WARNING:

This story features BDSM, sexual themes, nudity, and violence. It is purely fictional. Any similarities with real people, places or incidents are unintended and entirely coincidental.

If you are under legal age and still can read this, it means that your mature content filter is OFF. Put it ON and leave this page. If you are over legal age but do not wish to be exposed to these topics, leave as well. Be warned and don't blame me if you read this story and feel distressed or disgusted.






It started with an argument. I was bemoaning the fact that you never let me into your world. We had been dating for nine months, and sleeping together – or at least having sex – since our second date. Now we had been living together for six months, but I still felt like I hardly knew you.

Already at our first meeting, I’d been mesmerised by your quiet – almost silent – strength. And when at the start of our second date, you’d told me in a commanding voice, almost like giving me an order, that we’d be having sex, I melted, and felt a strange thrill of excitement, feeling that I’d be completely under your control.

That evening, after we had eaten at a restaurant, you had ordered me to strip, even though we were outside, in a backstreet, albeit a quiet one, and nearby your car. I protested, but you slapped my face, saying I was weak, and I should come to terms with my own, so obvious sexual arousal.

And thus, shyly, nervously, I saw no other option and did as you ordered. Thus I took off my clothes. Right there, in the street. All of them…

You examined me, in a calm, leisurely way, taking your time, feeling my breasts, making me spread my legs. And with your hands you felt the warmth and wetness between my thighs as I stood there in the darkness of the evening, shivering and dying of humiliation.

Finally you gathered up my clothes and put them in the boot of your car, then opened the driver’s door and got in. I went to the passenger door, but it was locked. I began to panic as you started the engine. Only then did you reach over and release the lock.

I scrambled into the seat, almost in tears.

You drove me to your house, and led me inside, still naked. You poured yourself a drink, and sat down in an armchair. “Kneel” you said, and I did, by your side. You reached down and cupped my chin in your hand. “You’re a very beautiful woman, Jennifer,” you said, “But you will find me a cruel lover. Do you wish to leave?” I should have said yes, I should have run, but instead, I stayed.

You walked me into your bedroom and showed me the rope with which you would tie me. I gasped, but did not protest. Then you made me stand with my hands above my head and my legs wide apart. And I watched you bind my hands and feet to the two vertical posts at the corners of the foot end of the bed. I could not see you. My back was to you.

Suddenly your hands were all over my body, exploring it, testing it, making me cry out as you pinched the flesh, but fondling it also, and to such good effect that I was soon moaning and begging for more. You slapped me hard on a buttock, admonishing me for being so needy, and telling me to be quiet.

Groping and squeezing my breasts, your hands came around me, pinching and pulling my nipples until I started crying out in pain. Then your hands were prising apart my buttocks, and I felt your fingers forcing their way into my anus. I felt horribly violated by now, yet I still desperately wanted you to take me.

“I’m going to cane you before I fuck you,” you said coolly, and still I didn’t protest. You turned me around, fastening my hands and feet again to those two pillars. And then you started tapping my breasts. Soon you were hitting them hard enough to make me wince and cry, although not so hard as to damage my skin. I cried out, louder and louder, until it was clear I couldn’t take anymore. But maybe that just bored you. You started caning the tops of my thighs, even hitting my fleshy hair-covered love mound, until I was pulling frantically against the ropes holding me and again and again, begged you to stop. But all you said was: “I expect that crotch of yours to be clean-shaven the next time I see it,” And you began hitting my pussy harder.

“I will allow you one orgasm for each stroke across the buttocks you manage to take without crying out,” you said. What kind of perverse game was this? I really wasn’t sure I badly wanted ANY orgasms. And certainly not if I had to be thrashed to ‘earn’ it!  But, of course, you hadn’t said anything about me having any choice.

I screamed on every stroke of the cane, and this time it definitely did leave marks – I couldn’t sit down for a week. By the time you untied me, I fell onto the bed, a limp wreck. As I lay there, you finally removed your clothes and got on the matrass behind me, grabbing me by my thighs and lifting me onto my knees so you could fuck me from behind, with my face pressed into the bed. The sex was rough, almost brutal, and you just banged away until you came inside me. But somehow, despite the awful pain in my buttocks, I also reached an orgasm.

Afterwards, you helped me into the bed, kissing and cuddling me with seeming affection, praising me for my ‘bravery’. I felt confused, slightly traumatized – I had never had sex like this before, never so violent, but also never so satisfying. It seemed I had reveled in my mistreatment.

