Previous chapters:
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen | Sixteen | Seventeen | Eighteen | Nineteen
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The article Alexandria was reading showed an image of a family in a room of what must have been an incredibly expensive mansion. An moustached Arabian man in an impeccably tailored suit sat in a mahogany chair facing the camera. Beside him, in a slightly smaller chair, was a beautiful white brunette with supermodel features, in an expensive haute couture dress that showed a generous helping of cleavage and thigh. She wore a jewelled necklace that must gave a vibe halfway between “ostentatious decoration” and “slave collar”.
On the other side of the man, a white girl who looked maybe 19 years of age knelt on the ground. She was wearing fashionable teen clothes – but her top was pulled up to expose what were likely C-cup breasts to the camera. Her face strongly resembled the seated woman, and Alexandria guessed the teen was the other woman’s daughter.
And then, in front of the group, was a nude white woman with a canvas bag over her head, obscuring her face. She was sprawled at the man’s feet with her legs spread wide to expose her cunt. Her pussy lips were taped to her inner thighs with transparent tape, giving a good view of her clitoris and fuckhole.
Alexandria quickly tabbed back to Tara Eastward’s facebook page, and looked at the nude image of Tara there. She couldn’t see the face of the woman in the article because of the bag – but both women had breasts the same size and shape, with similar nipples and areolae. And on top of that, both women had notably elongated labia, and a very prominent and slightly lengthened clitoris.
Alexandria had no doubt that the nude woman in the article was Elody’s friend – or girlfriend – Tara Eastward.
The article read as follows:
Why Some Women Are Giving Up Their Freedom and Humanity to Find Happiness as Sex-Dolls
The first thing that Cunty did upon meeting me was to apologise for her disgusting wet cock-hole, ask me to slap her tits because she deserved it, and then offer to suck my dick to make up for it.
I am later told privately by Cunty’s owner, Mustafa Alshehri, that she once went by the name “Tara”, and was a prominent feminist academic.
“But please don’t use that name around Cunty,” he continued. “We’re trying to help it to forget that it ever had another name or another existence.”
Throughout my time at Mustafa’s house, no member of his family ever refers to Cunty as “her” – only “it”. By the time I leave, I find myself doing it too – and the change of pronoun makes it surprisingly easy to think of her as the animal or object that Mustafa claims her to be.
Mustafa is one of the United Arab Emirates’ growing population of billionaires. I meet him and his family at his Abu Dhabi home, comprising the top six floors of a state-of-the-art skyscraper.
“This is my wife, Keely,” he says, introducing me to a gorgeous British woman in her early thirties. “Not legally my wife, of course, or otherwise it would be illegal for me to fuck her daughter.”
The daughter in question is Sabrina, a girl of 19. Throughout my time in Mustafa’s house, she never speaks to me directly – and although she wears fashionable clothes, at all times her breasts are exposed to my gaze… and to her step-father’s.
“Keely didn’t want to marry me, at first,” said Mustafa. “But I paid her husband at the time a significant sum to divorce her, and her employer to fire her, and each of her friends and family a small amount to cut off contact with her, and her local stores to refuse her service, and a small group of men to follow her around and harass her on the street – call her a cunt, try to pull her clothes off in public, throw garbage at her, that kind of thing. And after a while she came to see she would be much happier being my property in Abu Dhabi than being an impoverished whore in England.”
Mustafa’s relationship with Keely – and with her daughter, Sabrina, and with Cunty – is governed by a complex web of legal arrangements that make all their assets and income the property of Mustafa, and which give Mustafa the ability to make decisions about the women’s health, employment and education. The documents bind them to strict obedience to Mustafa’s desires – and breaches of contract give Mustafa the ability to inflict very severe discipline, up to and including death. It effectively amounts to modern-day slavery – but Mustafa assures me it is all completely legal.
“They have very good schools here,” Mustafa explained. “Not public, and not strictly legal, but they teach wives and daughters like Keely and Sabrina how to behave themselves. Their lessons are… quite memorable.”
As he says this, he undoes his pants and exposes his cock, and his step-daughter Sabrina crawls over to him and begins to suck it quietly, as her mother watches and smiles.
