Nothing

-by nom-

I met my husband in a club. I was dancing and this big, black man pressed up close behind me, one huge arm holding me tight around the waist while the other hand was already busy inside my skimpy top, squeezing my tits hard and lifting me almost off the floor by them. It didn't occur to me to do anything other than teeter around on the toes of my stilettos as he swung me this way and that by the tits, moving me in time with the music. The club was full, loud and dark, and no one was paying attention, but even if it had been otherwise, I can't say I would have reacted differently.

His other hand moved under my even skimpier lycra mini and a finger thrust sharply into my cunt, making me squeal and jump in shock. My feet left the floor completely, and I was suspended for a few seconds by the finger in my cunt and the fingers around my left tit. I heard him laugh, his chest shaking as I leant against him. Then my feet touched the ground again, but only to let him shove more fingers in and when I jumped this time, he didn't bother putting me down but carried me through the dancing crowd just like that. I must have looked like some obscene ship's figurehead, and I giggled. He bit my neck sharply, kicked open one of the exits and finally put me down. I had just about time to note we were alone before he had shoved a finger up my ass, grabbed hold of the back of my neck and bent me over to his cock.

My mouth was already open from squealing at the finger, but it fell open even wider at the sight of his dick. Huge was an understatement. I had only a second to look at the monster before it was in my mouth, down my throat, and on its happy way to choking me to death. I felt my jaw pop, my eyes were watering uncontrollably, and snot was pouring out as my whole body spasmed, shook, choked and choked on my future husband's monster of a cock. Or more accurately, My Lord Cock, as my husband likes me to call it. It amuses him.

I was about to pass out, when he finally removed My Lord Cock from my throat and let me breathe. I collapsed at his feet, breathing hard and gratefully.

“Now that's rude,” he said, and I heard his deep, commanding voice for the first time. “That's my cock juice you just spat out. Lick it up.” I was still coughing and trying to breathe easily, so I didn't respond immediately. His foot kicked my tit and I got the message and put my face to the floor, looking for wet spots on the dirty floor and licking them up. I licked up the last spot and was raising my head when his foot came down on my head, pressing me down to rest one cheek against the floor as he rested his foot on the other cheek.

“While you're down there, clean my shoe.”

The only shoe I could reach was the one on my face, so I stuck out my tongue as far as I could and tried to clean what I could. But it wasn't easy as he was pressing down hard on my face and not letting me move much at all. He didn't say anything though, so I kept trying to do what he had told me to do, and I must have looked a sight with my bare white ass wiggling in the air, tits hanging out and squashed against the floor as a huge, black man stood above me with his foot on my face and my tongue waggling desperately about trying to clean his shoe.

My husband told me that that was the moment that the thought of marrying me first entered his head, because a cunt so desperate to please a man she had just met was just the kind of cunt for him. Even better, I was white and looked respectable – when he wasn't debasing me – and quite well off as he found out an hour later as he entered my flat. It would please his parents to see someone like me running around picking up after him, and he was right, it did. It pleases them even more these days as we're all living together, and I pick up after them too – which is a nice way of saying I'm their slave. I don't mind. I've been my husband's slave since the moment we met and if he wants me to tend to his family too, I will.

He took his foot off my face after a few minutes and stepped back. I didn't move, waiting for him to decide what I should do next and before too long, he pulled my head up by my hair. I was eye to eye with My Lord Cock again but this time I was better prepared, opening my mouth wide and letting My Lord Cock deepthroat me without gagging. But I had never handled a cock of such girth before and my control didn't last, especially once he started to skullfuck me with a vengeance. His hands were tightly fisted in my hair, and moving my head back and forth in time with his thrusting. Fast thrusting, fast and hard, my nose and lips hitting his pubic bush and bone repeatedly with jarring strength which was sure to leave them, at best, bruised. And the hi-speed bobbing was making me dizzy, although that might have been also due to the lack of air.

I hadn't noticed the pain that much before, too involved in trying to get some air into my lungs, but he fucked my throat for so long and so hard that it was impossible to ignore. My throat felt scraped raw, was probably bleeding, and the tears weren't just involuntary from all the choking and banging. He finally stopped and looked down at me, smiling and tenderly stroking my sweaty hair off my face. He didn't remove My Lord Cock though, even though he couldn't have failed to see or feel that I was struggling to breathe, but even as he did nothing, I did nothing. My hands were clenched tightly together behind my back, keeping out of his way, even as my vision was failing due to My Lord Cock plugging up my throat and blocking my airways. I could die if he didn't let me breathe soon and still I did nothing that could be seen as denying him anything that he might want.

His dark eyes swept over my face slowly, taking in every detail. There was stark tube lighting, so nothing could have been hidden. I could clearly imagine what I must look like; my bright red, sweating face, wet with tears and snot and cock juice, black mascara running wild around bulging red-veined eyes, nostrils flaring desperately as my nose lay buried in his curly black pubic hair, my red lipstick all smudged around my lips, stretched thin and past its breaking point by the slimy, black muscle that impaled and obscenely distorted my face. My eyesight was failing with the continuing lack of air, but I could clearly see his pride at the ruin that was my face, ruin that his cock, My Lord Cock, had wrought.

