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One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen
Abby Fields – that attractive, educated brunette – had made a career out of identity. So it was only natural that it was Abby’s own sense of identity that Richard Owens targeted for his revenge upon her.
Abby was a pop-psychology author. She had found publishing success by reducing feminism into light, readable self-empowerment books with breezy, non-threatening covers and titles like “The Aphrodite Myth” and “The Power Of Me”. They sold profitably to teen girls and young women, and were successful enough that Abby was able to supplement their royalties with well-paid speaking tours promoting the books and her writing.
But the books were also vehicles for Abby’s pet crusade – her overpowering disgust for the porn industry. As a teenager, she had discovered her first boyfriend had a love for photos of nude fake-titted blonde sluts, and he had cheated on her with not one but two strippers. Ever since, Abby had hated and reviled the commercial sex industry and the women who populated it.
Every one of her books contained a couple of chapters dedicated to attacking pornography. She lambasted the “fake-titted blonde bimbos” who filled the industry, describing them as “barely human” and suggesting that their career consisted of “enjoying rape in return for money”. She insisted they were universally stupid, that they were little more than servile pets to their pimps and agents, that they were traitors to their gender, and that they deserved nothing but contempt and humiliation. In her speaking tours, she expounded on these ideas in strident and well-received public speeches.
It all came to a stop when Abby was sued by Richard Owens, wealthy porn magnate, whose internet properties included websites such as “Brainless Fuckbunnies”, “Exposed Bitches”, and “Degraded Fucktoys – Live!”. Abby’s rabid attacks on him had gone past the metaphorical (“a trafficker in filth”), and she had unwisely crossed the line into accusing him of literally raping his models.
Owens’ lawsuit was swift and brutal. Abby was challenged in court to show any basis for her claim – and of course, she had none. The judge rendered instant judgement, and awarded severe punitive damages for her “irresponsible, reckless and hateful defamation”. Abby was ordered to pay Owens tens of millions of dollars that – an unwise manager of her own profits – she simply didn’t possess.
The damages were due in monthly instalments, and for a while, Abby kept up with the payments. But within six months, she had run out of money. She literally couldn’t pay. She begged the court for alternative payment plans, but there had been significant public interest and displeasure around her case, and the court didn’t want to be seen to be going easy on her.
Finally, facing jail for defaulting on the court order, she turned to the last person she ever wanted to ask for help: her victim, Richard Owens himself.
He made her come to his office – a rich, spacious appointed, mahogany room, decorated with images from his porn empire. He sat smiling at his executive desk, at ease in his expensive tailored suit, while she stood awkwardly between the looming framed images of naked huge-titted whores.
“Please,” she said, her voice echoing in the large room. “I want to make the payments, but I can’t keep up. You won’t get any money at all if I go to jail. Can’t we… come to an agreement about this?”
Owens laughed – comfortable; in control. “Abby,” he said. “What you’re doing right now isn’t the *best* use of a woman’s mouth, but it certainly suits you a lot better than defamation. I like that you’re learning.”
Abby’s cheeks flushed. Her first instinct was to give him her middle finger, and storm out. But her first instinct wasn’t going to help her position.
She remained silent.
Owens watched for a moment, clearly enjoying her inner struggle. Then he continued. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’ll write off this month’s payment, which should give you some breathing room to get back on your feet…”
“Oh, thank you!” she exclaimed, exhaling deeply with relief.
“…IF”, he continued, “you dye your hair platinum blonde, and keep it that way until the debt is paid.”
She flushed again, with anger and outrage. She knew what the subtext was. Every one of the nude sluts displaying their tits and cunt on his walls had platinum blonde hair. It was stripper hair. It was whore hair.
“You can’t be serious,” she said, her voice choked with rage.
“Well, it’s not a joke, except inasmuch as I find it funny,” Owens said, smirking. “What do you owe this month – ten thousand dollars? That’s a good price for a dye job. Professional whores do more for less, Abby. They’d much rather colour their hair than spread their legs.”
He leaned back in his seat, affecting boredom. “Take it or leave it,” he said. “I honestly don’t need the money, and I’d get a kick out of seeing you behind bars. Tell me, do you reckon pretty girls get raped by the butch girls in women’s prison?”
