She had complex feelings about her breasts. Her father, a difficult man, had reacted awkwardly to her developing body in her teen years – she would catch him staring at her swelling udders, only to have him tell her that she looked like a cow, and that “he bet the boys liked her” but she should feel ashamed of having such “cockteasingly huge slutbags” and she “ought to be punished”.
Those two ideas went to war in her head – that her tits would get her attention and make people like her, but that she should be ashamed of them and punished because of their size.
As she got older, and eventually moved out of home, her wardrobe of tops fell entirely into three categories – “tit-hugging”, “plunging neckline” and “see-through”. The rush of pleasure and validation she got whenever she saw someone staring at her tits was addictive – it felt like the attention that she had never received from her father, except when her tits were on display – and as her wardrobe got more daring, people paid less and less attention to anything but her boobs, reinforcing the loop.
But after the high came the low. When the attention ended, she would feel crushing guilt and shame. She would go home and strip, because cows like her didn’t deserve clothes, and she would masturbate by rubbing a stiff-bristled toothbrush over her clitoris – simultaneously deliriously erotic and agonisingly painful – while pinching her nipples. Sometimes she would moo like a cow as she did this – it was what she deserved, after all.
Often, men fucked her. The way she was dressed, it was inevitable. It never much occurred to her that her consent was relevant – she knew she was a cocktease, she knew what her shamefully huge tits did to men, and she supposed it was their right to take from her what she had promised. Often it was enjoyable; sometimes it was not; but she never complained.
She never orgasmed, either. She supposed she was broken, unable to cum from sex.
But that realisation changed when she was actually, really raped for the first time. Not just a boy who wouldn’t take no for an answer after she’d rubbed her fuckbags against him all night at the club. Not a man who pushed her down on the couch after an hour of her asking him whether he liked the way her slutmelons looked in her tight top. A genuine abducted-in-an-alleyway, driven-to-a-remote-location rape.
She never saw the man’s face – he wore a balaclava the whole time. He grabbed her outside a club, stuffed her into a van, and drove her… somewhere. A house, she thought. There, he stripped her roughly naked and cuffed her hands behind her back. He pushed her panties first into her cunt and then into her mouth, so she was gagged with the taste of her own pussy on her tongue.
He put metal clamps on her nipples – God, they hurt so much! – with each clamp connected to something like a thin dog leash. He put a leather collar on her neck – was that a cowbell, hanging from the front? And he ran the leashes from her nipples through the collar and then back over her shoulder.
All that done, he pushed her down over a table, so she was bent 90 degrees at the waist. He roughly kicked her legs apart, and then she felt his cock sink into her pussy.
She was wet. She was always wet when she fucked, whether she wanted it or not. She supposed she was blessed with a rape-ready body. It was embarrassing, but it was more pleasant than having him fuck her dry. She humped against his cock, figuring that things would go better for her if she tried to please her attacker. A polite rape victim was a good rape victim.
But then he grabbed the leashes, and pulled. She tried to scream into her panties. Her tits were being pulled up towards her neck! It hurt so much! And at the same time, her whole body was being pulled back onto his cock, letting him penetrate deep inside her.
“This is what you deserve,” she heard him growl – and just like that, she orgasmed. Her whole body twitched, and liquid spurted from her pussy. It *was* what she deserved. Nobody had ever hurt her tits so much at the same time as fucking her, and it was what she had needed this whole time – the punishment in her slutty fuckbags combined with attention from a man.
He pulled again, and she screamed again, and orgasmed again. He began to fuck, and to pull, harder, and she came more times than she could count before he finally filled her fuckhole with his cum.
He tied her up when he was done – stopping only to remove her panties from her mouth, stuff them into her pussy, and then return them to her mouth, soaked with his cum and her slut nectar – but left the clamps and leashes on. A couple of hours later, he came back, and briefly removed the clamps – she screamed again as the blood rushed back into her nipples – before reapplying them, removing her gag, pushing her to her knees, and stuffing his cock into her mouth. He pulled on the leashes again as she fellated him, and she had never enjoyed sucking cock so much.
Later in the evening, he told her he was letting her go. He’d drive her to a remote location, blindfolded, and leave her there naked.
She had other ideas. “Please, no…” she begged. “Can I stay? I need this. I thought maybe I could ride you, and you could slap my stupid udders as hard as you can while I fuck you? Or maybe you could put rope around the base of my tits and then hit them with a belt while I masturbate? Please, I’ll do anything, I’ll be your stupid sex cow, just keep raping me and hurting my tits…”
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I really thought that the rapist was going to be her father.