Phoebe was a good girl. She was pretty. She had performed well in school. She was respectful of her parents and generous with her friends. She had saved herself for marriage, and at the age of 20 she had entered a relationship with James – a man who was devastatingly handsome, independently wealthy, and eight years her senior.
But there were some things that Phoebe didn’t admit to herself.
For instance, there was a certain way that James looked at her sometimes – predatory, disrespectful, possessive. And she knew that it should make her feel unsafe – but it left her with a very distracting wetness inside her panties.
And he would make comments – that a pretty waitress who was slow bringing them food at a restaurant deserved to be slapped; or that a girl at the next table in a sexy dress was asking to be raped; or that a man on a date at the next table needed to teach his noisy girlfriend that her mouth was for cock, not words. And, eager to please and not start an argument, Phoebe would agree with him – and every time her did, she became *very* aware that her pussy agreed, too.
And then, after she had been dating James for a month, Phoebe had accidentally met one of James’ ex-girlfriends, a girl by the name of Kitty.
“You have to break up with him,” Kitty had told her tearfully over coffee. “He’s a monster. He raped me… and worse. The things he did to me… he treated me like I wasn’t even human….”
And Phoebe knew she should have followed Kitty’s advice, and left James immediately – but instead she started dressing a little more provocatively, and dropping hints that James should propose to her.
When he *did* propose – with a breathtakingly expensive diamond ring – he didn’t say, “Will you marry me?” In fact, he didn’t even phrase it as a question. What he said was, “I want you to be my property.” And Phoebe heard herself saying, in a voice quivering with confused excitement, “Yes, sir….”
The wedding itself was a dream. Phoebe’s dress was as beautiful as it was expensive. No expense was spared. She felt like a princess, dressed all in white, surrounded by smiling faces and congratulations.
And when it was all over, James took her back to their hotel for their wedding night.
Except he didn’t take her to the luxury penthouse suite she had been expecting. Instead he directed their limousine into the red light district, and stopped at a cheap love hotel, of the sort where men pay by the hour to cheat on their wives or fuck prostitutes.
“James, what is this?” she asked nervously.
He looked at her, in her voluminous virginal white wedding dress. “Give me your panties,” he said.
She blinked. “What?”
He sighed, and repeated himself, slowly, like he was talking to a child. “Give – me – your – panties, – slut.”
She recoiled like she had been slapped. He had never called her a word like that before. “James…” she protested.
His voice took on a note of anger. “Did you promise to love, honour, and most of all *obey* me today? Or were you just saying whatever silly words came into your stupid slut head? Give me your fucking panties, bitch, or you can get out of the limousine right now and stand on the side of the street with the other whores while I go get us a divorce. I don’t know if this jurisdiction requires me to give reasons, but I swear to God I’m going to tell your parents I caught you cheating on me with a male dog.”
Her mouth hung open. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She barely registered that her cunt was suddenly very, very wet. She couldn’t move.
“Now, bitch!” James demanded.
It broke the spell. Suddenly she was moving quickly, reaching up under her dress, wiggling her panties down her legs and over her white high-heeled shoes, passing her underwear to her husband.
“Good bitch,” he said, smiling. His eyes widened a little when he discovered the wet patch on the crotch, and he held them up in front of her so she would know that he had seen it. She blushed with humiliation.
Then he reached out and pushed the panties into her open mouth, gagging her.
Her eyes widened, and she made a muffled sound. She could taste her own cunt on the cotton fabric.
“Don’t you *dare* spit them out, bitch,” said James. “Now get out of the limousine and let’s start our wedding night.”
He opened the limousine door, and pulled her out onto the street. She didn’t know what to do. She wanted to spit out the humiliating gag, but James had warned her not to. Instead, she closed her mouth over it, so no one would see she had her own underwear in her mouth.
James led her into the hotel. It was seedy and run down. A desk clerk looked up at them from reception.
“Reservation for James,” said James.
“Yes, sir, we have that,” said the clerk. “Do you care to give the lady’s name as well?”
“Oh, yes, she’s a prostitute, and her name is Bambi Fuckballoons,” said James. “Apparently she actually had it legally changed so people would know she was available for hire just from hearing it.”
