom.

Technically, she wore a little more too. Rough and coarse rope hugged her from all sides, trussing her up enough that she only movement she could truly make was to swing her bound-together legs with weak abandon in a bid for escape, and to throw her head around while mewling soft, feminine cries underneath the rubber of the too-large gag that pursed her lips like a treat.

She wasn’t going anywhere the men didn’t want her to. They all knew that. But she had to try regardless, because otherwise she would’ve wondered if she was actually as easy as it had seemed for them.

The man with the green shirt pulled up the metal chair, straight from a greasy spoon diner in its aesthetic, and put it in the middle of the dusty room. His friend plopped their prize down onto the chair, perhaps a little roughly. She squeaked in protest, but could do little with her hands tied in front of her. Wiggling, as pathetic as it looked, remained her only option.

One man held her down with frustrating ease, hands digging into her shoulders and the sensitive meat of her bare neck. When his massive fingers slowly, threateningly wrapped around her neck with the barest pressure, she stopped. Not happily, but she stopped. The only movement left by now was her chest, rising and falling in erratic time, contained by pretty lace that held her breasts high in a matter enticing. And was it enticing. Even she could tell. Not that it was what she wanted, but little of today was clearly going to be what she wanted. So, she had to let it be enticing.

The other man slowly undid the knots that held her legs together, and possessively gripped her ankles. The thought of kicking him entered her mind briefly, but then those fingers around her throat reminded her how bad that thought was. So she let the other man slowly open up her legs.

She closed her eyes. If she didn’t see anything, it could’ve just been a bad, naughty, unprovoked dream.

He, thankfully, only tied her ankles to the legs of the chair. While this did leave them surrendered open to her captors, it wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be.

Though that would happen later.

As he lifted himself up from the squat he had held while he had tied her legs to the chair, he allowed himself to run his hands up her fabric-covered legs, and deep through her bare thighs. He devoured the warmth that grew as he got closer to the black fabric that held back her womanhood. The entire time he kept his eyes locked with hers. His, hungry. Hers, desperate and fearful. Too much of too many different kinds of confusing desperate.

He stopped short when he got to the most sensitive of her inner thighs. And she let out a whimper that could only be described as both cute and terrified. The kinds of noises a man ties a beautiful woman up just to elicit from her dainty frame. The kind of sound that satisfied her captors for now. The kind that informs a man he’s got her at his whims, her choice or not.

Then, the other man, the one threatening her throat, undid the knots on her wrists. He did so bent over her, nearly crushing her. She could smell him so plainly the entire time, and she hated that his smell made her feel nearly comfortable. It was nostalgic. It felt uncertain in how safe it made her feel. And this was puzzling. But not as puzzling as how much it added to the unwanted warmth that grew in her crotch.

Soon, her small hands were clasped by the wrists behind the chair. And she was presented in many ways, those heaving gasps through the gag now causing her chest to practically bounce on display for the men who kept her here.

She moaned put a plea. She knew it would go nowhere, but she had to try. It was one of few options she could try. But even still a part of the gorgeous trophy’s brain knew that her little desperate sounds were exactly what they wanted.

So she kept making them. In hopes it might be enough. And then this awful, scary day would be over.

But it didn’t make it finish. Why would it?

The two men walked out of the room, confident in their handiwork. They talked in low voices in the other room. And she sat there, feeling remarkably less like a person and more like a good. In that moment, what separated her from a bundle of cash grabbed from a drawer by a man with a gun, or jewelry forcibly parted from its display to be laundered later?

Well. One big thing. She could think and feel.

Did that make it worse?

She didn’t know. Her brain was lost in a haze. Terror, uncertainty, barest arousal, and a gnawing sense of coming dread. A man did not take a pretty girl in so little clothing because he wanted to pawn her off for cash. And he didn’t plan it out with a companion to make it so quick. And, undoubtedly, they did not have a safe, secondary location set up because they intended to be done with her and let her go.

But what really gave her chills beyond the damp air of the room, was that she had seen one of their faces. And that meant they didn’t expect her to be in the position to tell anyone about this.

And does she hope for one outcome or the other here? Because, simply put, neither are very good.

——

They left her alone for what felt like hours. Her skin crawled. She hoped for anything else. Part of her almost hoped they’d forgotten about her. They’d moved on. Left her here.

After all, someone must own this building. They’d come in eventually. Right?

And if she yelled loud enough someone ought to hear her. And there’s a high chance they’d set her free.

Or they’d see a gorgeous girl in practically nothing tied to a chair and realize she’s easy pickings. This wasn’t a nice area of town, after all.

So she didn’t scream. She just waited. Tried to keep her breathing still. A nigh impossible task. But one she had to try.

Her legs ached after a while. Her wrists were tied just a little too tight. Part of her almost wondered about blood flow, but she could still feel her fingers. So it had to be good enough. She hoped.

