Victoria found the website quite by accident. It was titled “The Little Book of Feminist Guilt”, and its design was quite simple. There was a text box entitled “Confession”, and a button entitled “Upload a photo of your face”.
She stumbled across it at exactly the perfect time, and she knew exactly what she wanted – needed – to type in the “Confession” box.
“I work in family law,” she typed, “and I coach women to lie about being raped in order to get better divorce settlements.”
It was one sentence, but she was crying by the time she was done, eaten up by the guilt of how she spent her professional career. She took a photo of her tear streaked face, and uploaded it.
She wasn’t sure what she expected once the upload finished, but the page on the screen surprised her. It showed a picture of a thigh, and instructions for how to make a simple dot tattoo using ink and a needle.
It also read: “Tattoo five dots on your thigh, exactly one centimetre below the lowest point of your cunt. From now on you will no longer wear any clothes that come further down your body than the tattoo, except for stockings or high heels.”
She stared at the page, eyes still watery. It was so perfect. It was the punishment she deserved for being who she was. She found a pin, and some pens, and tattooed the five dots on herself. Then she went to see what clothes she could still wear. Not enough, she decided, so she spent the rest of the night tailoring many of her skirts to raise their hemline, until they were little more than slutty belts.
The next day she blushed more than a little, coming into the office with the new outfit, but no one complained, and she noticed her male co-workers were a lot friendlier towards her. However, in the afternoon she had a meeting with a client, and she was supposed to tell the client to falsely claim that her husband had raped her, and Victoria just couldn’t face doing that interview dressed like a slut herself, so she borrowed a longer skirt off a friend and changed. The new skirt covered her five-dot tattoo.
That evening, there was an email waiting for her in her inbox. It read: “You confessed: ‘I coach women to lie about being raped.’” And then it had a picture of her crying face, and her full name, home address and work address. The last line read, “Face matching technology works wonders these days. Have anything to confess about your skirt today?” And then a link to the Little Book of Feminist Guilt.
Victoria stared at it, feeling sick. Was she being blackmailed? Of course she was. She wanted to walk away from the computer and pretend it hadn’t happened. But she clicked the link.
In the confession box, she typed, “I promised to wear a short skirt but I didn’t.” She went to upload a photo of her face, but the text on the button had changed. It now read “Upload a photo of your face and bare tits.”
Blushing, she took off her shirt, and photographed herself topless, then uploaded it.
The page that followed was simple. “You don’t wear underwear anymore.”
The next day was hell. It was impossible, with her tiny skirt, to hide the fact she had no panties on. Several men whistled at her in the office. The woman at reception wrinkled her nose in disgust at Victoria and said, “I don’t know how you can stand to dress like that.” Victoria tried not to bend at the waist at all, and sat on chairs with her knees as close together as she could, but she was pretty sure many people in the office saw her cunt that day.
It was humiliating – but it felt good, too. She knew she deserved this, for all the lies she’d made women tell. It felt good to get what she deserved.
Still, she got some news late in the day, and as soon as she heard it, all she could think of was about confessing it to the Little Book of Feminist Guilt.
“A man was sent to jail today,” she typed into the website at home, “because of a false rape allegation I encouraged a woman to make.” And she uploaded her face and tits again.
“Dye your hair blonde,” was the response, “and book yourself a breast enhancement to fake-looking triple-D cup tits as soon as possible.”
She flushed. She’d thought her punishment might just be to expose herself in a park or something. A boob job would be permanent – and it would make her look like a whore. She could afford it, of course, but…
Then she thought about whoever ran the website spreading what she had just told it – that she’d conspired to falsely imprison a man. Swallowing nervously, she took out her phone and began making enquiries immediately. She was able to book an appointment for the weekend. Then she went and dyed her hair bimbo-blonde.
The next day of work was even more humiliating. There was no hiding now that she was deliberately making herself look like a fucktoy. Her co-workers took pleasure in dropping things on the floor for her to pick up, which inevitably exposed her bare ass and pussy.
To compound her shame, the humiliation was making her wet. Her pussy got fatter and slimier the more she blushed. Being embarrassed like this was just what a bitch like her deserved. She overheard a co-worker calling her “The Rape Whisperer” behind her back, and she almost orgasmed on the spot because she didn’t know if it was a reference to what she did in her job, or how she was dressed, or both.
