The Things Done to Me

Author's Note: The following story contains themes of mind control, incest (cousin, non-blood related), and nonconsent. All characters are above the age of 18. I want to thank my wife for editing and my friend Ann for her encouragement.

Persephone Winther caught herself in the mirror as she stepped out of the shower. A pang of self-pity and loathing clutched her heart as she saw the burned half of her face. From her left eye, stretching back along her temple and just beyond where her ear used to be, was a massive scar from a third-degree burn. The scar went as high as an inch above her ear and as low as her cheekbone. Her milky-white eye, blinded by the injury, gazed at her in silent judgment.

She was beautiful. Was. Persephone once had a symmetrical round face with large, wide-set, blue eyes, full lips, and a button nose. In high school, she was voted homecoming queen. Twice. That beautiful face that everyone so adored was now ruined.

She turned away from the mirror she had grown to hate. "You did it to yourself, Sephie," she mumbled, echoing the last words her ex-husband, Mark, had said to her. She wrapped an oversized towel around her body and ran a comb briefly through her pixie-length blond hair before walking from the jack-and-jill bathroom to her bedroom.

Her bedroom was furnished with a single queen-size platform bed, one nightstand, a chest of drawers in the corner, and a desk with two closed laptops stacked neatly to the side. Only a standing lamp in one corner and a table lamp on the desk lit the room. There was no art on the walls, and all the furniture was painfully minimalist.

Persephone didn't want to get dressed; she would be happy just to sit around all day in nothing but a pair of unfashionable white panties. COVID had spread throughout the country, and her job was now virtual. She didn't want to go out anyway; she would rather hide her face from the rest of the world. However, today would be her first day back to work, and it was likely that she would need to attend a virtual meeting, so going sans clothing wasn't an option.

She absentmindedly grabbed a gray fleece sweater from her closet and threw it on the bed. Then something occurred to her, and she looked back. Mark had hated that sweater; he said it made her look frumpy. She never understood why he felt that way. With three-quarter sleeves and a v-neck, Persephone thought it was cute. "Fuck it," she said. If he hated it, she wanted to wear it.

She grabbed a pair of jeans and panties from her chest of drawers. She didn't need a bra because she was flat-chested. At least that's what Mark used to tell her. Persephone hated bras but wore them for him because they pushed her breasts up and out. She didn't need the support - her breasts were perky and proportional to her petite body - but she had learned to hate their modest size.

While she was not as strong and fit as she was when doing gymnastics, she still had a slender figure. She used to exercise regularly to maintain the one thing she was proud of; her waistline. Since her accident, however, she hadn't exercised once, and it was beginning to show.

Her cellphone rang. She looked at the screen, which read Vince Lopez. She swiped to pick up.

"Hey, Vince. How are they treating you?"

"They're kicking me out, cuz. I've got a week," Vince said.

"What?! At the start of a fucking pandemic? Are they completely heartless?" she asked. She placed him on speakerphone.

"Well, yes, but no. My roommates are in love. They're getting serious, and apparently, I'm a third wheel. Thanks to my portion of the rent, they've saved up enough for a house, and they don't need me anymore." He chuckled. "Nice to be appreciated, eh?"

Persephone sighed. "Yeah, I think I know what you're going to ask next."

"Sephie, please don't jump to conclusions..."

"You know that I have an extra bedroom," she interrupted, "so you're going to suggest that you move in with me. But I'm not ready for that. I need time alone."

"Wrong."

"Wrong?" she echoed as she pulled on her panties. "In what way am I wrong?"

"I'm not the one pushing for this." She could hear Vince's infuriatingly smug smile in his voice. "Your mother talked to my mother, and they decided that I should live with you. According to them, you're incapable of protecting yourself, and I'm incapable of feeding myself."

"This isn't the fucking 1950's - where the hell do they get off?" she snapped at her phone as she picked up her jeans.