Then he pulled out, abruptly and painfully, his fist in my hair keeping my face right where he wanted. The cum spat out, across my eyes, making me blink rapidly and tear up even more, across my nose, up my nose and making me choke even more, and on my forehead and hair. He rubbed his cockhead on my cheek, slowly, thoughtfully. I blinked up at him and waited.

And when My Lord Cock was once again back in my mouth, and hot piss shot out, I wasn't really surprised and gulped it down as fast as I could. It wasn't fast enough though, and piss dribbled out and ran down my chin and neck and soaked my dress. He punishes me for that, for wasting anything that comes out of his body and with which he gifts me, but at that time all he did was pull out and finish off on my face and hair. Just a bit, not enough to wash away the cum, just enough to be clearly seen and smelt.

I looked up at him, still coughing a bit, my lungs not back to normal especially with some of the piss going down the wrong way. He was big and black and utterly frightening. Pitiless and cold, that was the look on his face, and the contempt came through strong and clear. My pussy ached. I'd never been so turned on in my life.

“Your name, cunt.”

“Cunt,” I answered back dazedly. He laughed, deep and loud, and I realised he'd asked me for my name, not given me the name of Cunt.

“As you wish, my lady,” he chuckled, “Cunt it is. What was your maiden name?”

I was so happy, and smiled up at him. He laughed again, then slapped my face with his cock. “Concentrate. Answer me.”

“Samantha Burlington, sir.” I tried to lick his cock as it carried on slapping my face, back and forth, back and forth.

“Too big a name for a pathetic thing like you,” he mused, now rubbing his cock around my mouth and nose. He smelled so good, strong and pungent and nasty. “And you are pathetic. A piece of shit. Utter white trash, if ever I saw it. Right, cunt?”

“Right, sir.” I was, I am. I was anything he wanted me to be.

“You a whore, cunt?”

“Yes, sir.” Anything.

He sighed, and it was just another thing that showed me I was meant for him. He always knows me, knows what's in my mind. “I meant your job, if you have one. What do you do, cunt?”

Oh. “Lawyer, sir.”

“You look too stupid for that. You are stupid, aren't you, cunt?” He bounced his cock up and down on my nose.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes sir what?” He suddenly snarled, pulling on my hair and shaking me.

“Yes, sir, I'm stupid.”

He stopped shaking me, but his grip on my hair tightened. I flinched as some strands tore off. “And the stupid cunt is going to quit and be what worthless cunts are born to be.”

“Yes, sir,” I breathed out, my heart pounding. His dark eyes glared down at me, pierced deep and grabbed hold. He was everything.

“What are worthless cunts born to be?”

I opened my mouth, but I didn't know. What, what? I looked at him, waiting for him to tell me.

“Nothing.” He whispered, and I believed him. Then both of his hands fisted in my hair and his cock was in my throat in one rough thrust. I went cross-eyed it was so sudden, and my nose hit his pubic hair and bone and tears were falling again.

“What a show, man!”

I tensed, but didn't pull away, never thought of pulling away. There was another man there, but my husband hadn't even stopped fucking my throat. He hadn't been surprised. I rolled my eyes up to see what he was going to do, but he wasn't looking at me. He was grinning, looking at where the voice had come from.

“I expected you sooner,” he said, grunting as he thrust in hard and kept it there, holding my face tight to his crotch.

“Like I said, what a show. Too busy watching to come down, and it's still recording as we speak. I got Charlie to take over.”

I was pulled off then, and my throat burned at the speed and friction. He tugged my head back and twisted slightly, then grasped my chin and leaned down. “Say hello to Charlie.”

There was a glint in the dark corner of the ceiling, a camera. But of course. Cameras were everywhere in the clubs. “Hello.”

He shook me again by the hair, slapped my face viciously and spat in my face. “Stupid cunt! What was that?” He slapped me again, and I was so confused. “Open your cunt mouth wide, squeeze your tits, spread your legs and frig your cunt! That's how a cunt says hello!”

My face was pointed up to the camera again, and I opened my cunt mouth wide, squeezed my tits with my left hand, and spread my legs to finger my cunt. A sudden burn on my ass made me squeal and thrust my hips up. It came again, and again.

“Yeah, whip the bitch,” moaned the man I still hadn't seen. My husband was whipping me with his belt. And I squealed every time another stripe was marked on my bare butt, and I squeezed my tits harder and pumped my hips as I masturbated for the camera, for Charlie, and all the time my husband had me by the hair and shouted at me to do better. I tried, fingering my cunt and licking my nipples and biting and twisting and shoving my fingers deep inside my hole, and finally I shrieked and came. I shuddered, orgasm working its way through every bit of me and all was dark and warm and so good. It was so good, fantastic, the best sex I'd ever had. If my husband hadn't already taken me over so completely, that would have been the moment I would have promised forever.