Phoebe’s face went crimson red. She couldn’t help herself – she tried to protest, and only made a muffled noise through the panties. She quickly went silent.
“Did Ms Fuckballoons say something, sir?” asked the clerk, passing James the keys to his room.
“Just moaning like a slut,” said James. “I ejaculated in her mouth in the limousine, and she’s refusing to swallow it so she can keep enjoying the taste.”
Phoebe shot a look of fury at James, but he ignored her. “Come along, Bambi,” he said. “It must be terribly hard for you to not have anything stuffed up your cunt right now. Let’s go get that fixed.” He reached out – and grabbed her by her left breast, squeezing hard enough to get a grip, then pulling her towards the elevator. Phoebe squealed into her gag, raised her hands to free herself – and then thought about the embarrassment of causing a further scene here in the lobby. It would almost certainly end in revealing that she had her panties stuffed in her mouth. So instead she let James drag her by her boob towards the lift.
Once they were in the lift, the doors closed, and they were alone. The elevator moved slowly. James pulled the gag out of her mouth.
“Is there something you want to say to me, wife?” he asked her.
“Yes!” she exclaimed. “How dare you…”
He pushed the panties back into her mouth, muffling her.
“I’m not interested in hearing bitch things,” he said. “You’re my wife, and I expect you to talk like a wife. When I ask you if you have anything to say, the answer is, ‘How can I please you, sir?”” He looked at her. “Remember your vows, bitch.” Then he took the panties out again. “Now, is there something you want to say to me, wife?”
She pouted defiantly – but she *had* vowed. “How can I please you, sir?” she asked, in a small, childlike voice.
“Take your panties, wipe them across your pussy to catch all the slutty wetness you appear to be generating, then stuff them back in your mouth like a good whore,” he told her.
She looked at him, not really believing he was acting this way. He had been so kind to her during their courtship – and now he was treating her like a prostitute – or an animal.
But still, not really knowing why she was obeying, she took her panties from his hand, lifted her skirt slightly – blushing crimson red – and reached underneath it to wipe the panties against her pussy. She was *gushingly* wet – she didn’t understand why – and the panties came away soaked all the way through. Blushing even brighter red, she lifted them to her face, and put them back in her mouth, gagging herself with the overwhelming taste of her own fuckhole.
“Good girl,” said James, and at that moment the elevator stopped and the doors opened onto an empty hotel corridor.
“This corset makes it hard to get a handhold,” James said, looking at her chest. Then, without warning, he reached into her cleavage and lifted her large tits up and out of the corset they were in, exposing them to the entire world. Then he grasped her left fuckmelon in a vice-like crushing grip, and began to pull, leading her down the corridor towards their room.
Phoebe squealed into her cunt-flavoured gag again, but still she didn’t try and physically resist, allowing herself to be pulled by her exposed udder down the length of the hallway.
At the room, James opened the doorway. The space inside was dimly lit and a little dirty. A single large queen-size bed was the dominating feature – that is, except for the art hanging on the walls.
Each wall of the room held two large, framed photos, with glass covers. Each photo was of a naked woman with huge fake tits and her legs spread to expose her cunt. And on each cunt was….
James pulled on her tit violently, jerking her into the room, and closing the door behind them.
“Now,” he said, “I just gave you the absolute dream wedding. Literally every last thing you wanted from a wedding, at an absolutely ridiculous level of expense. I didn’t say no even once – not even when you wanted those ridiculous floral arrangements for every table at the reception. You’ve had your perfect wedding. So now you’re going to give me the perfect wedding night. And you’re also going to lose those ridiculous illusions that you’re my ‘partner’ or somehow my equal.”
He pulled on her tit again. “You’re my *property*. You’re a thing I own, just like my garbage bin or my toilet scrubber. Do you understand?”
She felt her eyes watering. She wasn’t sure if it was from betrayal, humiliation, or the pain in her breast. But she looked into her husband’s eyes, and said, “Yes, sir.”
“I’m going to let go of your tit now,” said James. “And when I do, you’re going to take one of your fuckbags in each hand and squeeze them so they hurt. They need to hurt at least as badly as I’m hurting you right now. And you’re not to stop until I tell you to, understand?”