"To be fair, I'm simplifying what they said. My mother added several 'I know Sephie can take care of herself but...' to her justification," he mocked. "The thing is, we should do what they're asking."

"What?"

"If I'm there with you, both of our mothers will get off of our backs. I'm sure yours is calling you every day - I know mine is," he explained. "If we do this, they'll have less reason to worry about us. That means fewer calls and fewer questions - more peace for both of us."

"Sounds great. But I have a better idea - and please hear me out; what if instead we both just turn our phones off?" Persephone retorted before pulling on her jeans.

"Do you want them knocking on your door?" he asked.

"Vince, I love you to pieces but, I don't know how to make this any clearer; I'm not ready to face, uh, I mean to deal with anyone yet."

"Your face. Is that what this is all about? Sephie-"

"I don't want to hear how you think I'm beautiful, okay?! I look like Freddy Kruger's daughter!" she yelled.

"So not much change from when we were kids?" he asked.

She stopped and stared at the phone with a puzzled smile. "Are you trying reverse psychology on me?"

"No. I was trying reverse-reverse psychology, but it wasn't working, so I thought I'd just revert to childish insults."

"Make sense. You can only utilize higher function thinking for a limited time before smoke pours out of your ears," Persephone said with a smile and pulled on her sweater.

He chuckled. "Seriously, though - I honestly don't care what you look like, and you can trust that I won't judge or pity you. I admit that I'm worried about you," his voice quivered. "A life-altering car crash and a divorce inside of three months is too much for one person to handle alone. It's killing me that we haven't spent time together since it all happened. You're the closest thing I have to a sister, and I really do love you. Please just let me be there for you - even if you don't feel you need me."

She took a deep breath and picked up her phone. "I have to start work. I'll let you know my decision tomorrow morning."

"Alright cuz," he said. "Just, please, give it honest consideration. I love you."

"Love you too, nerd. Bye," she said before hanging up the phone.

She took a deep sigh and went over to her desk. She picked up her glossy white laptop, adorned with purple butterfly decals, and sat it to the side, making room for her matte black work laptop. She opened it and booted up to her company logo; It read

Red Belle

over the words

Wedding Fashion

in a smaller font and featured two copper-colored bells at the very end of the word 'Belle.' The laptop chimed with wedding bells and, like Pavlov's dog, she recalled memories of her own wedding day. For the first time since she had begun working with

Red Belle,

they weren't pleasant memories.

She opened up her email and saw a message from Scarlet Belliveau, the company's owner, and namesake.

Persephone Winthers - Campbell,

This email may seem less than professional, but it seems appropriate to break from professional personas once in a while to acknowledge each other with compassion and empathy. I view our company as an extended family, and we're small enough to treat our employees like family. As such, I'd like to extend my condolences regarding your recent hardships.

My secretary tells me that today would be your first day back, as your medical leave has expired. If you need more time, I want you to know that I have made arrangements to offer you another three to four weeks of leave. You've been one of our most prestigious and prolific designers, and we want to see you back at the top of your game. If that means giving you more time to heal physical and emotional scars, it's to all our benefit to do so.

I do not expect an answer today, but I cannot wait more than a week for you to take me up on my offer for logistical reasons. I know it might be tempting to throw yourself back into your work, but my personal experience with my son's death has shown me that it's not always healthy to do so. Please consider this option. And should you need anything from me, don't be afraid to contact me. I will make time for your calls.

Sincere Regards,

Scarlet Belliveau.

Tears were streaming down her face as she rested her forehead on her desk. "Shit," she murmured. She wiped her tears away, picked up her cellphone, dialed, and placed the phone on speaker.

"Red Belle Wedding Fashion. Scarlet Belliveau's office. How may I assist you?" a faceless voice asked.

"My name is Persephone Winther - I'm an employee there. May I speak with Mrs. Belliveau?" She shifted in her seat and bit her lip.

"Absolutely. Mrs. Beliveau had informed me that you might call and instructed me to put you right through, Mrs. Winther - Campbell."