They came back for her after the sun had begun setting. They carried a bag with them, and that only added to her terror.

By this point, her perfect makeup was beginning to streak from tears. She’d stopped crying a while ago, but felt nowhere near numb. Just dehydrated.

The man in the green shirt pulled out a water bottle and came up to her. Those same fingers slid across her throat, warning. She nodded. She understood. He relinquished.

Off came the gag, slid down to her neck, resting on the upper part of her bare chest. Obediently, without resistance, she opened her mouth and tipped her head back. And he trickled the water into her mouth.

It was somewhat warm, and offered only the relief of keeping her throat from drying up. But it was enough. She drank nearly half the bottle.

Near the end, he gave her a cruel grin and shoved it down her open mouth. And that hurt.

She felt flimsy plastic lodge into her vulnerable throat, and water trickle down her face as her mouth overfilled. First, she gasped in surprise. Her eyes widened, showing off her pretty baby blues.

He took it out after just a second. And she sputtered, coughed, and wheezed. Water dripped down her chin. She only just caught her breath. The men laughed.

Then, with sudden nimble energy, the sandy-haired man grabbed her tongue and pulled on it enough to keep it lolled out of her mouth.

She tried to scream in sudden discomfort and slightest pain. But it came out as a low moan that sounded almost like she came. There was still just a little water tickling her throat. It was torment.

But the other man was already set on adding the newest discomfort to her growing repertoire. He produced a bottle of amber substance from the bag and glazed it along her tongue. Before she could swallow, they had the gag back on. And that’s when she tasted it.

Honey.

With a mouthful of such sweet syrup trapped along her tongue, unable to escape, it led to her mouth filling with drool. It was undignified, it puddled down from her jaw to her tits. It made her look like a begging slut.

She felt like a manipulated little toy.

Out of the bag came another trick. Another tool for her torment. A part of her wondered what she did to deserve this.

A small egg-shaped object. When the man in the green shirt clicked a button, it began vibrating ferociously, and she understood.

Almost looking fiercely adorable, she shut her eyes fast. But that didn’t stop what happened next. The man grasped at the edges of the fabric that hid away her little, smooth, soft cunt and roughly inserted the egg deep inside of her. She shuddered, gasped, and couldn’t catch the awful noise before she made it through the gag.

To the outside eye, she appeared distraught. Trying to reject the invasion a little piece of silicone brought. She was grinding her hips as he snapped her panties back on, keeping the toy lodged inside of her. Leaving her whimpering. Leaving her with unwanted need.

They left her like that for longer still. The two men went off to the former kitchen area and let their prize stew. In the meantime, they ate a celebratory meal, and toasted to enjoying their catch.

And their catch soaked, collecting a puddle of her own drool and wetness underneath the chair. Within an hour, she could barely even think anymore. She couldn’t tell what she wanted.

——

By the time the sun had set, the captors had untied her once more and brought the poor girl upstairs. One of them had found an old mattress stuffed inside a closet. It smelled of sweat, but seemed suitable enough. Shockingly, it almost seemed completely clean.

They took turns with her, the other keeping watch outside the shut room door.

The first was with the sandy-haired man. He was tender when he began, slowly unravelling her ropes and carrying her upstairs. Overpowering her with ease, making her previous bounds seem more insurance than anything else. He took his time with the sweet thing.

He had her pinned to the bed with one hand collecting both of her wrists, his weight severely stronger than her delicate movements. She tried to kick him a couple times, but when that attempt found no reward, she gave, preferred not to piss him off unnecessarily. Once he knew the kitten was tame, he kissed and licked her bare skin closely, keeping a tight grip on her hands. His tongue swept over her thighs, enjoying the pale warmth and the supple softness. His lips suckled on her stomach, her chest, and her uncovered breasts. The bra was tossed to the corner, with pink, alert nipples framed on seductive and full breasts that continued to heave as she accepted, even began to enjoy despite herself, her fate.

It was his cock that lulled back her sense of reality.

She didn’t realize when he had undone his pants. But he had at some point. And she still hadn’t notice he had slipped aside her panties. It was only when the egg came out that a dull alarm rose within her head. The awful, rising feeling of the vibrator had been a phantom to her as she grew wearily used to it. But now, that consistency disappeared, and was agonizingly, slowly filled with the penetrating fullness of his girth.

And she let out another, guttural, somehow both attractive and repulsive sound. Something animalistic. Something preylike.

Her eyes glazed over. Then, she came. Hard. On his massive cock.

Then he thrusted. And she grunted.

And he pulled back. She gasped for air. Her senses were beyond overstimulated.

Then he thrusted. Again.

And again.

The floorboards sighed and groaned. Dust fell off the rafters in the room below.

