This post is in the CRUELTIES category. Don’t read it.
This is Dolcett themed, with impending snuff, and some very strong nasty descriptions. No Cannibalism. You have been warned.
Picture: Pretty, branded, rubbing herself against Bob's snooker cue Click here to reveal.
He’d seemed so ordinary when she met him, in his polo-tee and chinos and short neat hair; a real square, while she was a wild child in the all-night diner, having just had a stupid screaming row with the boy who was dumping her.
In her silly way of those times (I’m so grateful to him for taming me, calming me down, letting me live), she’d turned on him when she’d noticed him looking;
“Yeah, old man? You like watching, you like other people’s misery? Well fuck YOU!”
The guy behind the counter had told her to leave, then; in no uncertain terms, but the guy had spoken up;
“She’s OK, she’ll keep quiet; she needs a cup of tea, and …”
He had looked at her then— really looked at her, unhurried, an almost smile in his eyes;
“Yeah; bacon— pancakes and bacon. Lots of bacon.”
It had stopped her in her tracks, brought tears to her eyes; not the tears of anger or self-pity that were there already, but new tears; tears of weakness.
He’d been nice to her, despite her rudeness, and he’d wondered what would suit her— cared abut her, and it had undone her.
And— no matter that she’d been an angry vegan for years— he was right; bacon. Lots of bacon, with pancakes and maple syrup, and …
“And she’ll want ice-cream too— vanilla, just a single scoop. Strong coffee, not the watery stuff.”
That was it; ice-cream too!
And so she sat with him, and he looked at her and almost smiled, but didn’t, while she ate— discovering herself to be ravenous, and then he laughed at her as she almost vaccuumed the food into her.
Genuine happy laughter. And she looked up and found herself laughing at him;
“What? You bought it for me. And it’s sooo good. Why shouldn’t I enjoy it?”
“No reason at all, pretty girl. No reason at all.”
And then, it seemed, they were friends, all of a sudden; good friends, relaxed with each other, no need to talk unless there was something to say.
And actually they are still friends, in just the same way. Even here, even now, with both of them knowing what he’s going to do to her, very soon now, with all their other friends watching; watching as she jerks and croaks and pants and screams. Watching as she dies. As he kills her, in the most cruel of ways.
In the diner, she’d stopped laughing, suddenly looked up at him, serious.
“Are you a creep, Mr?”
“Yes. Yes I am.”
He said it so easily, and it wasn’t a joke, but it also wasn’t creepy somehow.
Eventually she realized she was interested.
“What sort of a creep?”
“The sort of creep who likes to control a young woman. Absolutely.”
He said it so calmly. It sounded kind; she sort of froze. It was as if the world shifted. Took a new shape.
At last she said.
“A young woman like … like me?”
He was still way too relaxed for this conversation. Still smiling with his eyes.
“Could be.”
“This is a pervy sex thing, right?”
“You could say that. But actually it’s more like a control thing. Twenty-four seven. I know what you’re doing. You know you’re doing what I want you to. Everyone’s safe. Mostly that’s not sex. I’m a strong man, but even I have my limits.”
And he’d grinned at her again. The softest, kindest, calmest grin, totally at ease with himself, whatever she might think of him, however she might react. If it had been anything else she’d have been off like a hare.
As it was, she heard her voice say;
“I think I’d like that. For a while, anyways. Until I run wild again. I can’t … I can’t seem to stick at anything.”
And then she was crying again. So sad, despairing. And he had let her cry. Didn’t touch her. Didn’t speak. And slowly, slowly, she felt a calm building in her and a certainty and a need until she stopped crying and looked up at him.
“I could leave, right? I mean, I’m not a prisoner. Or a … or a slave?”
“Of course you can leave any time. In fact, there’ll come a time, a month, six weeks, I don’t know, when I make you leave. When there’ll be a decision to make; As to whether you want more. But it will be your decision. A decision I won’t make for you or even try to influence.”