She felt a tear run down her face. Was she crying? At the same time as the tear made its way down her face, she felt a little trickle of cunt juice run down her inner thigh. Was it really crying if she was so aroused she was literally dripping?
‘Yes, sir,” was all she said. And when James let go of her breast, she did as she was told, grabbing each of her boobs and crushing them in her hands until she whimpered.
“Now look at these women,” said James, turning her to face the walls. “These women are all worthless, ridiculous sex-objects – and yet, they are all prettier and more interesting than you are. I had the hotel put them up so I’d have something to look at and fantasise about while fucking you tonight.”
Phoebe was breathing heavily, from her arousal and the pain in her breasts. She wished she wasn’t so wet. She squeezed her tits even harder, to try and make herself calm down, but it just made her cunt spasm eagerly.
She couldn’t take her eyes off the lewd, naked sluts. More specifically, she couldn’t take her eyes off what was shining on the glass directly over the cunt of each photograph – a little smear of sticky white fluid.
“Oh yes,” said James, following her gaze. “I also had the hotel send its male staff up here to ejaculate over the photos. That’s a man’s cum, right there on the glass. And what you’re going to do is go around to each photo and lick it clean. I think it will help teach you to worship big-titted sextoys as your new role models. And besides, I wanted to make sure you’d tasted the cum of a bunch of anonymous men before you lost your virginity, to make sure that tonight didn’t feel in any way special or pure or romantic.”
He reached forward and pulled the panties out of her mouth – then lifted her wedding dress, and stuffed them up her cunt. She moaned and bucked her hips as he penetrated her, unable to help herself.
“I can’t…” she heard herself saying – and then SLAP! Her head rocked to the side as James slapped her hard across the cheek.
“Do not EVER say no to me, bitch,” James warned her. “Here’s a little story. After tonight, you’re going to start telling your family and friends that you have asked me to slap you, whenever I like. You’re going to tell them that it makes you horny, and that you need it for discipline. You’re going to tell them it was all your idea. You’re going to tell them I was reluctant, and you told me you’d divorce me if I didn’t slap you like a bitch whenever you misbehaved. Do you understand? Because I *am* going to slap you whenever you displease me, no matter who is watching.”
Phoebe gasped, and looked at James in disbelief. He had *hit* her. But – “Yes, sir,” she heard herself say. “I will, sir.”
“Now go and lick those woman’s fuckholes, slut,” James demanded.
Phoebe looked at the sperm smeared on the glass of the photo frames. It was still wet. I should run, she thought to herself. I should leave here. This is disgusting. It’s degrading. I can’t lick the semen of strangers off these pornographic photographs. And I should *definitely* stop hurting my own tits like this.
But if she left, it would mean a divorce. She didn’t believe in divorce, and neither did her family. And in any case, how would she explain it? Would anyone even believe this had happened, so quickly, on her own wedding night? And even if they did, how would she explain why she hadn’t left when he had demanded her panties in the limousine? Or when he’d stuffed them in her mouth? Or told the desk clerk she was a prostitute? Or pulled her around by her tits?
And if she left, what would she do about her achingly wet pussy?
So, still gripping her breasts, she moved up to the first photograph. The woman was really quite pretty, in a slutty, sextoy kind of way. And Phoebe *had* always wished that her tits were a *bit* bigger. She looked at the woman’s cunt. She had never really seen another woman’s pussy before – and now she was going to lick a picture of one. Was it wrong to do this? Did it mean she was a lesbian? The thought occurred to her that if she did this, now, then there was a good chance that some day James would make her do it to a real woman….
She extended her tongue, into the little smear of sperm. She flinched as she touched it – but to her surprise, it didn’t taste so bad. It had gone cold, but it was not really that different from drinking salt water, or a salty soup. She flicked her tongue back and forth across the porn star’s cunt, licking up all the cum, and then moved to the next photo.
Part of her brain was screaming. She had just licked up a strange man’s cum. Not her husband. She didn’t even know who it was. And now it was inside her. What kind of whore was she? But she tuned it out, and stuck her tongue out, and licked at the snatch of the next photograph, carefully cleaning away the anonymous sperm.