But my interest is in Cunty, who seems to be at a lower level of freedom even than Mustafa’s slave-wife and slave-daughter.
Mustafa suggests I should have Cunty suck my cock as we talk, and, unwilling to offend my host, I accept the offer. Cunty’s lips and mouth are warm and soft, and there’s a look in her eyes as she sucks – a pathetic desperation to please, as if she knows she will be brutally punished if she doesn’t – that is quite arousing.
“You may have noticed that Cunty has monstrously oversized cunt-flaps, and a distended clitoris,” said Mustafa.
My own opinion was that Cunty’s vagina was well within the normal variation of women – I had certainly seen women with even larger labia – but I nodded, playing along with my host.
“Frankly,” said Mustafa, “Cunty is a freak. A mutant. In some places it might have been killed as a child for such a deformity.”
I did not feel this was remotely the truth, but I kept silent, using my hands to guide Cunty’s head on my cock, and nodded along.
“In addition to which,” Mustafa continued, “its fuckhole is defectively whorish. It is always wet, and it gets aroused by the most perverted things – abuse, pain, degradation. It is able to orgasm simply from having its cunt repeatedly slapped, which I am sure you agree that no human woman would do.”
I have known a fair number of kinky woman who might orgasm from such a thing, and there was nothing wrong with them, but again I nodded.
“Tell Cunty what you think of it, having heard these things,” Mustafa urged
I knew what was required of me.
“You’re a disgusting slut, Cunty,” I told the girl as she sucked my cock.
She made a mewling noise of misery, and redoubled her efforts to make me cum.
“It is completely overcome with guilt for its malformed, unappealing twat,” said Mustafa. “It can barely think straight in the morning until it has had its cunt beaten. It’s something of a chore, honestly, but my daughter does it most days, and then Cunty thanks her by licking her cooze. Which is good for Sabrina’s development, honestly – she was the most awful homophobe before she came here, and engaging in lesbian activity still makes her shiver with shame. It is something she must become used to, for the sake of entertaining me.”
The image of Cunty licking the beautiful Sabrina’s pussy while Sabrina blushes is too much for me, and I find myself ejaculating into Cunty’s mouth. Mustafa reaches his own climax in his step-daughter’s mouth, and then says, “Let’s see you share, girls.”
Sabrina and Cunty crawl away from us, towards each other, and then kiss – and I can see them passing our cum back and forth in their mouths as their tongues intertwine, mingling and savouring the semen. Sabrina, as promised, is clearly humiliated and degraded by this behaviour. Cunty, meanwhile, has a blank look, as if all thought other than obedience has left her brain.
“Pretty, aren’t they?” said Mustafa, and I agreed.
Mustafa’s wife, Keely, has meanwhile raised her dress to her waist, revealing she is wearing no panties. She spreads her legs and begins to play with her pussy as she watches her daughter tongue-kiss Cunty.
Mustafa sees me looking at Keely, and laughs.
“I have told her she may only play with herself when she is looking at and thinking about her daughter,” he says. “But I will never give her permission to kiss or touch Sabrina – not even to hug. She did not have any sexual thoughts about her daughter when I came to own her – but I think she does now. And I have told her the only way to satisfy them is to take her daughter without consent, and without permission from me. It must be her own choice, to rape her daughter, to satisfy her cunt. It will be educational for them both.”
I note how quickly Keely gets wet as she diddles herself, and the look of burning lust in her eyes, and feel it may not be too much longer before she acts on it.
“How did you come to own Cunty?” I ask.
“We have friends overseas,” said Mustafa. “One of them was a bisexual woman who was dating Cunty.”
I look surprised for a moment, and Mustafa laughs.
“Oh, yes, Cunty thought it was a lesbian,” he says. “But there is really no such thing, and anyway Cunty isn’t a person, and its preferences as to who it fucks are irrelevant.”
