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 No.19116

She began to internalize that she was less than a human being after her arms and feet were amputated, after her tongue-tip piercing was welded to a plate screwed into her palate behind her teeth, after her mouth was sewn and glued permanently shut, after the hinge of her jaw was fused, after her vocal cords were removed. The young girl could not communicate. She was a thing. Over time she began to feel like a thing. She stopped making eye contact with people, because their eyes passed over hers.

Most of the time her fragile neck was chained and padlocked to a steel bar in a room at the back of the warehouse. People came and went, visiting the boss, hardly glancing at the bald little teenager curled up naked in the corner with a lifeless expression on her cute, childlike face. She was old news now. The daughter of his dead enemy. She was slumped against the wall with her cheek smooshed into the wallpaper and her legs folded to her chest so her thighs and butt looked like a peach. Bored and shivering in the cold.

Sometimes the boss stayed behind at night when everyone else left. He went to her, cupped her little chin, squished her cheeks, watched the dull eyes rise to meet his with only a faint spark of defiance left in them. He would unchain her slender, bruised neck from the wall, help her stand on her stumps, lead the shivering girl down the dark hallway to a different room.

He would hold her steady in front of a full-length mirror, run his huge, rough hands along her naked body and whisper "Look at yourself." The little girl would gasp and sigh and moisten despite herself, which was always very humiliating for her. She'd been raped many times as a child and now responded to threatening sexual touches with unwilling, traumatic arousal. (Raped by teachers and relatives, but never her father)

Her little face flushed hot. She swayed. She breathed hard and gulped as he touched her soft, vulnerable young body. She'd have moaned if her vocal cords still worked. In the mirror before her, an emaciated husk of a girl. Protruding ribs and hips. Hopeless eyes, someone no longer alive but merely waiting for death. Not a hair or eyelash growing anywhere on her.

His hand slid down her taught belly to her vagina. She leaned into his hand, pushed her genitals against him, closed her eyes and began to grind her pussy into his palm. The folds of her little flower dripping wet and slipping along the ridges of his fingers. The experienced older man curled two of his thick fingers into her, up against her g-spot. His other hand on her belly.

He fucked her. She lolled her pretty head back and let him fuck her, the man's aggressive strength lifting her little body sometimes, his stubbled cheek pressed into the soft curve of her neck more for grip than intimacy. Her fragile body was enveloped by his.

When she let go of the humiliation, it felt good. Her eyebrows arched. She almost felt like a human woman when she imagined them somewhere else, a different man, a different place. She wiggled her vacant shoulders, wishing she could touch herself, hold her breasts or put her smaller hand over his. Her mutilated body was no longer one that could touch itself, could only be touched.

She came quickly, and the flood of weeks of tension from her body made her silently sob at the ceiling. He kept masturbating her. The girl kept grinding her little pussy into him, looking up at the yellow lights, feeling degraded and horribly aroused and alone as he raped her. Being raped, every few weeks, manhandled into this room and raped under the lights, was, the young girl realized one night when she curled up alone and naked in the dark, the only thing she looked forward to.

He was fucking her with hatred, not lust. And she hated herself for liking it, which made her feel that she deserved it, which made her like it even more. And she kept humping his hand like a little whore. She came and came again. She came when his hand moved from her little belly up to her throat and choked her. Choked her the way a man chokes a woman, not a little girl.

She still thought of herself as a child, deep down, though her body had begun to blossom, her hips had widened, her breasts had ripened. Hers was still a child's face, her body still little and cute, her voice before they'd removed it still soft like a child's.

The truth was she'd stopped growing. She was destined to be one of those small, childlike women. And with her facial bone structure she was sure to age youthfully for decades. Chained naked to a wall, never allowed to make any decisions, she'd probably feel like a child as long as she lived. She thought about this sometimes when she curled up to sleep, smooshing her knees into her breasts to conserve warmth and resting her bald head on the hardwood floor. Here she was, a naked little girl with her mouth sewn shut, waiting to be raped, wanting to be raped, chained to the wall and unable to die, mourning the adult life she'd never get to live. Kept forever in time-out.

When he was done he helped her go to the bathroom, watched her piss like an animal in front of him, cleaned her off, took her back to the room where his desk and his big leather chair were, a window behind them overlooking the rest of the warehouse, and he guided the naked teenager to her corner where a thick collar and chain attached to a steel bar on the wall, his hands on her armless shoulders, and he closed the collar tight around her slender neck and clicked the padlock shut, and he stood there above the naked girl, and she curled into a shivering ball and hid her cute little face in her knees, and he clicked the lights off and his silhouette went out through the only door and the door closed and locked and she was plunged into darkness.

She tugged at the piercing attaching her tongue to her palate. Her plump lips pulled at the translucent stitches holding them closed. Her jaw muscles strained but the hinge of her jaw was fused. She hissed, she exhaled, but there was no sound in her throat. Far away in the warehouse the metal exit doors screeched shut and rattled as he locked them. She lay her head down and closed her eyes. She was wet.

 No.19118

Short, sweet, and perfect!

 No.19151

A lovely story, thank you so very much!



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