Her tits hurt. Her cunt ached. She wanted to masturbate. She had very rarely masturbated – it was a sin – and on the few times she had given into temptation she had punished herself afterwards by pinching her clitoris painfully. It hadn’t helped – she had just come to associate pain in her pussy with sexual arousal. Her greatest shame had been at a match of the women’s soccer team she played on. An opposing player had accidentally kicked her right in the cunt – and Phoebe had orgasmed, squirting into her panties. No one had noticed – but *Phoebe* had known, and she had never lived down the shame.
It seemed like forever as she worked her way around the room, but eventually she was done. The cum of eight separate strangers was now in her belly. She looked at her husband for approval.
“Good cunt,” he said. “You can let go of your tits now.”
Phoebe did – and then screamed. She had been holding them so hard she had stopped the blood from flowing into her nipples – and as soon as she let them go, it rushed back into the abused flesh, with a feeling like pins and needles, only a million times more intense. She did something she almost never did – she swore. “Fuck! Fuck!” she exclaimed, unable to make the pain stop. Her breath caught in a half-sob.
“Good cunt,” said James again. “That’s exactly what I like to see in a slut’s tits – excruciating pain.”
Phoebe sobbed again – but the agony was slowly retreating into a dull throb.
James stepped up to her, and began taking off her dress. She let him. She could hardly feel any more embarrassed than she did right now. Soon it was off her, and she was completely nude in front of her husband.
He pointed at the heaped pile of white satin and lace that she had worn at her wedding. “The first time you need to urinate tonight,” he told her, “you’re going to take that into the bathroom, squat over it, and piss on it, while masturbating. I want you to piss all over this thing that symbolises your purity, innocence and goodness. You’re going to soak every idea that lets you think you’re a nice girl in your whorish piss. I’m going to film it, so you can masturbate to orgasm watching yourself do it once each week – and maybe to show to your friends, if you’re ever a difficult bitch with me. And afterwards you’re going to take your ruined wedding dress home and hang it up in your wardrobe,, so you’ll see it every day and be reminded of who you are and what you did.”
“No!” she protested, eyes full of horrified tears. “No, I can’t! No! No!”
James just laughed uproariously, and pointed to Phoebe’s waist.
Phoebe followed his motion, looking down with eyes full of tears – and saw her own hand, rubbing her pussy. She was masturbating. She was masturbating without even realising it. She was fingering her cunt as she listened to James tell her to corrupt her values and dreams.
“Yes,” he told her. “You can.” And she knew she would.
And over the next half hour, he prepared her to be raped. He insisted on calling it “rape” – not “lovemaking” or “sex” or even “fucking”.
“You’re my property now,” he told her. “Your consent is irrelevant. And I think you’ll be more fun to rape than to just fuck.”
First he got out a permanent marker and wrote on her body. On her left tit he wrote, “I am a worthless slut,” and on her right tit he wrote, “Sluts enjoy rape”. He wrote them upside down, so she could read them when she looked down at her own breasts. He wrote “Slap Me” on each of her cheeks – and then slapped her, to test it out. He wrote “Cock Hole” across her lips and mouth, using her mouth as the “O” in “hole”. He wrote “Use My Rapetunnel” on her belly, with an arrow pointing to her pussy, and then drew a bunch more arrows on her thighs, drawing more attention to her cunt. Finally, he pushed the marker he had used into her tight virgin anus, until it was halfway in and halfway out, and left it there.
Then he got out his phone and filmed her with her new decorations. He made her say, “My name is Bambi Fuckballoons and I want my daddy to rape me.” Afterwards, he told her he was going to send it to her father.
“No! No! No!” she screamed. She genuinely didn’t want that to happen. She couldn’t live with it.
“Then hurt your cunt,” said James. “Now.”
Desperate, half out of her mind (her brain wasn’t working well, with all this fear and arousal), she spread her pussy lips and grabbed her clit as hard as she could, and squeezed.
It was a little *too* hard. Her whole body bucked with the sudden pain – and then she orgasmed, squirting on the floor. Her mouth fell open with shame – even more so when she realised James was still recording, and had caught that too.
“Good cunt,” he told her.
He made her lick up her ejaculate – a minor humiliation, in the scheme of the night – and then lie on the floor with her legs spread.
