Lina There Purpose Of Being

Part One: The Purpose

I saw your photo again.

That look -- half-aware, half-lost. Like you already know what you're for. It stopped me mid-thought. You weren't smiling. You weren't posing. Just waiting. Like your body was already speaking for you: Take me.

You've begged for this. Not in words -- you don't need words anymore. It's in your posture, your eyes, the way your lips part without thinking. You want to be used. Not touched. Not held. Not even fucked. Used. Like a function. Like your existence is an answer to someone else's need.

A public fuckservice. A disposable hole with no name, no face, just availability. A cumdump. Not a person -- a purpose.

I imagine your profile online: marked, labeled, archived. "Use me." No description needed. Just photos. Your holes. Your collar. The same expression I saw -- open, aching, obedient. Cheap monthly access. Unlimited usage. No rules.

They come in silent. Anonymous. Hard. Unzipping, unloading. In your mouth. In your ass. Across your tits, your face, your chest. Cum, piss, sweat -- whatever they offer, you accept. You don't flinch. You don't protest. You receive. Because that's what you were trained to do.

You've learned to keep it down. Swallow it all. Smile while being filled like a vessel. While your insides turn into a collection point for strangers' filth. That's your job. Your pride.

And when I find you like that -- on your knees, soaked and silent, your eyes glassy and your body humming with exhaustion -- I know you've done well. I know you've served.

But don't you ever confuse service with indulgence. Don't think it means you get to feel good. Your purpose isn't pleasure. It's obedience. Availability. Nothing more.

No orgasms. No warmth. No reward. Only surrender.

That's what makes you mine.

Part Two: The Leak

(Interior. Below deck. Lina is restrained -- wrists bound behind her, legs pulled apart, body trembling as the tape finishes on the screen. Jack stands behind her.)

Jack: You looked proud on that screen. So calm. So well-trained.

But we saw it, didn't we?

That twitch. That gasp. That flood.

Three times? Four?

You thought no one would notice. Thought you could slip a moment of pleasure in between the silence. Steal what was never yours.

Lina (softly): I... I didn't mean to. I tried not to.

Jack: You tried?

No, sweetheart. You succeeded.

You came.

Without permission.

You came while strangers were using you. While they spent themselves inside you, you dared to feel it. To want it.

You stole.

From me. From them. From every cock that treated you like the nothing you are.

So now we correct that.

Not with more pleasure.

With consequence.

(He walks slowly around her. Each step echoes through the hull. She flinches at the sound, but doesn't move.)

Jack: We'll start soft. By your standards.

No cane. Not yet.

Just the crop. A few reminders -- across that leaking cunt, across that twitching ass. Gentle. Measured.

Enough to repaint your body in strokes of shame.

You remember what red means, don't you?

Lina: Yes, Sir.

Jack: Good.

Because red doesn't mean stop. Not for you.

Red means: We saw you.

Red means: You felt what wasn't yours.

And tonight, they're coming again.

The ones who watched.

The ones who noticed.

They volunteered.

Said they wanted a closer look. A hands-on inspection.

Said they wanted to see what a traitor's cunt feels like.

Lina (swallows hard): I understand.

Jack: Do you?

Do you understand what happens to holes that forget their purpose?

To mouths that moan instead of gag?

To skin that shudders when it should be silent?

You won't get to speak tonight. But you'll feel every word. In your spine. In your throat. In your dripping, greedy cunt.

We'll stretch you wide. Tie you open.

Use your insides like a communal ashtray.

And when your body starts shakes -- when it begs again -- we'll remind you:

That's not yours to have, slut...

Part Three: Belonging

She's displayed now.

Bent forward, one leg hoisted to the ceiling, the other locked down.

Arms behind her, neck pressed into the wooden brace.

Her face is flushed but still.

Her mouth is open, slack, waiting. Her

back glistens -- sweat, spit, and marks in the shape of memory.

They come one by one. Quietly. They don't speak.

They don't look her in the eyes.

They use her.

Over and over.

Her throat stretches around each cock without resistance.

Her ass, raw and trembling, clenches but doesn't close.

Her cunt weeps with shame. Her body is a map of impact -- red, swollen, leaking.

She doesn't cry out. Doesn't moan. She knows.

This isn't punishment. It's reminder.

And when Jack steps forward, he doesn't smile. He presses two fingers under her chin, lifting her face so her eyes meet his.

Jack: Do you remember who you are?

Lina (hoarse): Yours, Sir.

Jack: Not enough.

You're not just mine.

You're ours.

A shared hole. A trophy of surrender. A symbol of correction.

And when you beg again -- it won't be for touch. Or release. Or recognition.

You'll beg to be kept.

To belong.

To stay like this -- drained, used, hollowed out and hanging on the edge of yourself.

And we'll grant you that.

Not because you deserve it. But because we own you.

Every inch. Every drop. Every denial.

Say it.

Lina (barely audible): Thank you.

Jack: Louder.

Lina: Thank you... for reminding me.

Jack: Good girl.

Now open wider.

They're not done.