She stood there, fuming, for long minutes. Owens said nothing else, busying himself with some correspondence at his desk.
Finally, she said, “Fine. It’s a deal.”
And so Abby ended up with blonde hair – “slut hair”, as her mind insisted on calling it. She sent the first hated photo of herself with the new colour to Owen, and, true to his word, Owens waived a month’s debt.
As she had suspected, Abby *hated* how she looked with blonde hair. She barely recognised herself. She had to resist the temptation to shave herself bald to get rid of it. She had thought about doing so, just to spite Richard, and claiming it was still blonde but just very short – but she couldn’t afford to piss Owens off anymore.
Particularly since, at the end of the month, she still couldn’t make her next payment. The money simply wasn’t there.
She found herself back in Richard’s office.
“Oh, Abby, that’s you,” he said, as she entered. “I’m sorry, with that hair I thought you might be auditioning for Cum-Addicted Bitches 3. You *can* audition, if you want…”
She ignored the bait, and stuck to her plan. “I’m sorry, Richard,” she said. “I’m still having trouble paying, but…”
He interrupted her. “Still can’t pay?” He raised an eyebrow. “You really are a dumb lazy cunt, Abby, aren’t you?”
She didn’t dignify that with an answer. “I’m sorry, but…”
He cut her off. “I asked you a question, Abby. I expect an answer. I said, you really are a dumb lazy cunt, aren’t you?”
Her mouth hung open at the sheer rudeness of the man. She blushed. She wasn’t going to answer that.
Only – she needed a favour from him.
“Yes,” she said, in a quiet voice, not making eye contact.
“Yes what?” he asked her.
She was silent a moment longer, then said, “Yes, I’m a dumb lazy cunt.” As she said it, she felt her whole body flush with the humiliation – including a distracting perking in her nipples, and an awareness of warmth between her legs.
“Good girl,” said Richard. “Now, you want another extension?”
“Yes, please,” she said, eyes still downcast, not trusting herself to look him in the face. Asking this man for a favour was the most humiliating thing that had ever happened to her, she thought.
“Yes, please, *sir*,” he corrected her.
She flushed again, and paused a moment, choking down the urge to swear at him and storm out.
Finally, she said, “Yes, please, sir.”
He looked at her for a long minute and said, “Are you willing to do something to entertain me, if I let you off for another month?”
“Like what?” she asked.
“No,” said Richard, frowning. “I asked you a question. You really need to get better at listening. You’re a poorly behaved little bimbo cunt, aren’t you?”
Abby bit her lip. There was silence. It stretched on uncomfortably.
Eventually, Richard pushed back his chair noisily, in a way that indicated he considered the meeting to be ending.
“Yes,” blurted Abby. “I’m a poorly behaved little bimbo cunt, sir. And I’ll do something to entertain you if you give me a pass for a month, sir.”
Richard smiled. “Good cunt,” he said. “Actually, I’m feeling generous. I’m going to give you *two* months off.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Abby, not liking the sound of this. “And what do I have to do?”
“You’re going to go and get a boob job,” said Richard. “Fake plastic double-E cups. I’ll pay for them. I have a friend who can schedule you this weekend. You keep them until the debt’s paid, and then you can have a reduction or whatever you like.”
Abby went pale. Her arms crossed protectively over her breasts without her even consciously thinking about it. “That’s out of the question,” she said. “No way. What else can we do?”
“There’s nothing else, Abby,” said Richard. “You turn up for the boob job on the weekend, or you pay the money you owe, or you go to jail. You don’t exactly have a lot of options here. And because you’re being a difficult little bitch, I’m tacking on an extra requirement – I want to see your tits before you leave here. For the ‘before’ photo, you know?”
Abby fumed. She turned, to stalk out, and went two steps, before turning around and opening her mouth to argue, to negotiate a different arrangement.
“Abby, if you say one word other than ‘Thank you, sir, I’m a dumb bimbo cunt and I accept your deal’, then we’re done,” warned Richard. “No more chances. So think hard about what’s about to come out of your mouth, and then lift up your shirt, show me your tits, and say, ‘Thank you, sir, it’s a deal.’”
