Candace, annexed. Pt 3

Read the earlier parts of Candace, annexed, before this - it will make more sense!.

Of course, Brad had got hard again, and, of course, he hadn’t bothered to fuck me again, but used his new-granted license to push himself into my throat to the full and basically used me like a sex-doll, holding my head tight in both his big hands and moving me just exactly as he wanted to, uncaring of my choking, my spasms, my weak flapping at him (one of the things which had helped Brad’s career out-perform his actual skill level at football was because coaches valued his insanely high tolerance for pain; he could keep playing, keep running, keep pushing after being taken down by bone-crushing tackles, and while carrying quite serious injuries, so that even when my slapping became real, when I was seriously trying to hurt him, because I was so desperately afraid I was going to black out, he just laughed at me; there was nothing I could do to him which could measure up to what a 220lb fired-up linebacker could inflict).

He was hurting me too— not just stretching me painfully, abrading the soft membranes of my throat (my voice would be roughened for several days), but twisting my neck as he flexed his body, exulting in his power over me, dragging me with him— thrown about, willy-nilly, like a rag-doll— helpless, appalled by my helplessness, hating myself for my weakness, my foolishness.

To add insult to injury, he kept baby-talking to me through this abuse, a constant stream of porn video cliché ‘Oooh baby, your throat is so tight, so hot, so soft’, ‘Oh God you’re so fucken’ goood, babe, THAT’s what I’M talking bout!’ and other nonsense, while tears were pouring down my face and I seriously thought he must be doing me permanent damage.

He came off hard, yelling in triumph, thankfully dumping only a small load of sticky come into my airways, having drained himself into my pussy only a few minutes earlier, the source of the cold stickiness on my thighs as I lay there on the kitchen floor, still spasming, chest heaving, coughing up mucous as he laughed and crowed his glee at me, as he somehow credited himself with— shouting out loud, so that UI was certain the neighbours must be hearing him— “Turned you into a nympho bimbo, darlin! I done converted you, Candy! You my ho’ for sure now girl!”

And the dumb thing was, that I was pleased for him, even as I sobbed out my shock and anguish— for it had been a truly traumatic experience, like nothing ever before in my life. Although Brad and his gang had been louts, I had been their queen, and had kept Brad on quite a short leash when we were younger, and he’d never dared treat me badly until recently, as the spanking/sex thing had begun to weaken me. Some of my girlfriends had had traumatic nights when three or four of the guys had taken turns with them while they were drunk, but nothing like that had ever come my way. I felt broken, was sure I must be broken, but was possessed by weakness; defeated, not angered or outraged.

I lay on the floor, limp, lost, listening to Brad, who’d gone straight back to gaming after dragging his shorts back up and chugging another beer, bragging about how he’d just done me to his crew (for once he actually seemed to be underplaying his story; he had no need to make anything up to back up his claims to have gone further than ever before with me).

What was happening to me? First Brad had got me to accept that I was subject to ‘serious’ corporal punishment, then I’d let K. assign me to guests who were grabby and abusive, then today Ms.F had somehow seen this terrible weakness in me and exploited it to the max, and now I’d done the opposite of tricking Brad into rebuffing her, but rather convinced him she was going to help him turn me into what he was describing to his guys at that moment; ‘a proper lil’ domestic sex-doll, serving my EVERY need, with all her sweet fuckholes and her pretty titties, too!’

The weirder thing was, that— shocked and horrified though I certainly was, in a state of despair about the remaining tatters of my self-respect, tears of abjection still seeping from my eyes, hurting and gripped by the aftershocks of a brutal violation— alongside all that, there was a strange peace in me, a relinquishing, a giving up on myself that was perversely welcome, absolving me of responsibility.

K, and Ms.F, between them, had made it inevitable that I would end up here, on the floor, Brad’s come leaking from me at both ends, naked, hurting, ashamed; used, yes, but also still with the glow of a frankly delirious orgasm warming me, and somehow taking Brad’s demeaning descriptions of me, of my body, what I had allowed to be done to me, what I had willing done for him, taking them as affirmation, as praise, as compliments.

And, too, I found myself thinking about what Ms.F might do to me, how weak I would be for her now, how Brad would certainly be used by her to weaken me further, and those thoughts were not horrific, to me, but rather, in my traumatised state, seemed both inevitable and — yes— to be wished for. To be sexually used by Ms.F, controlled, humiliated, with Brad looking on …

It was crazy, but, as I say, the impossibility of escaping her, the inevitability gave me this excuse, this absolution. It wouldn’t be my fault— not beyond the already accepted shame of my weakness, and they would use me as they wished; use my body, use my pussy, and I would have no choice but to be the sex-doll, the whore that Brad claimed I would be.

And it would be incredible, to be such a creature; shamed, degraded, disgusting, even; a whore, a slut, a bimbo, a nympho— all the horrid words.

But also, to be naked in front of her, have their hands on me, in me, cocks in me, have no choice but to do what they wanted me to, suck them, kiss them, lick them, encourage them, and it be their fault.

Submitting to Brad, to hotel guests, letting K. boss me about, all those would have been nothing but pathetic, shameful, weak— but to submit to Ms.F… There was no shame, somehow, in being defeated by her, abused by her, being forced to do slutty things by her, for who, who could resist her? Not that girl in the hotel, not me, not Brad, I was certain of it. She was above us all, and to be her slut would not be entirely awful, for it would mean that she would look at me, touch me perhaps, let me touch her, have her talk to me, tease me, humiliate me maybe, but be thinking about me, for it to be me she took away with her to some humiliation, some ravaging, not that slutty piece in the hotel.