He shook me, and I came to and realised I'd slumped forward, his grip on my hair the only thing keeping me from falling on my face. I was pathetically grateful, grateful for the cum, grateful for being found. He pushed me forward and I collapsed on the sticky, filthy floor, but I was too grateful to stay put. I turned around and crawled over to his feet and started licking, cleaning with my eager tongue and buffing with my cheeks and hair. They were talking, laughing, I didn't really hear, but I knew he wasn't speaking to me and so I was going to carry on licking until he told me to stop.

I was so happy. He was what I had been looking for, ever since I had begun to feel like I was incomplete, like I was out of place, like I was just plain wrong. I hadn't known what or who or where, but now I did. Now I definitely did. What had I been missing? Him. Where was my place? With him. And who am I? His. I am his, totally and completely. I am his to do with as he will, to do anything he wills, to be anything he wills.

I am nothing but what he makes of me. I am nothing.

Holidays with the family means sexual frustration and pornish thoughts. EnjoyJ

The weddings

-by nom-

There’s nothing quite like pissing in a bitchmouth. And once you’ve shit in it too, there’s no going back to flowers and candlelight. Once you’ve seen a bitch stuffed with shit, cheeks bulging with it, face smeared and dirty with your waste and tearful eyes peering out from under shitty lashes, there’s just no way you can ever look at a bitch again and not see shit. Respect and romance? Hell no. My dick’s never been harder, and I feel like all’s right with the world at last.

This is how it’s meant to be, this all-powerful, testosterone haze. And she’s not running away, she’s coming back for more and more, and she’s not the only one. All types of women, just dying to find a man to grab hold of her and be what a man is supposed to be – powerful, commanding. Frightening. It’s genetics. We’ve forgotten that, too blinded by science and tech - despite the camouflage, we are nothing but animal.

I have a dream. When I die, I want my cunt to be buried with me. Buried alive. The piece of shit should be kneeling at my feet, my dick in her toothless mouth, arms and elbows tied behind her with barb wire. Udders pierced with as many skewers as they can fit, a few long and thick and going through both tits. Big tits, the biggest titted whore I can find. Something you can really grab hold off and punch and burn and pierce and torture, torture, torture.

I want my friends to torture the cunt, go all out, really enjoy themselves and leaving it just alive enough to appreciate starving to death with my dick in her mouth. Not suffocating to death. I want air holes in the coffin, make sure my pig suffers for as long as possible. A video cam would be good, provide great reality tv entertainment. Why watch some losers sleep and making fools of themselves when you can watch my cunt suffering and dying instead? No contest. Especially with a dildo in her cunt and ass that would give her some searing, bitch-frying electric shocks.

Wonderful dream. I’m sure I’ll add to it before I’m completely satisfied. And I’m sure it will be carried out and surpass my imaginings - I know my friends.

Who would have known this was where it was leading to when I met my wife? She was just another blonde tart in a sea of them, shaking her tits and ass to get a man’s attention. Just another normal night in a club. Her tits though, fantastic. They sloshed around wildly, almost falling out of her top, no bra in sight the fucking slut. When she jumps up and down, which I get her to do quite a lot, they hit her face. I’ve stretched them a bit over the years, lots of ropework and special clothes and equipment from the bdsm store, and they look fucking amazing. Saggy, big and floppy, practically down past her belly button. Sometimes we hold cunt races on the weekends and there’s nothing quite like a bunch of big titted white whores running with their black masters whipping them on. Beautiful. All those saggy tits bouncing around, white flesh welted and red and black and blue, red faces crying, snot dripping, mouth wide from the ring gags and drool down their chins and tits like the stupid dogs they are.

Great buys, those ring gags. Aesthetically pleasing, giving us the cunts with their mouths wide open, like they should be. And practical too. A nice, safe cock sheath. Not to mention the whining and retarded noises the pigs make when you’re working them hard - good for the dick, for the soul. And when it becomes annoying, and women using their mouths for talking or making any sounds I don’t allow annoys me, just shove a penis gag in through the ring and down the piggy throat and voila, blessed silence. Even their snuffling snouts are much quieter.

Truly, gags are a man’s best friend. The one essential item if you’re going to be stuck on a desert island with the cunt of your dreams.

So, my wifecunt, slavepig of slavepigs, I married her the day after I met her. Went to Vegas and did it legally. She wore a white corset with her nipples peeking out the top, a frilly white tutu that showed her bald pussy, white fishnets and white stilettos. And the all important virginal white veil. All topped off with bright red lipstick, on her lips, her pussy lips, and piggy nips. She even had a bouquet, a single red rose tucked between her wobbling mass of titties. That was some cleavage she got in that corset. The priest-whatever-guy could barely get the words out, too busy looking at all the slut on show, but he finally did and it was done. I had her give him whatever he wanted after, as a thankyou, and he wanted an assfuck with a blowjob chaser. All the clothes were left on, apart from dragging her udders fully out which really didn’t need much effort, and I got it all on video. Then of course my witness friends had their thankyou fucks too. It was a good day.