It set the pattern for our relationship. You explained that humiliating me was what excited and aroused you most. Your brutal treatment of me before sex was what got you hard, and you challenged me to deny that these things didn’t also raise my own levels of pleasure. I didn’t reply. But I knew they did…

So I didn’t leave you. You had completely ensnared me in your erotic web of pain, degradation and lust. I hated myself for it, but I could not free myself from you. I did not want to… although it led to the most horrible experiences in my life.

There had been the night that you took me to that bar. I was dressed in – almost poured into – a red latex dress, and perched on tall stilettos. Both had been bought by you and I wore it only at your insistence, a direct order.

I was extremely self-conscious and embarrassed when we walked into the bar. The sleaziest one I’d ever seen – clouded by a fog of cigarettes, cannabis smoke, and the smell of stale beer. The sticky carpet underfoot, and the predominance of leather and tattoos on the clientele, made me even more uneasy. You sat on the only free barstool, leaving me to stand by your side and ordered yourself a whisky, and merely tap water for me. With distaste I looked at the dirty glass that was given to me, grossed out by the red lipstick marks on its rim.

“Okay if I dance with your girlfriend?” a deep voice asked, and I turned to see a mountainous man, well over 2 meters tall. He had a huge beer belly, wore a leather waistcoat, filthy denim jeans, and had bare arms adorned with ink. You waved your hand as if in uncaring acceptance, not even bothering to look. The man grabbed me, his great fist engulfing my own hand, pulling me towards a small clear space at the other side of the room.

His idea of dancing was to grab my ass with both hands, pressing my face against his chest, forcing me to breathe in his sweaty stench. Gradually, one hand migrated upwards, fondling my breasts through the thin rubber, squeezing and kneading them, while I looked up into his gap-toothed smile, surrounded by a wild and dirty beard. After a few minutes, I felt myself being dragged away, towards the door. Towards the toilets. I looked desperately over at the bar, but only to see you smile at me, instead of coming to my rescue.

In the dingy corridor, my ‘dance partner’ forced me up against the wall, one of his giant hands easily holding both my wrists  above my head, while the other one pulled the hem of my dress up to my waist, revealing my now bald pussy. With one knee forced between my legs, I could not stop him fingering me. And to my horrid shame, I realized how wet I was.

He unfastened his belt and pulled down his jeans, releasing what looked like a very thick cock, quickly becoming hard. “Get down there and suck it, whore,” he growled, pushing me down onto my knees. The smell from his body was awful. He reeked of stale semen and urine. It was overpowering. I guessed he hadn’t washed in a week, and I turned away in disgust. But he grabbed me by my hair and said “Suck it, or I’ll knock your fucking teeth out, bitch.” As I reluctantly opened my mouth, he thrust his stinking length into me, and I would have thrown up if I hadn’t been forced to swallow to prevent my gag reflex kicking in. He pulled my head back and forth onto his staff, not interested in any delicacies of technique, just wanting to get his rocks off as quickly as possible.

The violation was mercifully short, and I soon had to cope with his lumpy seed, filling my mouth to overflowing, before he pulled my head back, squirting the last of his cum onto my face.
Moments later, he had already fixed his clothes and I was alone, still on my knees, cum dripping from my lips and oozing down my cheeks.

I had to stagger to the bathroom to clean myself, before returning to the bar.

“Why did you let that man rape me?” I asked you. But I was met by that calm, infuriating smile of yours. “It pleases me to have you fucked by some random other man,” you said, “to have you prostitute yourself like a dirty common whore. Tell me, you didn’t find it exciting?” I didn’t reply, but the blush on my downcast face gave away my feelings. So you took me home and fucked me harder than ever before, and my body responded more than eagerly.

Then there was that dinner party. You had said we were going to dinner with an important client, and you needed me to be charming, and witty. And you added with emphasis that you expected me to go along with anything they might suggest. I was elated – a chance to finally find out how you earned your money, to get an insight into your life. You dressed me in a beautiful evening dress, white, and backless with a halter neck, and I was allowed only a tiny thong underneath. I felt glamorous, and was very much looking forward to the evening.

Your client, Hank, was actually an attractive man, ten or so years older than you and with distinguished, greying hair. His wife, Ingrid, was a tall Swedish blonde, very elegant, very beautiful. The conversation was sparkling, the food wonderful and the wine flowed. I didn’t learn anything about your work, but that didn’t matter, we were all having a good time.