I lay there for some while, these fever-dream sexual daymares taking me as they would, until, a crashing sound from Brad shook me out of them— his pride and cockiness had apparently led to a fall; his rage quit was almost tearful, and it turned out he’d actually smashed his (ludicrously expensive) gaming keyboard.

But I’d broken something more valuable, something irreplaceable, something precious, my self-respect; and I was brought up short by the awfulness of it, hating myself for my weakness, then; for the truth, too, that I was not going to be able to defend myself against this intentional take-over, that that part of me which had just interpreted abuse and degradation as license to accept sexual pleasure at the cost of self-worth as a good deal for me, that part of me was going to make it easy for them— Brad, K, and most of all Ms.F— to play with my life, as if I were nothing, nothing more than a pretty body with a weak mind attached, a mind which could be suborned into operating that body for them as a sex-doll.

I shed tears, then, softer tears, helpless tears, weak tears of mourning, of shame, of humiliation, of sympathy for the future Candace, who was going to discover that her life was not, actually her own, but rather would belong to other people; ruthless, greedy people who knew just what Candace was, or what she could be reduced to, at least. Somehow I saw it all, then— not in any detail, but as a reality— and I knew myself to be lost, condemned already, because, try as I might, I could not get Ms.F’s eyes, her smile, her condescending, soul hurting, belly-melting, knees-turn-to-jelly smile, out of my mind’s eye. Her hands, too— such strong, elegant hands; they would be on me, at my pussy, at my breasts, too, I felt it, and she would hurt me, and I would let her; I would thank her, too, I could feel it— had she not basically had her way with me already, fully clothed, in public; raped my mind, without me putting up anything at all of a resistance; all but encouraged her, in fact?

I was fascinated with her already, had not spent more than ten minutes all day without thinking about her, it being already a given within me, unarguable, that she had changed me, changed my life, changed my future, that she was a force of nature, irresistible; more, that resisting her would be more damaging, even, than letting her take me.

Gods but I wanted her to take me! I did! I did!

Lying on the floor, feeling it between my legs, that she was going to take me, take me there, right at the centre of me; take me and use me; use me hard, uncaring, greedy, take everything from me, take my pussy from me and make it her toy, use me and abuse me there— pain as well as pleasure; terrible pain, certainly, terrible shame— steeled myself for it, promising her that I would take it for her— insanity, but it was in my head and I knew it and I wanted it, even in the knowing that I must not, should not, could not, would not let her…

… except that I knew I would.

Because there was no escape.

And that there lay my fig-leaf of absolution.

If I could not resist, where was my guilt in submitting?

… round and round in my head, until Brad stumbled in, angry, actually crying in his frustration, and I, still naked, knelt up on the floor and opened my arms to him and said to him; “Take it out on me, baby. Hurt me again, fuck me again, fuck me, fuck my mouth, it’s OK baby, you’re my king, always my king.”

I hadn’t called him my king since were were both in high school, and it made me feel ridiculous, but I needed his warmth, I needed to be distracted from my shame and confusion and guilt, and when he fell to his knees beside me and grabbed me in his arms I leaned into him— it was as if he was my child now; I was already the possession of Ms.F, in my head, and she was above both of us, and Brad was so simple, a creature of simple needs but large physical strength and I could sustain him and he could hold me and I whispered in his ear; “You should spank me again, my king, make me scream again and then fuck me good, fuck me good again, like last time.”

He hardly hurt me that time, my scream was a play scream, and his hard-on was hardly worthy of the name, but I knelt and sucked him deep, until he was stiff enough so that I could lie back on the floor and offer myself to him, my thighs lewdly spread, my hips working, talking dirty to him in a soft voice, asking him to destroy me with his big cock. He fucked me weakly at first, and then I said it to him— without having formed the words in my mind, just let them slip out, only realising what they were when I heard them; “She’s going to make me your sex toy, Brad; she’s going to make that happen, and I’ll be yours that way, soon, for you to fuck anyway you like, even share me with your guys, show them, show them how you have me, how you control me.”

Nonsense, really, more insanity, but it had a big effect on him; I felt him stiffen inside me and I was inspired, too, somehow, and began to move my hips like a snake, using all my small strength, controlled, my legs stretching up into the air as I writhed under him, relishing his size and weight on me, crushing me, distorting me, but still I moved for him and once again a fire was lit in my groin and I let go, gave myself to it and I came before he did, a wonderful, tender, happy-sad sort of thing, the knowledge that I was to be a whore, that I would be coming in circumstances not of my choosing alive in my mind as I bucked and gasped, and then, because I was a whore, I made myself, though it felt like real pain, forced myself to keep fucking him though my post orgasmic sensitivity, until he too, with big, soft sighs this time, began to jerk inside me, him the one to thank me this time, no dirty talk, and we fell asleep then, on the kitchen floor, in each other’s arms, like newlyweds; me, his whore. Ms.F’s whore in the making, kissing him softly, continuously, half laughing, half crying, softly, wondering at the unbelievability of this new reality. A reality that was an impossible fantasy, but which felt more real than anything ever in my life before.

To live, at all times, as if in those moments where the pain and shame of a spanking became the feverish heat of the road to orgasm.

Could that be?

I didn’t answer myself, because I had sipped into unconsciousness.