And when it came to throwing her bouquet, that was something to see. Look! No hands! The stupid whore had her hands obediently behind her and she was bouncing, bouncing up and down and up and down like some fucking yo-yo, tits and pussy everywhere. Hysterical. She finally managed it though, sent that rose flying through the air and my best man caught it and that got him the first cuntfuck of the night from the pig. I fucked her last, after they were all done with her – all her holes all raw and leaking cum and blood and piss and shit. She was a mess, all the pristine white stained and torn, her white flesh bruised and welted – we’d all given our belts a happy time – and her face was just absolute perfection. It’s how a bitchface should always look – bruised, stupid, afraid.

And then when we got back to her nice, expensive apartment, just the two of us, she got her second wedding. Lucky bitch, most cunts only get one. It was the start of our new life as husband and wife and I had specific ideas about how things should be. First, her old life was over and the ceremony would show that. The Vegas wedding had been great, but I wanted to do more ownership rituals, take her over more completely. I wanted her to know that she was my property, mine to do with as I pleased., just like in the good old days. Call me a traditionalist.

So as soon as we got through the front door, she fell to her knees as was good and proper and stripped. No more clothes or walking on two feet like a human being in my home again, unless I gave permission. And I dragged the crawling pig by her hair to the bathroom, kicked her down on her stomach in the jacuzzi, and hogtied her, nice and tight. Wrists to calves, ankles to throat, elbows together. She was arched up, choking and strangling, tits nicely crushed on show. Then the ring gag went in, as did the nose tines, pulling her nostrils back and making her look more like the pig she is, and this was tied to her big toes.

I set up the video carefully, making sure it would all be nicely recorded for future viewing pleasure.

Then I got the scissors and hacked off her hair. And the bitch started to cry, stupid cunt. So vain. When I got the razor out and shaved her bald, the tears and snot really started to flow. I stepped back and admired my wife. Shining white bald head, running mascara, snot streams from her piggy snout. Gorgeous. But she needed more bruises, so I slapped her face a few times, hard enough to topple her over each time. Then I punched her right eye a time or three, but only her right, because I like to see the difference – slitty bloodshot eye peering out of swollen, purple flesh, and then the healthy one with mascara and shadow.

My belt whapped over her bald head, giving it some lovely red welts, and all over the rest of her. I had to push her over to beat her tits properly, nice and hard, using the buckle end to finish it off to get a few spots of blood. Her cunt got a good lashing too, even though it really was nicely bruised already. Her ass however, was a mess from the guys going to town on it, so it was just as well the hogtie left it shielded. I intended to completely use the cunt up before I got rid of her, but I wanted to take my time, really enjoy the experience. I was thinking three or four years.

After the whipping, I got down to the serious business of vows.

“What are you, cunt?”

“Uh-hng,” my wife sounded through her gag. Nothing. Such a good cunt. I patted her on her smooth bald head in approval. The tears were still flowing but her eyes were wide and worshipful.

“Who are you, pig?”

“Urr.” Yours. I rubbed my cock over her face, wiping over her tears and snot and drool. I could see her pink tongue waggling desperately to reach my cock, and her eyes were just so stupidly grateful it made my dick jump. Stupid, stupid cunts.

“That’s right, you’re all mine, little piggy,” I whispered, poking my cock against her nostrils and wishing them bigger so I could really get some meat in there. That would look so good. I could see it now, a cock in each nostril and one down her throat. “Oink for me, pig.”

She did, but not as good as she could do with her mouth gag-free. Sacrifices, sacrifices. I shoved my dick down her throat and got a good slamfuck going, holding on to her ears and staring down at her as she choked and turned redder and redder. It got so violent she started skidding back and forth on her tits and belly, and her sweat was really helping the squeaking noises. I laughed. Life was good. This bald thing choking on my dick was my wife, her apartment and money and everything that had been hers was mine, and I could see a nice long life ahead for me.

I came on her bald head, in her eyes, up her nose, and treated her with a taste too – she had been a very good cunt, after all.

“Think of this as your baptism,” I said, rubbing my cum into her shiny baldness with my cock. I held my cock and whapped her on the nose. “Welcome to the Church of Your Lord Cock.” I whipped her face a few times, enjoying the feeling, the sounds of cock hitting cumsoaked cuntface.

“Your christening,” I said, pissing on her head and face. “I name you Pigcunt. Oink, Pigcunt.” She oinked. I laughed, looking down at the cunt desperately blinking piss from her eyes and snorting piss out of her nose. I finished off in her mouth. “The blood of Your Lord Cock.” I shoved my cock in. “The body of Your Lord Cock.”

I grinned, leaning down with my black marker and making it official. There, nice and clear on her forehead was Pig and across her cheeks and nose was Cunt. I was going to step back, give the camera a good look at my newly named wife, but her white bald head was too tempting. A big smiley face on top, then Pigcunt again around the back, and it was a work of art. There was so much more I wanted to do, so much white canvas, but I had time. She was my wife. We had the rest of her life.

“And here’s something from me.” I squatted over her head and let loose. Shit curled down onto her bald head, over her eyes, down her nose and some runny shit rounded it all off for a nice splatter effect. My dick was like stone, so fucking hard. I couldn’t remember the last time I had recovered so quickly. And the pig was squealling, eyes rolling wildly and choking as she rocked on her tits and belly. I think she was trying to get away. I was laughing, stroking my cock and enjoying the sight of my wife lolling around in shit and piss. Happy as a pig in mud, my pig in shit.