As we sat around the table, relaxing after a meal, Hank said: “I think we should have some entertainment now”. He looked at Ingrid, raised an eyebrow, and just said “Darling?” She got up and went to a sideboard getting something out of a drawer. When she put it on the table, I was shocked. It was a large vibrator.

“Jennifer,” Hank said, addressing me and smiling, “Perhaps you could entertain us a little by taking off your clothes and then stimulating yourself with this little toy?” My jaw dropped open in utter shock. But as I looked at the relaxed, smiling faces of you and our hosts, I realised that you were fully expecting me to comply. I looked at you for reassurance. Was this some kind of joke? But you looked at me expectantly, silently reminding me of the words you had spoken to me before we had left home. Only then did I realise that this was why I was here. Just to provide entertainment. I had thought that I was by now your partner.  But in fact I was still just your plaything, to be used and to be handed to others as required.

Realizing I had no alternative, and fearing your wrath if I did not obey, I slowly, rose from the table to stand there and face our hosts. My cheeks were burning from humiliation and shame. But I unfastened the halter, hesitantly lowering my dress, revealing my breasts, then my stomach, my thighs, and finally letting that beautiful white dress fall to the floor.

“Very nice,” Hank said, looking at you and congratulating you on your taste rather than complementing me. “You may keep your shoes on,” he said to me, obviously implying that it was all I was allowed to keep on. So reluctantly, I abandoned the flimsy protection of the thong. Finally I stood completely naked before you all. “Come on, girl,” Ingrid said impatiently, “I want to see you cum.”

Slowly I picked up the vibrator and switched it on. The violence of its buzzing and its strange gyrations alarmed me. “Use it on your clit,” Ingrid urged, her cheeks flushed with excitement. And hesitantly I did.
As soon as I did, I felt myself entering a world of my own, forgetting the audience. I could only focus on the pleasure suddenly running through me.

When my eyes finally opened and refocused, I realised what I had done, what a terrible spectacle I had made of myself. I was still standing, legs wide apart, hips thrust forward, the dildo deep inside me. And I was still panting, feeling the sweat on my brow, and my face no doubt bright red. I realised I must have screamed through two orgasms. I could see from your faces that my humiliating display had aroused you all, and I wasn’t surprised when the next move was to bring me upstairs to the master bedroom.

I let Hank bound my wrists behind me. He then tied the rope around my neck. It was a horrifying experience. He did it harshly and such as to make the weight of my arms pull the rope tight. I choked, and had to twist my arms painfully up my back to relieve some of the pressure on my windpipe.

Then I felt him tie my ankles to the two posts at the bed’s foot end, thus holding me wide open as I sprawled cross the lower part of the bed.  Suddenly I felt something cold. It was the wet touch of his fingers between my spread cheeks, circling and then entering my tight, virgin anus. It was no doubt a precursor to anal violation, and I tried to find you with my eyes, urgently hoping for protection. But then I saw to my horror, that you were sitting right before me with Ingrid. And both of you were naked, Ingrid holding your rampant cock firmly in her hand! Both of you were staring down at my helpless body spread before you. A look of lust and hunger shone brightly in your eyes.

“She seems well trained,” Ingrid said, turning to you. “All your own work?” “No,” you replied, “I only groomed her a little. She is really a natural - a natural fuck, a natural toy, a natural pain slut.” At that very moment, before I could react to those coarse words, I cried out in pain. Hank had forced himself into my arse, stretching my sphincter further than I would have thought possible, sliding so deep into my rectum that I could even feel his balls press against me. Then, quite suddenly, he pulled back, but it was only to thrust himself more violently back into me. I tried to scream, but my anguished cries were cut off by his pulling on the noose, which tightened frighteningly around my throat. I opened my eyes wide, and I saw you fucking Ingrid in front of me, doggy style, both of you gloating at me, red faced from pure excitement.

As I fought to get some air against the tight rope cutting into my throat, you both watched me suffer, maybe even expire shortly. My face must have become purple, my mouth wide for want of air. I could not inhale! My eyes were popping out. But then, luckily, Hank suddenly climaxed into me, filling my bowel with his seed. Only then, finally, the rope loosened.

As I lay there, gasping and trying so recover, I felt Ingrid’s fingers in my hair. She dragged me painfully higher up the bed, then flipped me onto my back, and straddled me. Again I tried to find you with my eyes, but you and Hank had left the room for a drink. Now I was at Ingrid’s mercy.