"Please - it's just Ms. Winther now," she corrected as she closed the company laptop.

"Apologies. I'll make a note of that, Ms. Winther. Please hold."

The line fell silent for a brief moment, and then Scarlet's voice came on the line. "Persephone! I had a feeling you would call."

"Yeah. I hope I'm not interrupting anything," she worried.

"Not at all. I was just going through some new designs for next year's spring line for approval. Quite a few of them I've already approved are your designs," Scarlet said warmly. "You should be proud."

"Thank you. Um, Mrs. Belliveau? I opened your email this morning, and I realized that you were right. I just can't do this right now. I will take that leave extension," she explained.

"I thought you would. I'll inform our HR department immediately, and you should receive new medical leave documents by email either later today or early tomorrow. They're almost identical to the ones you signed before. Just electronically sign and send back," Scarlet instructed.

"Thank you, Mrs. Belliveau. I have one more issue," Persephone said as her voice cracked.

"Anything, dear."

"My name - I'm just Ms. Winther now," she stated.

The line was silent. Scarlet finally spoke. "I see. I didn't know - I'm so sorry. I'll have HR send over paperwork to have your name officially changed in our systems and records. We can afford an advance on your payment if your new circumstances require it," she offered.

"Thank you, but that's not necessary. Really, Mrs. Belliveau, thank you for being so understanding," she said as she teared up.

"Not at all. I meant what I said in the email. Now I better get back to work. Feel better and take care of yourself."

"Thank you," she mumbled before the line went dead.

She gazed at the phone for a moment, and her heart sank. It was too easy. She felt guilty getting preferential treatment. Scarlet was just nice to her because she thought she had to be. After three full months of absence and now an extension on that absence, Persephone feared she was pushing her luck. She imagined Scarlet was looking through a pile of resumes to replace her and asked herself what she'd do if she were fired. 'Scarlet wouldn't do that to me,' she told herself. But something in the back of her mind wouldn't allow her to believe it.

_____________

Persephone walked into her living room wearing nothing but white panties, carrying her open laptop and a red throw blanket. She sat down on a throw pillow in front of the uncovered sofa she had purchased a little less than a month ago. The sofa cover sat, unboxed, on one of the uncovered cushions. Next to her was a basic white coffee table, consisting of four square legs, a top, and a single shelf beneath. An open pizza box was on the table with a half-eaten pizza inside, alongside a warm six-pack of beer containing three empty bottles - remnants of what she had ordered for dinner over seven hours ago.

In front of her was a flat-screen TV that leaned against the wall. Cords ran from the TV to the sofa, which she then plugged into her laptop. "Give me full-screen or give me death," she mumbled as she turned on the TV.

The screen displayed her desktop, which featured a bare-chested Tom Ellis bursting out of a swimming pool. She draped the throw over her shoulders, picked up one of the sealed beer bottles, and opened it. Then Persephone raised the bottle into the air.

"Here's to one last week of walking around my apartment nekkid," she declared to the room. "Goddamn, I'm pathetic."

She sighed and looked over to her laptop. She browsed to the 'lite' porn site,

Sweet 18 Forever.

She could care less about the girls' age; the site used several beefy-looking baby-faced men, and she could identify with the women, seeing as they were all about her build.

She queued up a video she hadn't seen before and watched as a pool scene unfolded. Soft music played in the background as a tall, muscular man with deep brown eyes and short brown hair helped a bikini-clad young woman with long light brown hair out of the pool. They kissed, and the camera traveled down her body to show his hands caressing her arms and sides.

Persephone slid one hand down her panties to help tease herself to arousal while reaching over with the other hand to grab a slice of pizza. She took a bite as her wayward hand brushed one finger over the thin hair that covered the lips of her sex. She leaned back and watched as the beautiful man slowly seduced the supposedly innocent young girl.

She took another bite of pizza. "Too slow," she groaned. It suddenly occurred to her that the porn actresses don't stay 18 forever despite the site's name. