It took Capri’s Master a lot of corrective punishment and mind-clouding aphrodisiacs to get her to pose properly like a good slut, but he thought this was the best Christmas card photo yet.
She really didn’t want to pose, especially after he told her where he was sending it, and made her write a list of all the things those people might think about her when they saw it, but of course that was the point. Every time she did something like this, she accepted her identity as a rapedoll a little bit more, and understood more clearly that what she wanted didn’t matter when she had a body so clearly intended to be used as a cum-receptacle.
“If you were meant to be happy,” he told her, “then why do you look so sexy when you’re crying?”
He made her take the photos to a print-shop to get printed into cards, so that she could see the look on the shop staff’s face when she showed them the pictures and told them what she wanted. He made her address the cards to her parents and her friends and her family, and made her write a personal invitation to fuck her in each card, masturbating as she wrote. He loved the look on her face when she saw the recipients afterwards, the humiliation of knowing how they’d seen her and what she’d invited them to do to her.
“They’ll know I didn’t want to do this,” she told him, her face streaked with tears. “They’ll know I didn’t consent.”
“I know,” he told her, laughing. “And won’t it be lovely to know that by this time next year the only people left in your life, the ones we’ll be sending the next round of Christmas cards too, are the ones who are okay with that and looking forward to another card?”
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Read more stories of celebration and degradation in my e-book They Say It’s Your Birthday, available now from AllTheseRoadworks.com for only $4.99 USD! (Click here to view in store.)
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