Disclaimer: If you are under 18 or otherwise legally restricted from viewing material of an erotic nature GO AWAY! If you are offended by sexually explicit material why are you here in the first place?
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I'm kneeling on the floor, my knees aching from the thin carpet covering the concrete, the tops of the stockings tight on my thighs and her pussy cream slowly drying to a crust on my face. How did I end up like this? I'd cry, but there are no tears left in me, and making matters worse, the final degradation, the feeling of wetness even now sliding down my thighs to slowly soak into the stocking. I was beginning to get turned on by her abuse, my humiliation and the degrading acts she makes me perform.
It wasn't always this way. Graduating high school I'd looked forward to university, a new start far from home. It wasn't that I was mistreated or picked on in high school, just overlooked. I didn't really date, spent most of my time studying, and didn't really have any close friends. At an age when most of my peers were running around partying and hooking up I was largely below the radar. I'm not bad looking, blue eyes, dark brown hair, and a tight body from gymnastics. Its just I never really felt comfortable with people in my school. Every once in a while I'd try to go out on a date, but after shutting down every attempt to feel me up or anything beyond a quick hug the guys began to just leave me alone.
Finally, university! I was looking forward to moving into my res room and meeting my new roommate. Well...I was looking forward to moving into my new res room at least. When I arrived she was already there, her stuff laid out on the bed closest to the window, some kind of industrial/trance remix blasting while she threw things into the drawers on her side of the room. Hardly an auspicious start, I was revolted by her music, she was making a mess all over, and she looked at me as I walked in without the slightest indication of welcome, or even interest.
I knew the type, always dressed in ragged black, army boots, chip on her shoulder two miles wide, black lipstick, nail polish, the whole nine yards. Somehow I'd managed to get paired up with a goth urban death ghoul, I'd seen her kind in my high school, always wondered if they were about to go Columbine on us.
I managed a smile, walking over and holding out my hand. "Cheryl" I introduced myself, waiting with my hand outstretched. She grunted and carried on unpacking her things. I didn't bother trying again, just turned back to my side and began my own unpacking. This was to be the gist of our relationship during the first two months we shared the room, indifference weighted with moments of active dislike.
For my part this period was one of escalating anger as I found the environment impossible to study when she was home blasting her god-awful "music", but fortunately she was rarely in the room. Often I wouldn't see her for days, which was great for me as I enjoyed the solitude, but when she came home it was seldom alone. The girl was such a whore! There was a different guy with her weekly, sometimes more often than that. In the one conversation we had had in two months together she informed me that if there was a post-it on the door it meant stay out.
It was mid-October when it all came to a head. For the third day in a row I came back from dinner to find a post-it on the door. I'm not trying to be a bitch about this, but I figured enough was enough, I wasn't spending another evening in the library because my roommate was a slut. I jammed my key in the lock and swung the door open.
She was on top, her skirt still on, her shirt off, pinching her nipples as she rode the guy lying below her on the bed. As I walked in she spun to look at me, hand covering her breasts as the guy below her pushed her off and to the side.
"What the fuck are you doing in here?" she screamed, jumping off the bed and walking towards me, "You didn't see the fucking post-it?"
I looked at her, "I'm not staying out of my room just because you'll fuck anything with a penis", I snarled back, though backing of a step as she continued to advance. "If you want to be a whore do it somewhere else"
She stopped, her lips white with fury, neither of us noticing the guy slipping out of bed and out of the room closing the door behind him. "What did you call me?" she asked, her voice soft but colder than a winter wind.
"I called you a fucking slut" I responded, noticing the quaver in my voice as my back hit the closed door behind me, "This is my room too."
She stepped forward again, standing so close her bare nipples were almost brushing my shirt. "What did you call me? A slut? A whore?" Before I could even respond she slapped me, the sound banging through the room like the crack of a whip, a red hot pain spreading across my cheek. Even as I was raising my hand to my cheek a second slap hit the other side.
"Say it again," she snarled, "Come on bitch, show me how tough you are." I was holding my hands up in front of my face, trying to protect myself, sobbing and mumbling for her to leave me alone. Out of nowhere she punched me, the closed fist striking my unprotected stomach and doubling me over with pain. I'd never been in a fight, never been punched before, and as the air rushed out of my lungs I nearly fell to the ground.
A searing pain in my scalp brought me back up as she pulled me upright by a handful of hair and slapped my face again. "What's wrong bitch, not feeling so shit hot now?" she mocked me, dragging me by my hair to the middle of the room. A second punch to the stomach sent me tumbling to the ground, and a well placed kick kept me there, even bare footed the pain of her kick lanced trough my side like a bullet.
"What?" she asked, walking slowly around my prostrate form, "I can't hear you, maybe you need some help speaking up." She drew her foot back for another kick as I instinctively curled up in a ball.
"Stop, don't" I pleaded, "I'm sorry, it won't happen again." I was sobbing on the ground, all anger washed away in my terror of her hitting me again. She crouched down beside my head, grabbing a handful of my hair and lifting my head up. Through tear blurred eyes I could see her matted pubic hair under her black skirt, I could smell her sex even through my running nose as I sobbed.
She leaned forward, and suddenly spat in my face. I swatted at her from my prone position, hitting her arm but with little force. Her eyes widened, pure rage flowing across them as she hauled her arm back and slapped me across the face while still holding my head up by my hair. The pain was incredible, the force of the blow far beyond her earlier slaps, my scalp feeling as though the handful of hair had been ripped out by its roots. I tried to scream, but she'd already let my head drop, stood and drawn her foot back. Even as I prepared to shriek the kick landed on my side and I curled around the ball of fire it released in my guts. A second kick smacked into my back, straightening me back out in a rigid pose of pure agony, before a third straight to the lower belly finished the job and I fainted.
I awoke to her prodding me with her toe, the pain in my back and stomach barely diminished from the initial blows. Terror slammed through me like another one of her kicks, she was going to keep beating me, she was going to beat me to death.
If I had any fight in me it was gone, all I wanted was to not be hit again. Catching my breath and gasping through the sobs I began to beg her not to hurt me any more, pleading with her to stop.
She stood above me, her breasts heaving with the exertion of beating me. "You want me to stop, bitch? You've had enough?" she taunted me, prodding me with her toes again eliciting another whimper. "You want to say sorry now, apologize for what you did?"