She pushed her cunt, filled with what was obviously your cum, down on my face, and told me to suck. I had no choice but to lick her to a jerking orgasm. But it turned out that this was only a warming up. With my arms still tied behind me, she now roped my ankles all the way over my body to the headboard above me, pulling my legs wide apart with my feet up around my ears. Then I saw her donning a strap-on with a dildo at either end. I watched her insert one into herself and then buckle the straps around her hips. The other dildo, even bigger than the one inside her, now approached my own helplessly open femininity. The fucking that followed was horrible and even more violent and painful than I had ever experienced from you.

The rest of the night was entirely focused on finding new ways to painfully violate me. By morning, I had been utterly degraded, and I felt as worthless as you had described me earlier: nothing more than a fuck toy.

Of course, serving as fuck meat was not really what I had hoped for when I met you. All I had wanted was for you to include me in the rest of your life, not just your sex life, although I loved that too. I had hoped that at some point you would introduce me to your friends, tell me about your work, let me in to partake fully in your life. So when one evening you said: “I'm getting together with my friends at the weekend,” I thought I was finally seeing some light. You smiled and added, “you can come along and take part if you like.” Suddenly, I felt happy. I had been included.

I should have known better.

We arrived at about two in the afternoon at what appeared to be a clubhouse. It stood alone at the end of what looked like some kind of shooting range with target boards placed far away against a border of woody bushes.

In the club house champagne was being served. I was enjoying the party. But I became nervous when I noticed that that Hank and Ingrid were there too, laughing and joking with the other guests. It should have been a warning, but I forced myself to ignore it, because you introduced me warmly to all your friends as your girlfriend. That pleased me immensely. But again, I should have noticed the warning signs, the writing on the wall - the way everyone looked at me as if they knew something I didn't.

And that indeed turned out to be the case….

"Now," you suddenly announced, loud enough for everyone around to hear, "we are going to start our little shooting competition. Normally, as you all know, we buy some poor girls for this, but today I think Jennifer here will want to be a full part of the entertainment.”

At last something seemed to register in my brain. The use of such words as ‘entertainment’ and the unexpected presence of Hank and Ingrid made me frightened. “What do you mean?” I asked you, the fear in my voice obvious. You looked at me with a cruel smile. “We like to shoot at human targets, Jennifer” you said, “it adds a certain frisson to the game.”

I was shocked. Surely, you were not serious?! But then panic took me. I realised that you expected me to willingly let myself be put up to be shot at. For target practice fun! I looked at your face, and of those around me and, seeing their expression, I became horribly aware that if I wouldn't go willingly, I would be forced. I would have to partake in their shooting competition as their live target. I cast down my eyes, starting to cry. And in that very moment, everyone in the room, including you, knew I would comply.

“Very good, my little slut,” you laughed, and you patted my back. “I can see how much you want to help us out. Now strip for us. That way we can properly aim at you.” By now I knew that my young life was close to being ended. There seemed to be no way of escape. But I knew how much you liked to humiliate me by having me strip in front of strangers. So I thought maybe I could somehow soften your heart and make you spare me if I proved how obedient I could be. And thus, self-consciously, I took off my clothes, feeling every eye in the room on me.

When I stood naked before everyone, two young girls appeared out of nowhere. They led me, naked as I was, by my arms out of the clubhouse and across the field towards the row of targets. I cried freely now as they tied my wrists and elbows in front of me. The two girls then together pushed me with my back against one of the target boards. They pulled my arms over my head and tied the rope to the frame behind the board. They then tied each of my ankles to the base of the frame.  

They stepped back and admired their work, before walking away, leaving me alone to my fate.

I looked back over the field, and in the distance I could discern you and the others. I saw you all milling around on the small platform in front of the club house, checking your rifles. I could even hear the sounds of excited conversation and laughter as you and your friends prepared themselves. I was now drowned in terror wailing and crying. Then I saw you step forward and turn towards me, leveling your rifle and aiming it straight in my direction. I struggled in black panic. Unable to free myself from the ropes, I cried out and called your name, beseeching you not to kill me like this, begging and screaming for my life, until I subsided into racking sobs, feeling hot tears run down my face.
There was a moment of absolute silence. Then, suddenly my side exploded in an eruption of pain like I had never felt before. Only after that, the crack of your rifle firing was heard, echoing back off the trees. The scream which emerged from my throat sounded to me like it came from a wild animal being slaughtered in an abattoir. As I fought in my ropes, but failed to come to terms with that horrific pain, I saw through the mist of tears in my eyes a movement far away. The next ‘contestant’ had taken your place.