“You’re a good wife, Pigcunt, really good,” I said, breathing hard and ready to come again. She stilled a bit, her squealling ended, like my praise was all she needed to get over such abuse. So stupid. “But you know what would make me really happy?” Her big blue eyes with their shitty lashes blinked at me questioningly. “Eat my shit.”

Her stupid eyes teared up again, and a moaning sound came out of her mouth, a weird keening. It was eerie, so I shut her up by stepping on her head and pressing it into the shit. She was making those deep choking sounds you get when you give a really good deepthroat, her body spasming and twitching like she was being electrocuted, and I took pity on her and cut the ropes to her neck and nose. Her face fell forward and she was gasping, and heaving, retching. It was funny how much she resembled a fish then. I sat on the rim and waited for her to do as she was told. She would, I knew. She couldn’t say no to me; I was the man of her dreams.

It took her a while, especially restricted as she was by the hogtie, but that was ok. I liked the show, leaisurely stroking my cock as she practically used her udders for walking, hoovering up all the shit and piss with her mouth when she found her ring-gag didn’t let her lick very efficiently. She really was a good pig and I would have patted her again if she wasn’t covered in shit. It was fucking disgusting, and the smell – and she was eating the stuff. Unbelievable. I hadn’t had much respect for her to begin with but now, now my contempt for the cunt was absolute. Whatever she might do in future to redeem herself, it would never work; she ate my shit and I hadn’t even had to beat her.

I watched silently as she licked up the last remaining splatters, her tits squeaking on the plastic now and then as she moved.

“That’s great, pig, you’re a natural. Go ahead and throw up.” The words were barely out before there was vomit shooting out. Absolutely disgusting. “Go on, dip your face in your vomit, that’s a good pig. All over your face, roll it around. Move your tits into it, that’s it, good pig. Take a taste, come on – are you fucking deaf? Get stuck in there!”

And the disgusting pig was face down in her vomit, snorting and snuffling, like a pig hunting for truffles. She was crying again, causing tear tracks through the shit and vomit on her face. “You love me, Pigcunt?” She stopped her vomit eating and looked up at me, snorting shit and vomit from her nose, mouth and chin dripping with the slimy brown waste. Gorgeous. I nearly came right then and there, but then she nodded and I was too furious to come. If she hadn’t been too disgusting to touch, I would have beat the bitch senseless. And I didn’t want to dirty my belt. “Did you just nod at me? Did you just nod, you fucking cunt? I ask you a question, you answer! You understand me, you stupid slut?”

“Ehh Uhh.” Yes sir. And she looked terrified. That soothed me, but I was still looking around for something to hit her with.

“Say it.” There was a serious absence of punishment implements, except for electric cables, and as this was my home now, that just would not do.

“Ahh uhh ooo uhh.” So sweet, my wife. I calmed down at that sweet declaration , had the camera zoom in on her face and squashed, bulging tits. Bald, with graffiti, covered in shit and vomit and piss and cum, she was a right fucking mess. She was perfect, and all mine. I shot all over her face one last time, to make her feel loved, switched off the lights and shut the door behind me. Time for bed.

Great start to the honeymoon.

She started it all, this extreme side of me. Before, I’d always been rough with the girls, but after getting her, rough was left far behind and it was torture, no mistake. Once you get a taste of extreme, you just keep wanting more and more. It is addiction, and I’m a happy, satisfied addict. She wants it, and takes it, and it’s so satisfying having a bitch beg for her own destruction, and hating herself all the while for it. So much better than taking an unwilling cunt who’s too stupid to know her place, because I am not a rapist, no sir. And better than painsluts, because all they want is pain, the sick pigs. Give them a box of nails and a hammer and that’s them sorted. No fun at all. I don’t want them unwilling but I don’t want them happy and well-adjusted about it either. What I want is what I got - my willing, happy and self-hating wife.

I never even thought of snuffing her until she brought it up. She’d rather I killed her than throw her out on the street, she was nothing without me. That’s what she’d said. Now, every cunt in my life faces that possibility and I can’t imagine a life lived any other way.

I love my life.

Nothing: Early days

-by nom-

After we were married, my husband moved into my apartment and it was then that I found out he was a cop. He looked so good in the uniform, made me so wet. Shiny silver cuffs, menacing black baton, those dark mirrored sunglasses. The gun. I just knelt at his feet and drooled – nothing new, he made me drool all the time, and I’m not talking about the gags which were more often inside my mouth than not now. But still, it was a new fetish and he grinned when he saw the effect on me.

I licked his shiny black shoes, shivering as he trailed the baton over my spine. My holes were twitching, happily anticipating having it inside. He gave a good hard whack to each cheek, making me grunt and whine, surprised at how much it hurt. Then it was rubbing over my head, and I shivered for a whole different reason. I was still quite upset over my baldness and the graffiti, had seen myself in the mirror and cried. I looked terrible, and so very stupid, but my cunt had been happy and I had masturbated in front of the mirror and come so many times.