She had to stay back a little after work – and that was when David, a fellow lawyer, came into her office, pushed her down over her desk without a word, so that her nude ass was pointing out, took out his cock, and shoved it into her unprotected wet pussy.
“Don’t yell, or people will see,” he said. “I figured you wanted this, the way you were dressing these days.”
She didn’t yell, unable to bear the humiliation of anyone else seeing her being raped. She lay there as he pounded her pussy, until finally he ejaculated into her womb. When he did, to her utter shame, she orgasmed.
She cried all the way home, and went straight to the Little Book. “I orgasmed from being raped today,” she told it. It wanted a nude photo of her entire body today, so she gave it one. David’s sperm was still leaking from her cunt.
“Thank him for raping you,” said the website. “Tell him he can do it again whenever he likes. From now on, your clothes must make it obvious you are not wearing underwear.”
She didn’t get a chance to talk to David immediately, of course, as it was the weekend, and she had her appointment. By the time she came into work on Monday, she had new humiliating stripper-tits. She’d worn a tight sheer top that didn’t really fit her new boobs, and so was stretched so thin and tight across her titflesh that it may as well have been transparent. She paired it with a short skirt – given her hemline requirements, basically any skirt showed the world that she was underwear-free.
She met David in the car park before work. “Hi,” she said nervously, as he goggled at her whorish new breasts. “Thank you for raping me the other day. I liked it. You can do that again whenever you like.”
He *did* do it again – right there, pushing her tits-down over the bonnet of her car and shoving his cock into her naked pussy. She moaned quietly, trying not to attract attention. She told herself not to orgasm, not to be a slut, not to suffer the shame of cumming like a whore from being raped – but somehow those thoughts only made her cum faster – and twice.
Despite trying to be quiet, another co-worker, Jonas, saw the intercourse. “Wow,” he said, walking over – and then “Wow!” again, when he saw her new fake boobs. “I like the new Victoria,” he said, as David finished cumming inside her.
“So do I,” said David. “Do you want a turn? It’s okay if she struggles. She says she likes being raped, and she cums from it.”
“Absolutely,” said Jonas. Frantically, Victoria tried to rise, but he put a hand on the back of her neck and pushed her back down, and then she felt his cock push painfully into her anus. She cried out from the agony, but soon her cries turned into moans, and to her embarrassment she orgasmed yet again.
The word got around the office quickly that Victoria was fuckable. When Victoria went to the women’s toilets at morning tea, Geoff from HR followed her in and raped her in the toilet stall. Afterwards he made it clear that she’d use the men’s toilets from now on, to make her more accessible. She got raped twice more in the men’s toilets that afternoon, once as part of a double-team by two men from accounting – one cock in her mouth and another in her pussy.
At the end of the day, her boss made her stay back so that he could try her out as well.
When she got home, she was in tears. She staggered to the computer room, pulling off her slutty clothes, and sat in front of the computer nude. She was completely unaware that she had started masturbating – all she was aware of was her desperate sobbing.
She pulled up the Little Book and typed, “My name is Victoria and I am a worthless rapetoy.” Then she typed it again, and a third time, for good measure. She had to stop sometimes, because the fingers she was masturbating with were getting covered in the semen still filling her pussy, and she was bringing them out occasionally to lick them clean, like she knew she deserved to.
The button that had previously asked for a photo now asked for a video of her saying her confession out loud. She got out her phone and recorded herself – nude, masturbating – saying, “My name is Victoria and I am a worthless rapetoy”. When she uploaded it, it immediately appeared on the computer screen, looping, repeating her confession back to her.
Beneath it was a single line of text, and two buttons.
“Do you deserve for your confessions to be secret?”
“Yes?”
“No?”
She looked at the screen for a long time, listening to her own voice calling her a worthless fucktoy. She knew what they were asking. They knew who she was. They could send her confessions to her workmates, her family, her friends, and the police.
She stared at the options. She licked more rape-cum off her fingers, and shoved them back into her fuckhole.
Then she reached out, clicked “No”, and orgasmed.
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