She thought she’d split open every single time. She wasn’t sure if she hoped she would, but to save room for him and give some relief from the abundant pressure he gave her.

He pounded at her hungrily. Everything about the inside of her wet pussy was precisely what he needed. And every thrust fulfilled what he wanted.

He fucked her for over an hour. She could barely grunt by the time he was done. Halfway through, he flipped her over while still keeping her hands pinned down and his cock inside of her.

But he didn’t cum inside her cute, quivering folds.

She wasn’t aware, but the men had made a deal.

No sloppy seconds.

For the first time in many hours, the drool-coated gag came off. If only for a moment. He had walked over, and held her up by her hair. The pain that shot through her scalp wasn’t enough to replace her exhaustion with a desire to move. She just accepted that her curls were now a handle for him.

He shoved down her throat hard. She barely mewled out a sound.

And then he fucked her throat. Over. And over.

Not as long as her pussy. But long enough he came deep strands down her throat.

The one thing she could think in her groggy, lusty state, was that his cum and his cock tasted like her own juices. And honey. But honey was a taste she wasn’t sure she’d ever stop feeling.

——

The men swapped spots. Now, green shirt and ski mask wanted a turn with her.

She was face down on the mattress when he came in. Ass tauntingly held in the air, hands limp to her sides. They didn’t have need for rope with her anymore.

She was duly aware that the men had changed. But could not move from exhaustion. It worried her that she could still see stars.

And then, a crack in the air. Suddenly her ass hurt. A lot.

She yelped, and got to her knees, fumbling her hands at her ass.

Another crack. Her damned back now.

He was whipping her. She turned her head to see what with, renewed panic coursing through her veins.

He was using his belt. A heavy, metal-studded belt.

And she could feel the stinging warmth of the spots she’d been marked on her back.

Her first instinct was to appease. She knew she was at the mercy of these men, and so she turned around and opened her mouth. She even tried to invitingly push out her breasts. Anything to make him happy.

Her eagerness was rewarded with a hard whip to the face. She fell over.

That’s the moment that she realized that the pain wasn’t going to stop. She wasn’t just a toy, she was a doll. A thing to find new, creative, fun ways to take out frustration on.

And these men wouldn’t stop. They had no need to. Who would stop them? No one knew she was here.

So she got back up.

This time, he took her throat with his cock.

Her arms hung passively to the sides, both elbows bent, giving her a distinctively feminine, nearly coquettish appearance.

The room was filled with the distinctive *glucks* of a throat being raped. And those sounds would fill that room longer still.

When he finished, filling her throat with more cum, he tossed her aside. And whipped her a few more times, for fun. Then, green shirt left.

And sandy-hair came back in. Freshly hard.

A tear streaked her makeup. She parted her legs and laid back.

——

The space couldn’t hold an opinion on the occupants it had held over the years. Each brought a new mark to the space, a part of personality held over. The butcher had filled the room that was briefly a meat storage a bloodied smell, and he had lovingly repaired many of its worn-down pieces.

The restaurant was harsh on the building. But it was dutifully used and ultimately useful. In fact, they had been the ones who had ensured the plumbing was fixed.

The captors and their captive, however, had left a cloud behind. A sex-filled mood, of captured lust.

After several uses of the girl each by the men, they’d revealed another set of tools within the bag. They’d tossed her a makeup kit towards her limp, used-up form. And then locked the door.

It took her an eternity to shamble up, and to get her shaky legs to cooperate enough to crawl to the tagged vanity. There was no chair, so she suffered through standing.

And she redid her makeup. She needed to look her best for her rapists, after all.

It was only when she finished that her eyes darted up at the word sprayed across the mirror and she recognized it, was aware of it. Her only thought was that it was fitting. She smiled, more genuinely than she liked.

All it said was Cunt

——

The men had their ways with her for a total of four days.

The first two were nearly non-stop fucking. The third they left her tied to the pole that once held coat hangers in the bedroom closet, painfully standing and slumped over like a broken mannequin. Wrists tied above her head. She couldn’t even form the energy to imagine escaping, let alone moving.

The fourth day, they returned. And untied her. And carried her back outside to the car.

The house didn’t get any sounds, except that of the car trunk closing shut, and the beaten-up vehicle driving off.

The bedroom stunk of sex and pussy. The closet was filled with used condoms and a few lube bottles. The kitchen was full of tossed aside food containers.

The landlord visited again several days later, and was disgusted by the mess. He hired a cleaning team, assuming it was leftovers from some junkies. He thought nothing of it beyond how much money it would cost to clean.

The job wasn’t immaculate by any means. The cleaners didn’t make everything sparkle. But they had mostly removed all evidence a poor young woman was brutalized inside, over and over.

Except for one thing.

The vanity no longer only contained the single explicative. It now read, the additions done in lipstick in classy, long handwriting:

“I now accept that I am a cunt.”