Still, it’s one thing to get off on humiliation and another for the humiliation to be so blatant and longlasting. My hair would grow back, but not if he kept shaving it off. He’d done that twice now, and I was beginning to worry he was going to keep me bald. As for the graffiti, he was talking tattoos too and I didn’t think he’d do that to my face but there was gleam in his eye when he said it…

Then the baton was in my mouth, and I was sucking and choking. He was smirking down at me, shoving the baton back and forth forcefully, hitting the back of my throat, holding the back of my head to make me take it. I could see my reflection on his lenses, two of me, distorted.

“Keep it in your mouth.”

He went behind me, and I felt the coldness of the cuffs as they closed around my wrists. I moaned, so very hot, the drool just trickling down my chin and my cunt juice slicking my thighs.

“Crawl over to the coffee table, rest your tits on the top.”

It was awkward, trying to get my weighty udders nicely placed on the tabletop without the use of my hands and with a long baton sticking out of my mouth, but I finally managed it. I was a bit worried I had taken too long, he had a tendency to punish harshly for any minor wrong, but he didn’t say anything and I relaxed. Then he took the baton out of my mouth and started bashing my tits flat.

I cried out and pulled back, and I knew I shouldn’t have but it was uncontrollable. He’d used full force and my tits felt crushed.

“Get back in place before I get angry.”

I’d gone into this relationship with open eyes, jumped in with both feet, gleefully, but it was very hard at times. I arranged my tits on the table again, crying already, knowing how horrible it was going to be. And it was. He had to stuff a teatowel in my mouth to keep the noise down. I’m afraid that 3 hits to each tit was all I could take, and I pulled away again and curled up on the floor. Back then, I’m afraid my pain tolerance level wasn’t very high.

“Now you’ve done it.” He kicked me over onto my back and kept me there with one foot on my tit. He pressed down hard, almost standing with his full weight on me and it hurt but I was distracted by how manly and powerful he looked. He was like a hunter standing over his kill, but instead of a gun he had his baton. And then the baton was falling and my free tit was getting slammed back against my ribs. I was screaming uncontrollably into my gag, thrashing around under his foot.

“Spread your legs, piggy.”

He grabbed hold of one ankle and started thrashing my cunt, then it was shoved in and the pain took my breath away. But it didn’t stay in there long, just long enough for it to be slick enough for my ass – and that was another shock of pain. I looked up at my husband who held me down with one foot on my tit, held me up by one ankle and so high that my weight was on my shoulders, and who had just stuffed his baton into my ass – he was grinning, teeth white and gleaming in his dark face, and I could see a large lump at his crotch. He was happy, and that was all that mattered.

“Now piggy has a piggy tail,” he laughed, shoving it in further with a push and a twist. “I’m so good to you. Now, try it out. Crawl around and wag your tail.” He pressed down hard on my tit before letting go of my ankle.

All I wanted to do was curl up and hide, but I did as I was told. Everything hurt, and I couldn’t stop crying. I crawled around the room on my shoulders and knees, my battered tits dragging against the carpet, occasionally wagging my new tail. My husband stroked himself as he watched. And even with the tears, he wasn’t the only one turned on. Not only did I hurt badly, I knew how stupid I must look, and yet my cunt was still throbbing and aching and dripping.

“Bet you’re wet, you sick slut,” he said. He knew me so well. He stopped me by his chair, grabbing my ear. “Here, hump my leg.”

It felt so good. I humped his leg like a dog, fast and desperate, looking at his grinning, sneering face all the while. The baton was starting to slip though, from all the shaking, and I had to slow down.

“Open your mouth.”

I opened it without thinking, and he took out the tea towel and replaced it with his gun. I stopped humping in shock.

He slapped my head. “I didn’t tell you to stop.” But I couldn’t move.

I’d never been near a gun before, and my first touch was with my mouth. I stared up at him, mouth dry, tasting the metallic barrel of the gun resting on my tongue.

He leaned close, his breath warm on my forehead. “You’re being very bad today, and I don’t like it.” There was a click, the safety. I nearly pissed myself. “Stop squealling, my sick lil’ pig. Now, suck my gun.”

I sucked, and before too long the whole thing was turning me on and I was rubbing against his leg again. There was a gun getting a blowjob from me, a police baton getting an assfuck, and I was so hot I was humping my husband’s leg like an animal… I really was a sick lil’ pig.

“You know, I heard this story recently, true story,” he said, watching my head bob on his gun, spit running down my chin. “In one of those asian countries, where the men keep the cunts in their place, the men would take a cheating cunt out in front of everybody and gangrape her.” I humped faster. I’d got a taste for gangbangs from my wedding. “When they were done, they’d take her out to the rubbish tip, stuff her mouth and ass full of trash. Then they’d put a gun up her cunt, and shoot.” He pulled the trigger. Click. I flinched, my eyes rolled up in my head - I came.

Sick, sick pig.