She wanted to cry. She wanted to shout and swear. She wanted to run away, flee the country, do anything other than submit to this awful man.
He was right, though. She was out of options. Slowly, she pulled up her shirt, and lifted her bra, to expose her breasts to his gaze. Her face was flushed and she avoided eye contact.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, in a defeated voice. “I’m a dumb bimbo cunt and I accept your deal.”
There was a “click” as Richard took a photograph of her bare breasts, and then his approving voice – “Good cunt.”
In the next few days, Abby told herself a million times she wouldn’t attend the appointment Richard had made for her. But when the day came, she found herself driving to the clinic, getting out of her car, going inside, signing the forms – and then the next day she found herself waking up in a hospital bed with huge new fake plastic breasts.
She cried when she saw herself in the mirror. Her tits were so obviously fake and round. None of her clothes were going to fit her. And combined with her platinum blonde hair, she looked exactly like the porn whores she had spent so long degrading in her books and speeches.
She spent the next two months cloistered in her house, working on a new book. She cancelled speaking engagements. She couldn’t bear to let anyone see her like this. She knew what they would say about her. They would quote her own words back at her. They would call her a whore. They would call her a traitor to her gender.
Unfortunately, speaking tours paid the bills, and if she wasn’t touring, she wasn’t making money. At the end of two months she still couldn’t make her repayments to Richard, and she found herself back in his office.
“Thank you for seeing me, sir,” she said as she entered, without prompting. “I’ve been a dumb lazy cunt again.” She hated saying the words, but this was the third time in a row she’d failed to pay, and she was worried that he wouldn’t let her go this time – or that he’d ask for something she wasn’t willing to give. She needed him in a good mood.
“Dumb cunts don’t wear clothes, Abby,” said Richard. He said nothing else, just looked at her expectantly.
Abby flushed crimson with humiliation. She resisted for a moment, but then, slowly, she unbuttoned and removed her shirt, and uncinched her bra. She let both items drop to the ground, exposing her new big fake udders.
She looked at Richard then for mercy, but he offered none, and so she unhappily peeled off her skirt, and then slid her white satin panties down her legs, until she was nude but for her high heels.
It had been some time since a man had seen Abby’s cunt, and never a man she hated so much. She wished she hadn’t had her pubic hair waxed – she did it because she liked the smooth feeling, but now it seemed like she had groomed her pussy just for Richard’s gaze. She wanted cover herself with her hands, but she needed Richard’s approval, so she just stood there, blushing.
She was aware that her nipples were erect, and that her pussy was just a little bit wet. Traitors, she thought, and tried to ignore it.
“Please, sir,” she said. “Can you let me go another month? And” – she decided to go for broke – “can I do anything else other than keep these breasts?” She looked Richard in the eye. “Anything,” she said with emphasis. As repulsive as having sex with this man might be, it was better than keeping this bimbo body for as long as it might take to pay back her debt. The reduction might be expensive, but it would be well worth it.
Richard stared at her naked body, as Abby blushed, and shifted awkwardly.
Finally he said, “Okay, Abby, I’ll make you a deal. It’s a good deal, because if you do this, I’ll clear your debt completely, and pay for your breast reduction, if you still want it.”
Abby’s heart jumped. She hadn’t dared hope for a deal that cancelled *all* her debt. But – what was the catch?
“The deal’s in two parts. The first part is your humiliation. Right here, today, you’re going to pose for a porn shoot. You’re going to do the poses I tell you to do, and I’m going to photograph you. I’m not going to publish them. It’s for my personal use only. They’ll stay between you and me. My satisfaction is in knowing that you did them, that you were exactly the kind of big-titted porn whore that you hate.”
Abby swallowed. She felt full of butterflies. She hated this idea. The wave of humiliation she felt at the thought was overpowering. But if it would get her out of this situation….
“What’s the second part, sir?” she asked.