“Anyway,” he continues, “Cunty’s girlfriend correctly realised that Cunty wasn’t a woman, but was rather a whorish mutant-cunted animal, and she helped Cunty to recognise that. I’m not sure the exact process – I think there was some blackmail, some coercion. Cunty came to live with its girlfriend, and the girlfriend’s husband, and they helped it to understand what it really was. They did some training of Cunty – and then they sold Cunty to me for a considerable sum. It was important to them that Cunty go overseas somewhere where its friends and family wouldn’t bother it and remind it of its former life, and for my part I consider it as something of an art investment. Someday I hope to have a whole collection of former feminists in a similar state to Cunty.”
Later, we go on a tour of Mustafa’s palatial accommodation. For the tour, Mustafa puts a canvas bag over Cunty’s face, and makes Cunty crawl on all fours.
“The bag helps Cunty understand its place, and it helps visitors see Cunty as an object, not a person,” said Mustafa. And I had to admit that, deprived of any view of Cunty’s facial features or expression, my brain immediately began to reclassify her as pornography – nothing but a pair of tits and a cunt.
Sabrina and Keely followed us on this tour. Sabrina was eating from a packet of chips as we walked, and when she had finished the chips, she casually pushed Cunty, so that Cunty fell onto her side. Then she kicked Cunty in the pussy – hard enough to make Cunty squeal – and then she bent down and pushed the empty chip packet into Cunty’s fuckhole.
“Cunty’s disgusting wet rapehole is a good place for garbage to go,” explains Mustafa. “We often push waste up her cum-catcher, for convenience. Cunty will dig it out for the garbage disposal later.”
Later, as we survey an art gallery the size of a small sports field filled with priceless paintings, Mustafa says, “Cunty is so much happier here than it ever was in England, because it is being treated as it deserves here.”
I cannot see Cunty’s face, under the bag, to know if she is smiling, or crying, but Mustafa points out that her nipples are erect and her cunt is wet, which in his opinion is the only relevant way of judging the mood of a female.
At the end of the tour, there is a brief pause for Cunty to go and empty her twat and clean it. Then she returns to us, and Mustafa removes the bag from her face.
“Before you leave, my friend,” said Mustafa, “would you like to try actively raping Cunty? It would be illegal in your country, but thanks to my contracts I assure you it is perfectly legal here.”
He turns to Cunty. “You may struggle, but do not risk harming him. You may run, but you may not leave this room. If twenty minutes pass without him ejaculating inside you, you may eat people food tonight for your dinner instead of slut mix. However, if he succeeds in ejaculating inside you, I will use the cattle prod on your cunt five times once he is gone.”
I consider turning down Mustafa’s offer, but it is always best to keep a billionaire pleased – and I sense he might torture Cunty even further if he feels she was not sufficiently attractive to tempt me into rape.
It does not take long to catch Cunty. She has nowhere to flee to, really, and without the ability to cause me pain her struggles are ineffectual. I bear her down to the couch, force her legs apart, and push my cock inside her.
She keeps struggling, even after I slap her face several times and pull viciously on her nipples. To be honest, the struggles just make it better. The way her hips buck beneath me as she tries to escape just adds to the pleasure my cock is feeling, and feeling her hot salty tears as I kiss her is deeply erotic. Before long I am ejaculating into her twat as a powerful orgasm overtakes me.
Is she on birth control? I don’t know – and with the deepest of pleasure, I realise that I don’t have to care. If she becomes pregnant, it will certainly not be my problem.
And I have to say, readers, that, while I am not sexually inexperienced, raping this girl was one of the most pleasurable sex acts of my life. There was something about knowing that she genuinely didn’t want it to happen that made it incredible.
I wiped my cock clean on Cunty’s face and did up my pants, and bid my host goodbye. Before I went, I expressed my semi-joking wish that I owned a Cunty for myself. But I was taken aback by Mustafa’s answer.
“But you can, my friend, if only you have enough money,” he said. “Cunty’s former girlfriend is quite skilled – and Cunty is not the only object that she has prepared for discerning buyers!”
He then went on to indicate he would be prepared to put me in contact with this slave-procurer if I was serious about buying – but I could not persuade him to allow me to print anything that would identify that person.
It is enough to say that if your dream, readers, is to own your own sub-human fucktoy – well, it’s a dream that can come true.
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