Freuds Woman

"Get on all fours with your ass facing me."

She climbed obediently onto the bed and did what she was told.

"Now bend over and stick out your vagina."

She did.

"No. You can't do anything right." He grabbed her head and arms and forced them to the bed. She was now completely bent over, with her forearms and the left side of her face flat against the bed. "And don't move unless I tell you to."

He relished the sight in front of him. She was young and beautiful and fresh, and she was his. Only two years before she would have passed him on the street without knowing he existed. But now -- now she waited naked and degraded on his bed, waited patiently and willingly for whatever he intended to do to her.

There it was, all before him: her firm, round ass; her moist, downy, pink vagina; her little brown anus; her smooth, pedicured feet; her tanned, spotless skin with that barely-visible, fine blonde down. It was all there, waiting for him and belonging to him, just because he was good looking and for no other reason. For no other reason. She bore all the humiliation and was waiting there with her ass in the air just because she was attracted to him. She cared about nothing else, the stupid, shallow slut. And she was even moist, moist in such a situation. The slut had the audacity to be moist. She should have been dry and frightened, yet she was moist and probably excited in all her degradation.

His blood began to boil. He took off his clothes and broke into her and every enraged thrust counted for every summer slut in sluttish summer clothing that had ever passed him on the street in his times of misery and longing. She was crying and screaming and meekly pushing at his stomach with her hand. He hadn't given her young vagina the time to loosen up, but he didn't care. He had her hips in his firm grip and was pulling her whole little body to his thrusting penis. She was clutching the sheets with her pretty hands and writhing in pain and giving out helpless moans and screams. Still he wasn't satisfied.

Gathering phlegm in his mouth, he spat on her anus and penetrated it with his thumb. The girl yelped and had started to lift her head in defiance when he grabbed her hair in a fist and shoved her back down. Her anus wasn't ready, and he rejoiced at this. He forced his way in and began once again without giving her any time to adjust. Compared to this, what she had felt before wasn't pain, but merely a mild discomfort, even a violent kind of pleasure. But this, this was pain. Real pain. Her cries and screams were no longer those of pain mixed with ecstasy. They were only pain. And she cried and begged him to stop. And he wouldn't.

Finally he withdrew.

"All right. Come here. Put the cock in your mouth."

She was exhausted and dazed and her face was in tears.

"Are you deaf? Take the cock and put it in your mouth."

She did, yet she couldn't handle the taste and smell of her bowels. She vomited all over herself, the bed and him. He had expected this to happen.

"Bravo! Now just look at all this. How disgusting you are. Absolutely disgusting," he said in a sardonic, monotonous tone. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" she was sobbing and looking at him imploringly. She wrapped herself around his waist and continued her hysterics, "I'm sorry! Please! Please! I'm sorry!"

Just as he was beginning to pity her, this pleading for forgiveness enraged him once again. He had just done the foulest things to her, yet she was the one apologizing. She was the one apologizing and begging forgiveness. The stupid whore. The goddamn, stupid young whore. How she looked at this moment as opposed to how she looked when she walked down the street on a summer day -- proud, vain, condescending, untouchable. They were all stupid whores, and at this moment he hated them more than ever. At this moment he wanted to make them all gag on their feces, reminding them that they're just worthless whores, these so-called emancipated young women. At one point in his life he had been ready to give one of them everything, but they had all denied him and had gone on tormenting him in their summer clothing. Now he looked at this one crying and begging and clinging and yearning for compassion, and he considered how just earlier that day she must have thought herself so important and perfect and powerful, strutting around in her little skirt, tank top and sandals, amidst all the gawking, desperate men who would never get the chance to touch a girl of her beauty without paying money. He considered this heartless sadism in her kind, and he raged inside himself. On the outside he remained cold and indifferent.

"Lovely. Just lovely. But your acting is no good here," he said as he broke her hold on his body and stepped back. He wiped the vomit off himself with the part of the sheets that was still clean, then got up and walked away, leaving her kneeling on the bed in the mess she had made. Over her sobs she heard him turn the water on in the bathroom. He was drawing a bath for her. Her pitiful state had affected him. She breathed a sigh of relief.

He came back.

"Are you running the bath for me?" she asked, looking at him with those big beautiful eyes that had succeeded countless times in getting whatever they wanted. But those looks didn't work on him. They only enraged him all the more.

"I'm going to take a bath," he answered. "In the meantime have some decency and wipe that vomit off yourself."

At this she broke down again.

"Can't you at least give me towel?"

"No. Use the sheets." And he went to bathe.

She sat there abandoned with no one to hear her sobbing. She looked at her beautiful young body and asked why she was there. She hadn't realized how sore she was. She gently touched herself. Looking at her delicate fingertips, she was terrified to find blood on them. She was bleeding and crying and aching. Her perfect little body had been brutally violated and assaulted, and there in her own mess she continued to sit, pitying and loving herself. She was narcissism, passivity and masochism. She was Freud's woman, and to her misfortune, the man taking a bath had read Freud.

And so, though she dearly loved and pitied herself and knew she should get dressed, leave, and never come back again, she instead started to clean up the mess and tidy the bed.