When it was over, I sat there panting, gun still in my mouth. The baton fell out of my ass, and I missed it.

“They’d leave her there, dead or dying.” He lifted the gun, lifted my head with it. “Birds, rats, maggots, they’d have fun with her. Then the next pile of trash would come along, bury one used up cunt, and life goes on. No burning pyre, no fuss, no one giving a shit.”

The gun slid out of my mouth. He took his leg out from between my legs, placed his foot against my face and pushed me off. I lay on my back, on my cuffed hands, turned on all over again by his story.

“A fitting end, I think.” He stuck the gun up my cunt. I held my breath. The gun made squishing noises as it thrust in and out, loud, and very telling of my state of mind, making me blush bright red and hot in embarrassment. “Don’t you agree, Pigcunt?”

“Yes, sir.” It was more moaned than said, and I was telling the truth. At that moment, I couldn’t see anything wrong with how the cunt had ended up. And even later on, even now, no matter how morally wrong or just plain sick it all is, I’m still ok with it, I’m still desperately turned on by it. And I think it started then, the consideration of a similar ending for myself, because I couldn’t see how I could truly surrender completely to my husband without him taking control of my life and death.

The gun speeded up inside me, and I was thrusting back, fucking myself with it. I was moaning loudly, looking up at my husband in lust and adoration, my cunt spasming as he spat in my face. Everything he did turned me on, I was so lucky. Then there was the trigger, the click, and I was coming and screaming and thrashing around on the floor like a demented thing, like the demented thing I was.

I lay there in a haze, not really awake. He left me there and occasionally I’d see his feet walking past me. There were the usual sounds I was used to now, that of him changing my apartment to his liking. His apartment now. I’d signed over everything to him, and even my name now in the outside world was simply Mrs Michael Hyde, and if the first name was needed, it was P, short for Pigcunt, but they wouldn’t know that. Maiden name? Cee. C for cunt, of course. It had all been legally changed - Samantha Burlington no longer existed.

My resignation letter had already been sent, my career was over. I’d spoken to them on the speakerphone too, looking at our reflection in the mirror. I was bent at the waist, my wrists tied behind me and my neck collared by my husband’s belt. He was holding me by my wrists and collar as he fucked my ass. We looked so good together, I couldn’t look away.

He had on a wifebeater, the white of it standing out starkly against the dark ebony of his skin and bringing more attention to his fantastic muscles. Black combats only opened at the fly covered his lower half. He looked so big and dangerous, the type I cross the street to avoid, the type that make my cunt drip like no other. I was naked and bald with graffiti and welts and bruises all over, one eye so swollen I could barely see out of it and my lips were split and bleeding. My tits were tied tightly with cooking string, big purple balls bouncing in time to the fucking.

I resented having to talk to anyone - I just wanted to look at the picture we made, enjoy the fucking - but my husband had told me to and that was that.

“It’s a bit sudden, isn’t it, Samantha? It’s not like you.”

You don’t have a clue what I’m like, I wanted to say, looking at the happy abused cunt being assfucked by her powerful husband. But my husband had told me to always speak respectfully and politely to others. They were much better than the piece of shit that was me, after all.

“I know,” I said. My voice was weak and out of breath, a result of being fucked and everything else, but those on the other side of the line thought it was from being ill. “But it’s the real thing and we’ll be moving soon back to his country. Wish me luck!”

“Of course, sweetie, lots of luck. We’re just worried about you.”

“Don’t be. I’m deliriously happy.” I watched my reflection lick her bleeding lips, her eyes wide and transfixed on her husband. The call ended at last, I mouthed numerous goodbyes, empty promises to keep in touch, to email.

“Deliriously happy, are you?” he asked, smiling wide and letting go of my wrists to slap my ass.

“Yes, sir,” I gasped out. I was only being held up by the belt around my throat. And instead of taking back my wrists, both of his hands were on the belt and it was getting harder and harder to breathe. I was choking, my face getting redder and redder, my eyes bulging out and rolling wildly to look for mercy at my husband who was fucking my ass like a demon. He looked like he was riding, reins in his hands, ass going up and down on his mount’s back. His snarling mouth was moving, cursing and degrading me, but I could barely hear him anymore. My mouth was wide open, tongue sticking out and waggling, drool dripping copiusly from my chin. My eyes followed the drool, strangely fascinated, before they got caught by the frantic shaking and flopping of my purple titballs – they were the last things I saw that day. My vision blurred, darkened, and I lost consciousness.

And passing out happens often with him. It’s disorientating, not to mention frightening, but the orgasms are so much better for it. I’d heard that about asphyxia, but I’d never met anyone who’d do it to me until my husband. And he does it every way possible, I think. Hanging, strangling, plastic bags, water and other liquids, mummification and entombing, and of course, with his dick. He likes watching me struggle to breathe, and I love how much enjoyment he gets out of my suffering.

I’m sick. This can only end badly for me, but then again, a bad end would be the goal of an extreme submissive like myself. And I was beginning to realise that I was more submissive than even I had assumed myself to be, my slavish desire to please my husband seeming to have no limits. My life consists of endless pain and fear, but also of endless lust and love, and it is love no matter what others may think. He’s giving me what I need and for that I love him desperately.