“You’re going to spend a month with me at my cabin up in the state forest. You’re going to dress how I want you to for the month – which is going to be mostly naked – and you’re going to do exactly what you’re told – but I’m not going to lay a finger on you. I won’t fuck you, I won’t hit you. I’m just going to enjoy the sight of you obeying me. Do you agree?”
Abby fixated on that last part – he wasn’t going to hurt her, and he wasn’t going to rape her – and was so overjoyed that she responded immediately. “Yes, sir, I agree!”
“Good cunt,” said Richard. And he stood up from his desk, and began to walk around the room, unpacking photographic equipment and lighting equipment, as Abby stood nervously, naked and vulnerable.
When he was ready to begin, it was difficult, at first. He photographed her as she stood – naked, tits out, cunt bare. She stood and blushed. Then he told her to smile, and that was harder. He told her to imagine she was posing for her lover, and with effort she managed to produce a sexy, coy smile, and after that it got easier. She knew from her own education in psychology that when a person smiles, even a forced smile, it encouraged them to think positively, and once she had smiled once, it became easier to do it again and again.
Then he got her to cup her breasts for him; to pinch her nipples. He had her press herself up against the wall, her ass pushed back ready for an imaginary lover to fuck her. He made her kneel – cupping her tits again – looking upwards with her mouth open as if desperate to suck on a man’s cock. He had her crawl on all fours like a dog, her tits hanging down, and lie on her back with her legs spread, looking for all the world like she was inviting rape.
With each pose, Abby felt her body growing warmer, her cheeks flushing deeper, her breathing becoming more rapid. Much to her horror and humiliation, she was becoming *aroused* posing for these photos. Something about the complete vulnerability, the objectification, the submission, was making her loins heat up, her tits feel swollen and sensitive, and her cunt grow distractingly wet.
She knew Owens could see. He didn’t comment, and that awareness of the tension – the shame, the worrying what he thought, the imagining what he must be thinking – just made her wetter.
Finally, he took one last series of photos. In these, she stood upright, legs parted, slightly bent forward at the waist. Her left hand cupped her left boob, pinching at the nipple. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted, her face a vision of humiliated lust. With her right hand, he had her spread her pussy lips, and gently stroke her clitoris.
She moaned with shame as she slowly masturbated for his camera lens. She wanted to cum – she wanted it badly – but she didn’t want to do it here, in front of this man, in front of his camera. She wanted to go home, and deal with the confusing feelings in the privacy of her bed.
But he held her there, rubbing her clitoris with agonising slowness, as he photographed her. And in each successive photo, he zoomed in tighter and tighter on her cunt, until finally he got the photo he was looking for – her pussy, clearly soaked with arousal, with one sticky rope of her own sex juices hanging from her labia just before detaching and falling to the floor. The photographic evidence of her being sexually aroused from displaying her body.
And once he had that last final photo, he told her she could move her hands, and stand up normally. She did so, blushing, half of her frustrated that she had to take her finger off her clit, that she had to stop playing with herself.
Richard walked over to her. He caressed her hair with one hand. Abby shivered. It was an intimate, violating touch, but at the same time, it felt good.
“Am I done, sir?” she asked.
“All done,” he smiled. “You’re a dumb big-titted bimbo slut, Abby.” His smile widened. “But today, you’ve been a *very* – *good* – *cunt*.”
And quickly, on each of those last three words, he reached between her still-parted legs, and used his thumb and forefinger to flick her clitoris, *hard*. Abby gasped on the first impact, made a whole-body flinch on the second – and on the third, she orgasmed.
She wailed, and fell forward against Richard, her body shaking, her face flushing with humiliation, her tits crushed against his chest. He caught her, held her there for a minute, and then let her sink to her knees, her face level with his cock – which was clearly rock-hard within his suit pants.
She looked up at him, her mind blank, filled with shame and endorphins and confusion.
“Say thank you, cunt,” Richard told her, looking down.
She knew instinctively what he wanted. She leaned forward, and kissed the tip of his cock, through the material of his pants, and then said, “Thank you for letting me be a good cunt, sir.”
Richard smiled. “Now get out of my office, whore. I’ll email you the location of the cabin. I expect to see you there Friday night at 7 pm sharp. We’re going to have some fun…”
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