The second bullet ripped through my left thigh, and I immediately collapsed to my knees, hanging in the ropes that held my arms. My brain was unable to cope with the horrible agony my body was experiencing. My screams and cries must easily have reached the clubhouse. But I knew that they would only be feeding the excitement and sexual arousal of the men and women gathered there. I could not expect any mercy or rescue from there.

The bone in my right arm shattered as the next shot rang out. Blood spattered from the wound into my face, and now I could taste the approach of my death. I was unable to scream anymore. My mind was overwhelmed by the horrendous pain from every part of my body. I seemed to have even stopped crying. The pain was too red. All I could do was wait for the inevitable end.

Another bullet slammed into me, hitting me straight into my love mound, just below my stomach. Between the waves of pain I found myself wondering whether my pelvis had been shattered by that shot.

Slowly I entered into some other kind of universe - I could still feel the pain, but it didn't seem to be within me anymore, it was as if I was outside of my body. Perhaps my soul was preparing to leave the wreckage of my physical existence. The last things I remember were a blazing streak of pain across my forehead, and several shots straight into my crotch. I must have been bleeding profusely there.

Thus, mercifully, I sank into black unconsciousness.

***

I awoke in a hospital bed, with no memory of how I got there or how long I'd been there. My whole body still racked with pain, despite the drugs they seemed to be pumping into me. Nurses wandered around, attending to the many bandages that covered the wounds in my body. They spoke a language I didn't recognise. My right arm and one leg were covered in plaster, and I had several intravenous drips into my left arm, which, as I suddenly discovered, was tied at the wrist to the bedside rail. As I looked down, I saw that my ankles were swathed in dark leather bands, locked in rings attached to the rails on either side. It seemed I was a prisoner as well as a patient.

After a few days, an English speaking doctor came to my bed side. He explained what was happening. I was in a private clinic in Bulgaria, the victim, as he said with a smile, of what he called a “pleasure shooting”. They had put me in an induced coma for five days, to help me recover from a bad head wound I had suffered. My right arm had been broken in three places, I had just escaped losing a kidney, but there had been other internal damage, especially in and around the abdominal area, which seemed to have been cleverly remodeled, thanks to several restorative operations. Most bullets in my body had luckily passed through muscle tissue only and not done any permanent damage, otherwise I might have lost several internal organs, like a lung or a kidney. The doctor told me much more, but I was too dizzy, too sleepy from the drugs and painkillers to be able to listen to him, or care anymore.

When I had been there for two weeks, you visited me for the first and only time in that hospital. I saw you getting a full report from the doctor while in my room. And only once you spoke to me. “You have been an incredibly brave girl, Jenny,” you said, as you took my hand, “the doctor says it will be many weeks before you will have recuperated enough to travel home to me again.” And that was it. No apology. No explanation other than that I had served you well and had provided you and your friends with immense pleasure.

It was obvious that you took my traumatization as just a consequence of our relationship. I cried when you left.

During the last two weeks of my stay in the hospital, I was put through an intense exercise regime. It slowly returned some strength to my body, my legs, stomach and arms. The usual equipment was used - treadmill, weights, rowing machine - and exercises such as sit-ups and press-ups. However, all this had to be undertaken while I was completely nude and – apparently as a precaution - in chains. Most humiliating of all was that I had to perform all those exercises in full view of staff and students, as well as some of the other patients who, as I learned later, had been allowed to buy tickets to see me being put on show!

When asked, I was told that this was all done on your explicit instructions. As was, to add to my degradation, the fact that the nurses always walked me around the wards naked and on a leash. It often resulted in the erotic enjoyment others in this strange place.

Now at last, the day of my release is here. I am filled with new vigour and even excitement to be close to you again. But of course, I feel anxiety and trepidation as well. The fact that you have spent so much money on me to heal, must mean something, surely. Is it love? Remorse? Pity? I doubt it. I’m a sexual plaything for you. But I know, know for sure, that I will continue serving your pleasures.

I’m like that, a slut craving pain and humiliation. You almost had me killed for your own pleasure. What worse might you have planned for me now?