It had been so strange. Such a calm, level-headed, normal seeming conversation about things that nobody ever said. Nobody ever talked like him. Nobody was ever honest even. Not like he was.
But it was frightening too. She knew he was frightening. Dangerous. Dangerous for her. But she could feel her heart thumping, and she could feel a desperate need. A terrible weakness. And a hunger. It was dangerous; she knew it. So she made herself ask another question. A risky question.
“Will you be mean to me?”
Again, no hesitation. No nervous rush either. Just a straightforward answer to a question.
“Mean, no. But will I hurt you? Absolutely; I’m a sexual sadist. I’ll enjoy hurting you. And it will make my dick hard. And then I’ll fuck you hard.”
She was trembling all over by then, her eyes locked onto his, his insanely calm demeanour a massive magnet for all the jumbled chaos inside her, drawing it in, erasing it with certainty, elimination of doubt, of choice.
Jesus, she had wanted it.
And when he took away the choice of whether she was going with him even, just stood, went over to the counter, paid the bill, then came back and helped her up— in full-on gentleman mode— then put her in his truck, fastened her seat-belt for her, it was honestly the best thing that had happened to her for years.
And it stayed being good. Those first few weeks had been like playing a game. A cute, fun game. Even the spankings. Somehow, even though they really hurt, and really messed with her head (she could hardly meet his eyes for days afterward, so worthless did she know herself to be, so beneath his consideration, so deserving of disrespect), they were part of the game. And so they were, yes, part of the fun. And the fucking afterwards annihilated her, too.
He had her like a full-on housewife/slavegirl, looking after him. Ironing his socks, polishing his shoes, kissing his feet, dropping little curtsies as soon as he came in to her space, or she entered his. It was a role-play, yes, but one that she could feel herself yearning to inhabit, peeking under her lashes to see if she’d managed to get him to flick a glance at her naked pussy, her newly trimmed pubes.
He got her a job in private club for business execs; she had to wear a fancy little waitress costume. He told her she had to be employee of the month, every month, and she aced it, being sweet to everyone, letting older men in suits put their hands up her skirt, touch her breasts, laughing at their dirty jokes, pretending not to hear the disgusting things they said to each other about what they’d like to do to her, always smiling and flashing her cleavage.
He bought her cute sex-bunny clothes for home - degrading if you looked at them that way, but she loved wearing them for him. He reminded her every Sunday that she was free to leave. And she would giggle at him, nervous despite herself, and take her clothes off, kiss his feet and beg to be allowed to suck his cock. She’d got better at that too, and fast; her old revulsion at the idea of come in her mouth swept away in a moment by his overpowering will, not regretted for a second as she taught herself to swallow him deep into her throat, to live with the sensation of being unable to breathe, to accept it, accept that her need for air was subordinate to his pleasure, and then to love the sensation of drowning for him, of being willing to.
And everything was cute. And lovely. Most of all, she felt safe; she did pretty much nothing but what he had explicitly told her to do— only small, meaningless decisions were for her, and it just worked, and she told him he should control her forever, if it was like this.
And then there had come the talk.
“But it can’t be like this forever, pretty girl.”
It was like her name had become ‘pretty girl’; He called her that in public, in front of his friends (she didn’t see any of her old friends any more, and that was weird but good too); she had tried to get irritated about it, but in the end it went the other way, so that now, whenever he said it, she felt a little rush of warm gooey weakness in her. And she was working for it— for that feeling; wanting to feel weak for him, knowing she was weak for him, wanting him to see how weak she was for him. This was the danger. But it was so also the best thing, the important thing.
“You remember, I told you at some point that I’d make you leave. That’s not today, but it will be soon. And then, as I told you, you’ll have a decision to make. A big decision.”
“Whichever way that decision goes, it won’t be like this forever. There will be big changes. Either you’ll be out in the world again, free, not my responsibility.”
“Or, you’ll give yourself to me, and how I use you— how I use my new possession— will change.”