“See, I don’t want your first time having vaginal sex to be sweet, or good,” he told her. “I want it to *hurt*.” And then he drew back his foot – still wearing the leather shoes he had gone to the wedding in – and kicked her in the cunt.
She squealed – but kept her legs spread – and so he kicked her again. And again. On the third kick, she orgasmed again, and on the fifth she orgasmed a third time. Her cunt was on fire. She wanted to pretend she wasn’t here. She wanted to wake up and find this was all a horrible dream. She wanted James to keep kicking her, so she could cum some more.
He kicked her ten times, then picked up her phone – he had been carrying it for her during the wedding – and threw it at her. “Go through your phone,” he said, “and find me the sexiest photo you can of a girl that you personally know in real life very well.”
It was easy. Her sister Erin was a fashion model. Phoebe found a photo of Erin in a sultry evening dress and passed it back to James, explaining who it was.
“Good slut,” he said. Then he reached down, grabbed her by the hair, and began to drag her along the ground. Phoebe squealed, and struggled – but not too hard, because James would be angry with her if she actually succeeded in getting away.
He dragged her into the hotel room’s dingy bathroom. He walked to the toilet, and set up Phoebe’s phone on the cistern of the toilet, displaying the photo of her sister.
“Time for you to be raped, bitch,” he told Phoebe. “And I think we should start as we mean to go on, so you should probably get used to this.” He grabbed her hair again, and pulled her up to her knees. Then he forced her along the tiled floor to the toilet. He opened the seat, pulled up the ring – and then pushed Phoebe’s face down into the toilet bowl.
She struggled for real now. It wasn’t as if the toilet had been used, but it was a *toilet*! He was putting her *face* in it! She kicked and bucked but she was weak from all her orgasms, and James was strong. He pushed her in so her tits were crushed painfully between the porcelain of the bowl and the weight of her body, with her hair in the water itself, and her face close enough to the water that her mouth would go in if she was pushed just a little. Then he closed the lid on her. It didn’t close anywhere near all the way, of course – her body was in the way – but it shut out the outside world, leaving her alone with the toilet bowl.
Then a moment later, she felt him kick her legs apart – and then the moment she had been waiting for: his hard, hot cock probed at her sopping wet pussy lips, and then pushed into her cunt.
She was in heaven. Her husband was finally fucking her. And while she had never dreamed it would be a violent rape with her head in a toilet bowl, it was what her pussy had *needed* for hours now. Sure, her cunt was bruised from being kicked, and every thrust *hurt* – but it felt good too. It felt right.
“Oh, fuck, Erin…” she heard James say – and she realised that he was looking at the picture of her sister. He was fucking her, and fantasising about her sister. He wasn’t even fucking her as a human – she was just a masturbatory aid for his sex fantasy about Erin.
It was the most humiliating, degrading realisation she had ever had. And so, of course, she orgasmed. And orgasmed again. Squirting ejaculate each time onto her husband’s cock and over the bathroom floor.
“God, Erin, you’re such a slut,” moaned James. He banged his cock into her hard, each motion forcing her face into the toilet water. “Your sister is so stupid and whorish, Erin. You know how whorish she is? She lets me put her head in the toilet and rape her, and she cums from it.. You know what else, Erin? I’m going to tell her that she needs to procure you for me to rape. I don’t care how – drugs, while you’re sleeping, blackmail – but she’s going to help me to non-consensually fuck you. And she’ll do it. She’ll betray her own sister and every moral she has, because she’s a stupid obedient cunt, and being a disgusting fuckpig makes her cum.”
It was true. It did. And she did – another squirt. She tried to moan, and got toilet water in her mouth. She swallowed it.
“Or maybe,” he said, “I’ll make *her* rape, you, Erin. Maybe I’ll make her hold you down and lick your cunt while you scream….”
And with that, he found his orgasm. Phoebe felt him ejaculate inside her, flooding her unprotected womb. She made a delirious, incoherent noise.
She felt him pull out and wipe his cock clean on her ass cheeks. He moved around, and then leaned down near the toilet bowl. And she heard him speak.
“And *that*”, he said, “is what I am some day going to make you admit to your sister was the thought that was in your head at the moment you were impregnated.”
And then he flushed.
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