Previous chapters:
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six
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Bella felt guilty all the time.
She felt guilty because she was cheating on Charles every day at work, allowing her boss to rape her, although she didn’t know how to make it stop. She felt guilty because she so often orgasmed from his rapes.
She felt guilty because when she *did* fuck Charles, he told her that she was mediocre and disappointing to fuck. Each time she took his cock in her pussy, or in her mouth, she tried harder to focus on his pleasure while ignoring her own, wiggling and bucking harder, moaning louder, encouraging him to use and hurt her for his pleasure. Fucking him this way made her feel dirty and whorish, but not nearly as much as Charles’ assurances that she wasn’t even very good at it.
She felt guilty because she had dyed blonde hair, and nipple and clitoris piercings, and the words “I CUM FROM RAPE” tattooed on her skin, which she know made her look like a whore. She felt guilty when she saw her female friends, because they only saw her hair, and gave her strange looks just for that – because, after all, hadn’t she called that shade “bimbo blonde” in the past, and made fun of it? And she felt guilty because they had no idea about the tattoo and the piercings, and she felt like she was lying to them, even though she knew they’d think she was a disgusting slut if they knew, and refuse to spend time with her.
She felt guilty because she so often had cum on her face and tits – donated by Charles, or her boss – and she knew that was gross and whorish. And she felt guilty because she knew Charles thought she was prettier that way, but most of the time she *didn’t* have cum on her face and tits.
She felt guilty because of the pieces of paper from the relationship counselling that she had stuck to the wall in every room of her house, that reminded her that her only value was her tits, and her cunt, and her stupidity, and obedience, and fuckability. And she felt guilty because those things weren’t even that valuable. Charles told her frequently that her tits weren’t really big enough, and that her fuckbags were the best thing about her but they weren’t even that good. Charles inspected her cunt when they were together, and he would tell her it wasn’t wet enough, even though Bella had started masturbating before their time together to try and make it wetter and more eager for his cock. He told her that she was stupid, but not stupid enough, because she was still thinking before obeying his commands, and that she was somehow stupider than a dog yet less obedient. And, of course, she was a disappointing fuck.
There were mirrors everywhere in her house, to remind her of her new blonde hair and pierced body, and she was supposed to talk to them when she saw her reflection in them. No one would know if she didn’t – no one except Bella. But if she didn’t do as she had agreed in counselling, she would feel even more guilty, and this, at least, was something she could control.
So whenever she saw herself reflected, she would stop and talk to her reflection.
“I’m stupid,” she would whisper. “I’m a disgusting slut.”
And it would make her feel better to say that, because it felt like giving up the fight and admitting the truth. It felt like being a good girl.
The more she said it, the more she would hear those words in her own head. Sometimes when she encountered a particularly complex problem – one that she knew that in the past she would have been able to solve – she found herself shying away from even thinking about it. “I’m stupid,” she would hear herself think, and she knew that she couldn’t do it. Or, rather, that she *shouldn’t* do it. Charles liked her stupid. She was stupid. After all, smart girls didn’t keep getting raped by their boss. Smart girls didn’t have cunt leashes.
And whenever she was stupid, Charles would reward her. When she didn’t know something, or said something silly, Charles would say, “Good girl,” and kiss her, and stroke her hair, and it felt wonderful. She found herself looking for opportunities to pretend she didn’t know things, or to say things that sounded particularly stupid, because each time she did she would receive such love and approval from her boyfriend. It seemed to be the only time she made him truly happy.
Even so, one night when Charles was visiting her at her house, she found herself bursting into tears.
“What’s the matter, Bella?” asked Charles, stroking her cheek.
“I’m so stupid,” she wept. “I’m such a disgusting slut. I do everything wrong. I can’t stop fucking my boss. I feel so guilty.”
“You are very stupid, Bella,” said Charles. He leaned forward and kissed her, and then said, “But being stupid seems to make you happy. Complex thoughts are difficult for you, aren’t they?”
She nodded.
“I think what you’re actually doing wrong is you’re thinking too much,” said Charles. “I think that’s what’s making you so unhappy. And I think it’s what’s making you so disobedient and ugly, and such a disappointing fuck.”
It was true, Bella realised. She had so many thoughts in her head when she was trying to please Charles – guilt and shame and fear and disgust – and it made it hard to focus entirely on Charles’ pleasure.
“Yes,” she nodded. “I think you’re right.”
“It’s not important what you think, honey,” said Charles. “That’s the lesson you need to learn here. That’s why you’re feeling so guilty.”
She nodded again.
“Do you want to please me, Bella?” asked Charles.
Bella nodded yet again. She felt stupid, bobbing her head like the kind of jiggly toy you might set on a dashboard. “Yes,” she added.
“Then I want you to apologise to me,” said Charles. “Apologise for thinking, Apologise for using your brain. Apologise for having thoughts. Apologise for pretending to be intelligent. Can you do that for me, Bella?”
The thought was horrifying – and, to Bella, in her confused state, that proved Charles’ point. If she thought about it, she felt scared and humiliated. So she shouldn’t think about it.
“Yes,” she breathed. “I can do that.”
“Good girl,” said Charles. “And while you’re apologising, I’m going to spank your pussy. And you’re going to keep apologising, and I’m going to keep spanking you, until you orgasm, okay, sweetie? And when you cum, I’ll forgive you.”
She instinctively clenched her knees together. “Spank my pussy?” she said. “But… that’ll hurt. I can’t… I can’t cum from that…”
“Sure you can, honey,” said Charles. “Pain and pleasure are the same thing for women. The reason your cunt is so sensitive is so that men can hurt you there when they want to. That’s what your pussy is for, sweetie.”