“The simplest way to explain it is that you’ll give your life to me; Not just your body, not just your mind, but your very life. Without any possibility of getting it back. Indeed, with my absolute guarantee that— sooner or later— I will end you; end your life. That you will die in pain and shame, for no better reason than that it gets my dick hard.”
“So far, it’s just been the two of us. You’ve met some of my friends. Nice couples, very friendly. But you’re a smart girl; you’ll have noticed the age-gaps, guessed that in each of those couples, the young girl is being controlled like you are. And yes, Mel has two girls and treats them both like this. Carla owns Linny, too— it’s the same way, whether it’s a man or a woman; the girl is property, and her life is already forfeit.”
“That’s all for now. I don’t want any questions. In a few weeks it’ll be time for you to leave. And then how your life goes will be up to you; as it should be, pretty girl.”
She’d stared at him for a long while then, until the tears came. Soft tears, Weak tears. Tears of relief in a way. Because now she knew.
The weeks following that had taken her by surprise. Knowing what she knew had changed everything. Knowing that it could all end very soon changed everything.
And the surprise was that it had made life with him sort of magical. Knowing what she now knew, knowing that this was temporary, she needed it to deepen, and her service to him, her commitment to his satisfaction with her became beautiful. Beautiful to her. Noticeable to him, too.
Her submission to him intensified to the point where she could not bear to fail him, so that when some small silly mistake had been made, which he knew nothing about, she could not but confess it to him, even though she knew he was likely to hurt her, spank her, or even whip her. He had begun whipping her, and it was appalling, soul-destroying. At the same time, she knew she was grateful to him for finding her worthy of such treatment. And extra spankings brought on extra fuckings, brutal fuckings (the sort she had come to yearn for, the sort which destroyed her in different ways, glorious ways), and that was magical too; even though it was so violently physical it was also intensely emotional.
So in those weeks there was nothing that she would not do for him. She did little things for him that she thought of herself,and when he liked them they became orders from him; every moment not otherwise occupied was filled with the happy, desperate thought of pleasing him.
She cried often; those soft sad tears in little moments, on her own mostly (he had told her; he did not enjoy her crying unless he had been hurting her).
“When you’re crying for me, that’s entertaining. When you’re crying for yourself, that’s selfish.”
But the tears had no bitterness in them, not even regret. Just deep, soft, infinite, weak sadness. Because she was already sure that after some time away from him (she was going to give herself that time, she was going to make herself answer the question, she was going to sit with it, and be sure), she was already certain that she was going to give herself to him.
Sure that she was going to give her life to him. And so, she was sure that her life was going to be relatively short. And that it would end in pain. In pain and shame. Pain and shame for his pleasure.
And even these dread thoughts were magical and beautiful to her, even though she knew it was crazy.
It was eventually another six weeks before he told her to leave. And he told her why, which was that he too was finding everything lovely between them, that he did not want it to end.
“But now it’s time. Before you leave, you need to know exactly what it will mean if you come back: if you give your life to me.”
And he had showed her the photos of the parties, of the way the young girls were kept naked, used, gang-fucked, casually, brutally manhandled, horribly shamed, tortured, even; on their knees, tied over hurdles to be whipped, tattooed, waterboarded, branded with hot irons, pierced.
He had shown her the ’endings’, too: two girls hanging from ropes, one girl spitted as for a barbecue, one girl beheaded, several girls brutalised with baseball bats and snooker cues rammed deep inside them.
Her eyes had grown very round, her jaw slack, her whole body weak, trembling, as she sank to her knees, her eyes closing, unable to look at the horror. The horror which was certain to be hers.
He had left her the silence, his hand gentle on her shoulder, weirdly making her feel safe, kneeling at his feet, where she loved to be.
Silence, until with a little shake, she had blinked away the tears and looked up at his face, smiling her soft, pretty, accepting smile.
“Thank you. Thank you, Bob, for showing me everything. You are— you always have been— the kindest man I have ever met. However crazy that sounds.”
