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Rachel stared at herself naked in the mirror, and masturbated.
She was disgusted by what she saw.
It had been ten days since her breast surgery, and she still wasn’t used to what she saw in the mirror. But Milo made her spend three hours a day looking at herself and masturbating, while repeating to herself, “I look like a slut. I look like a sex-cow.” He called it her “homework”.
The surgeon had made no effort whatsoever to make her new tits look realistic. They stuck straight out from her chest like soccer-balls. Milo told her her new breasts were a triple-D cup now – not that she was allowed to wear bras. When she wasn’t masturbating, her breasts had been kept bound in painful strapping designed to support them while they healed. She had only just graduated back to having her tits unsupported today, which Milo assured her was because her surgeon had been particularly excellent – some women took far longer to heal.
Her brown hair had been dyed a platinum-blonde that made her look like a prostitute or a bimbo. Her pussy was completely hairless, the benefit of a laser hair removal, and every time she realised that her pubic hair would *never* grow back it came as a fresh and humiliating shock.
And worst of all was the small tattoo directly above her cunt, which read – in fancy, flowing script – “I LIKE BEING RAPED”. Milo told her that after Rachel had been put to sleep for her breast surgery, the anaesthetist and doctor had taken turns raping her pussy before beginning the surgery, and found her cunt to be so pleasurable that they had been inspired to add the tattoo. Milo told her that removing a tattoo from that area of the body was extremely painful, and rarely worked, and she had no idea whether he was telling the truth or not, but knew that she would be too scared to try.
She stared at the tattoo as she masturbated, repeating Milo’s phrases to herself – “I look like a slut. I look like a sex-cow.” Her gynaecologist would see it next time she went for a check-up. He would ask her about it. She would have to say that she chose to get it, because she would not be allowed to say it had been tattooed on her while she was unconscious for breast surgery.
The tattoo would be visible if she wore a particularly small bikini bottom. Any boy she ever slept with would see it. Some day her *husband* would see it. If she ever had a baby, the midwife would end up staring at it as Rachel pushed her infant out from her gaping cunt. If she ever became famous, people would *talk* about it. Some ex-boyfriend would say what he had seen tattooed on her pussy. She could be the leader of a nation, and in every interview she would get asked if she had a tattoo that said she enjoyed being raped.
She realised she wanted to cum – she was *desperate* to cum – and felt sick. What kind of a whore was she, that she would cum from staring at the mockery that had been made of her body and telling herself she was a sex-cow?
And even worse, she knew she *couldn’t* cum. Her fingers had never managed to make her orgasm. The only thing that could make her cum was being raped. The tattoo was true.
She had a sudden slutty urge to bring her fingers to her mouth and lick them clean, so she did. God, she tasted so *good*. It was so unfair that she could only cum when Milo was forcing her legs open and violating her.
Yesterday had been the greatest humiliation yet. Milo had made her show her new body to her parents. Her father Dave and her mother Brooke had been seated on the couch as Milo led Rachel out – on a dog leash attached to a collar, no less – and told her to show her daddy how pretty she was now.
Her mother, of course, had been topless, her tits on display, with her hands cuffed behind her back and a ball-gag in her mouth. It was the way Rachel’s father seemed to prefer his wife now, and besides, it was the Etreborian way, and the whole household were fans of the Etreborian way now (or at least, the men were).
Shyly, Rachel had taken off her top to expose her slutty new fuckmelons, and her father had said, “You look very pretty, honey. They suit you.” She had died inside a little, hearing her father say that – and had felt even worse when she saw that there was a tent in his pants. Her fake whore tits had made her father’s dick hard.
Then she had taken off her skirt to show her cunt. She had no panties on, of course. Her father had stared at her pussy – and the tattoo above it – his dick growing harder with every second.
“Do you think my pussy looks slutty, daddy?” she had asked. Milo had coached her carefully on what to say.
“Yes,” said Dave in a hoarse voice. “You have a very slutty pussy, honey.”
Then she said the words that Milo had had to slap her seven times before she agreed to use. “There’s no hair even on the inside of my pussy lips, daddy. Would you like to see?”
And she walked forward to put her cunt right in front of her father’s face.
Inside she hoped – prayed – that he would say, “No, that’s okay, baby.”
But instead, he reached forward, and spread her pussy lips with his hand, parting her puffy labia to stare at her clitoris and fuckhole within.
Her mother was staring at her with bulging eyes, full of fury and humiliation at seeing her daughter transformed into a porn bimbo. Rachel looked away, unable to bear the shame of her gaze.
There was no escaping the shame of her father’s interest, though. She didn’t know what was worse – the fact that her own father was parting her pussy lips to stare at her rape-tunnel – or that her cunt was so treacherously soaking wet that she was oozing arousal-slime onto her own father’s hand.
“Of course,” said Milo, “as her father, you should feel free to inspect the progress of her recovery from surgery whenever you like.”
“Of course,” said Dave.
And then, blessedly, it was over, and Rachel was being led away from her visibly-aroused father, back to her bedroom, where Milo would rape her and let her cum.
She hated Milo. She hated everything he had done to her life – and to her family.
And yet, a few moments later, when he interrupted her “homework” to casually rape her and ejaculate into her cunt, she almost felt like she loved him. Because she had been facing the reality that she would masturbate for hours and not be able to cum, and instead he had given her the wonderful gift of an orgasm.
“Thank you,” she muttered. “I’m sorry I look like a sex-cow. I’m sorry I’m a slut. Thank you, Master. Thank you. Thank you.”