I remember a priest from my childhood. He’d said women were sin made flesh, only natural for the descendants of that great sinner Eve, and that it was up to men to keep such sinful creaturs in line. I’d grown up knowing he had been talking absolute crap, but now, things aren’t so clear. There is no denying how sick and depraved I am, how much I have been longing for a man to take control of me, keep me ‘in line’. There can be no denying how right it feels to have found such a man and to suffer for him, to please him. And there can be no denying that I am not the only woman to feel this way.

Just a little bit, background I could say, but more like ‘can’t fit it in anywhere’…. the trials of being a writer…

Nothing: Storage

~by nom~

He likes to box me. Not box as in punching, although he likes that too, but box as in containment. He likes his space, his privacy, and even though I’m silent or gagged, he sometimes finds my presence too much.

When we were in the apartment, he used to just pop me in the trunk at the foot of the bed. It was big enough to lie in a foetal position, or to scrunch down on my knees, or lie on my back with my kness to my chest – but whatever position it was, I had to stay put because it only took one sound to get him enraged. I’m a submissive, and so masochistic to some extent, but the punishment he deals out when he’s truly enraged, as opposed to sexually motivated rage, is something I try hard to avoid. Broken bones are often one of the end results, and I’m not enough of a painslut to find them arousing.

I liked it, at first. It was like a safe haven, a place where if I stayed very quiet, I’d be left in peace. Our relationship is very intense, and very hard on my body, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that I need recovery time now and then.

However, the periods of time that he left me in there became longer and longer, and then he began putting me in some form of bondage. It wasn’t enough to simply put me in and lock the trunk. Now, the bare minimum would be cuffed hands and tied feet, dildo gag and ear plugs, and the full treatment would be a strict hogtie, tits tightly bound, dildos in all my holes, earplugs and a full hood which blinded me and restricted my breathing.

There’s not much to see in a dark trunk, but somehow being blindfolded made me uneasy. Aas did being deaf. I’d never realised how much sounds comforted me until I was without them. I started thinking about how if I had a health problem, or vomited, I’d probably die. He’d never know, might even take him a whole day before he opened the trunk and found me dead. I might have discovered a whole new desire to be snuffed, but I’d seen it as something years in the future, if ever. I didn’t really want to die, especially not now when I’d just found him.

And what if something happened to him? Some of his friends knew he had me, so they might come looking, but if they didn’t know anything was wrong with him either, then I was in trouble. Or what if he went out and there was a fire?

So before too long after he’d first started storing me away in the trunk, I developed claustrophobia. He knew I didn’t like it, that I was afraid of being boxed, and that pleased him even more and he found more ways to store me. In the basement now, there’s a selection that would make bdsm shops envious. There are boxes of varying shapes and sizes, made of wood, metal, plastic. There are transparent ones for when he wants to see me, which is always the case when the boxing is for something other than storage. Like breathplay.

There are coffins, an iron maiden, cages, dog carriers, bodybags and suitcases.

There are holes in the floor, some deep pits, some shallow, some big enough only for one, others for more, with iron lids that can be solid or a grill depending on his mood. Their moods. His friends come over often, usually bringing their own cunts.

There are slots in the walls, just like in a morgue complete with the stainless steel doors and sliding trays, except the height is about halved. It’s tighter than in a coffin, and colder, and talking of cold, there’s a walk-in freezer too with meat hooks from which meat hangs, including live cunt.

But back when we lived in the apartment, there was no space for even a fraction of these things, so my husband made do with what was already there – suitcases, cupboards, closets. And on some, thankfully few, occasions, the refrigerator.

Now, upstairs in the house, there’s a chest in the sun lounge. It’s a nicely carved wooden coffee table on the outside, but a place for me inside. It’s a tight fit. Many times when my husband entertains polite, vanilla company, I’m in there with none of them the wiser. The old trunk is also still around, at the foot of the bed in the master bedroom. And in his study, it’s the window seat.

He usually plugs me, keep the mess to a minimum, except when he wants mess. It’s disgusting, but it makes me hot – not surprising considering the extreme degradation of it and I am, after all, when stripped of everything else, a humiliation slut to the core, in the core. I lie in piss and shit and come, I drink his piss and come, eat his shit and come. He watches it all, fascinated, disgusted, hard – shaking his head sometimes, unable to understand how someone can sink so low.

Understandable then, that he has stopped thinking of me as a thinking human being. Talks to me less and less, not even to give me orders. I’m hooded most times, blind and deaf and mute, taken out of storage to be used, put back away when he’s done. I don’t think I’ll last much longer. I’ve lost track of time, but I know it’s been a satisfying few years. When I can see, my body is an emaciated mess, scarred and ugly. I have no regrets, only except for wishing to give him more. He’s been so good to me, I can’t repay him enough. He deserves more, everything.

##

Come chat to me. Am currently unemployed, and frisky (in case you couldn’t tell), so I have all the time in the world to have deep and porny perverted discussions… y_dee_x@yahoo.co.uk