And she had found herself weakly, stupidly, but happily giggling. And he joined in with her, the two of them looking at each other, laughing together at the strange beautiful cruelty of it all; he the self confessed would be murderer, she the girl who knew she was going to be his helpless victim, naked on her knees at his feet, her thighs carefully spread wide, her whole body eager— as it always was these days— for his touch.
And now here they were, in Johno’s colourless minimalist basement dungeon— a bizarre mix of high-end interior design and cool, cruel obscenity, and Bob was asking her if she knew what the snooker cue was for, and did he have her permission.
At the previous party, a little over a month ago, she’d lost a competition; she and Linny, a cute, giggly redhead with perfect apple tits and almost translucent skin, the veins showing like blue lace across her body, had been impaled— she on Bob’s iron-hard dick in her ass, Linny with Carla’s brutal strapon in hers, and the winner would be her or Linny, whichever one got the other girl to orgasm first. The winner would be branded on the ass. The loser would be branded too, and then ended at the next party.
And she, only a minute or two in, she had known that she could not bear to watch Carla kill Linny; the girl was too young and sweet and lost in fascination for the brutal sex-games imposed on her— and she was so fresh and lovely.
She didn’t want to die herself, either, not yet, not when everything with Bob was so all-consuming; He had showed her the snooker cue he’d do it with; Rummage and jab into your insides, rupture everything, mix it all around, in through your cunt, then a go in your ass, maybe finish down your throat, if you’re still moving.
But in any case, Linny was so terribly clever with her fingers, and Bob’s cock in her ass had begun to dominate her world recently.
She had tried, she really had, but in the end, she had let them all see that it was coming— that despite the terrors and shivering which were taking her at the thought of what she was doing, she had let it build in her, build and build until there was no stopping it, and she had to ask Bob if she had permission to come, her voice only just controlling her deranged emotions, her hips working like crazy on his cock, against Linny’s cruelly manipulative fingers and he had told her yes and that had been the ruining of her, and it had been glorious and terrible at the same time.
They had made her and Linny brand each other, taking turns to be brought to mechanical orgasms on some buzzing machine between their obscenely splayed thighs, legs bent up behind them, toes tied to a hook in the ceiling from which hung the noose which was snugged up tight at their necks, all their weight on already bruised pussies, the red-hot terror of the brand applied just when their orgasms crested. Pretty (it had become her name) had had to have Bob help her, she was so weak after having his ‘B’ mark burned into her buttock, but still it had been her hand which did that awful thing to Linny, who was ony nineteen, and already doomed (Carla had a way of getting bored with new girls fast).
The weeks since then had been a replay of the weeks before her forced leaving, an unsuspected glory; magical, only even more so.
Every second was fused with the knowledge of her certain martyrdom, her ultimate, singular gift to Bob, and every second with him was electric, and everything had been lovely— he’d been so normal and kind, but with a sort of gleam of satisfaction in his eyes, and she more perfectly servile and eager.
He’d had lots of strangers use her too— in all sorts of places— just in the park, casually offered her to a group of boys, told them to take her behind the bushes and gang-rape her, make sure to hurt her, had her whore herself to her boss in the club, offer herself to members, let them fuck her out the back among the dumpsters, suck their cocks for them in the toilets until she got herself fired; everything was unreal, intense, and she wanted more of everything.
She asked him— begged him— if he’d brand her again, and he’d had Carla and Linny over to do her belly one weekend, and Carla had asked if she could; cut Pretty’s nipples and clit off, with these old hedge clippers, after you’ve messed her up inside a bit, but while she can still feel it; her tongue tip too…, and Bob had said it was an excellent idea, and also, that he’d like Linny to brand Pretty’s cheek as the opening event of the party.
And somehow, all that has been part of the insane magical dream.
But now, in a few seconds, the new brand still a screaming agony on her face, she was going to look at him and do her best to smile and nod and ask him Yes, please, do me now. And, when asked, she knew that she would promise to do everything she could to go off sweetly for him and her hostess. And for everyone else, whom she thanked sincerely for everything they had given her.