It didn’t make sense. It was confusing. She didn’t understand – and that was just more proof of the truth of what Charles was saying. She needed to stop trying to understand. Then she would be happy – and she would make Charles happy, which was even more important.
“Okay…” she said doubtfully. And she let Charles pry her legs apart, and pull her skirt up to her waist. She wasn’t wearing panties.
“Go on,” said Charles. “Start apologising.”
“I’m sorry I keep trying to think,” said Bella.
And THWACK – Charles slapped her pussy. She screamed, and tried to bring her legs together, but Charles was positioned between them, and she couldn’t close them or protect her cunt.
“Go on,” said Charles again.
“I’m sorry for having a brain,” she said. “I’m sorry I have thoughts. I’m sorry for pretending I’m intelligent. I’m sorry for thinking for myself.”
And with every statement, Charles slapped her hard in the cunt. It hurt like fire – particularly when it connected with the metal ring through her clitoris.
And yet, Charles was right, as he always was. Bella’s pussy had already been a little wet – the result of her masturbating before Charles came over, so she would be wet for him – and with each blow it seemed to get wetter, and throb eagerly.
“I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “I’m stupid and disgusting. I’m sorry for pretending to be smart. I’m sorry for trying to understand things. I’m sorry for having opinions. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
And suddenly, just as Charles had predicted, she was orgasming, bucking against Charles’ hand, gasping and shuddering in shame and guilt.
Charles leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. “I forgive you,” he whispered, and to Bella it felt like the most loving thing she had ever heard.
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Bella had regrets afterwards. She was an intelligent, educated woman, wasn’t she? Had she really just apologised for *thinking*? For “pretending to be smart”?
But it was too late. Charles had taken charge.
“We’re going to make some adjustments to your house to help you stop pretending to have thoughts,” he told her. “You’re going to be so much happier.”
He took almost all of her books and donated them to goodwill. Everything with significant amounts of writing in her house was removed – except for the reminders in each room that her value lay in her tits, her cunt, her obedience, her stupidity, and her fuckability.
He ordered a few new titles to go on her bookcase. These all sat on the top shelf, and Charles called them “aspirational literature”. Some had been delivered to her in the week of rape that followed her nipple and clit piercings. Many were new.
They included:
“I Don’t Need Feminism, I Just Need Bigger Tits: Happiness and the Modern Women” by E. Feldman
“Humans Have Cocks: The Case for Treating Women as Animals” by T. Bolland.
“Leashing the Modern Fuckpet” by J. Aukim
“I Am A Slut” by A. Fields; and
“The Cocksocket Training Guide: A Bimbo Essential” by H Rewin.
Below this, Charles filled the shelf with magazines. In the modern digital age, there were less hardcopy periodicals in the world, but he was still able to find enough bridal magazines, fashion journals, gossip rags, and hardcore pornography to fill the shelves. He selected for publications with many pictures and few words, and he jumbled them together, in a way that made it seem to Bella that there was no real difference between celebrities, models, wives and whores. Charles would encourage Bella to read the porn magazines – many of them servicing kinks that Bella found extreme or disgusting – and then afterwards when she looked at the glamorous celebrities or beautiful brides she would be unable to stop herself from imagining them nude, with cum on their tits, cocks in their mouths, maybe being anally raped.
Sometimes she would find herself touching her pussy as she imagined those things, idly rubbing her clit as she stared at the images in the magazines.
Charles installed a program on her phone and her computer for her as well.
“Here,” he said, passing her phone back to her. “Send me a message saying, ‘I am a stupid woman’.”
She typed the words into her phone – but her phone autocorrected what she typed. Now it read:
“Im a dum bitch ❤”.
She looked elsewhere on her phone – at social media, and websites – and found that everywhere there was text, her phone was introducing spelling errors, substituted words, and other mistakes.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” said Charles. “Without any examples of correct spelling and grammar in your life, you should quickly forget how to spell properly entirely. Isn’t that wonderful?”
It wasn’t wonderful, but Bella knew she deserved this. This was the natural consequence of letting her boss fuck her, of letting the girl in the tattoo parlour pierce her nipples and clit, of going to relationship counselling covered in cum and with a leash on her pussy. Nice girls didn’t do any of those things. Only stupid sluts like Bella. And this was, apparently, what needed to happen to stupid sluts in order for them to be able to process their guilt.
“Thank you, sir,” she whispered.
“You’re welcome, Bella,” he said. “Oh, and there’s one last thing.”
He went to her bedroom, and returned with her framed diploma from her tertiary studies – the proof her education. He opened the back of the frame, and took out the diploma itself.
“Here you go, Bella,” he said, passing it to her.
“What?” she asked, confused – surely because she was stupid. “Why? What is this for?”
“Well, you haven’t been to the toilet in hours, Bella,” Charles told her. “And you *did* apologise for pretending to be intelligent. This diploma is part of that dishonest pretending you were doing. Why don’t you go to the toilet now? And when you’re done… wipe with this, and then flush it. We can write to the university to have them formally revoke it tomorrow.”
No intelligent girl would wipe her ass with her diploma and then flush it down a toilet. . No empowered girl would allow her boyfriend to tell her to do that. And no nice girl would find herself surreptitiously, guiltily fingering her pussy as she did it.
So in the end the fact that Bella did all those things, just as Charles had commanded, showed that Charles had been right all along.
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Super story please continue
Will do!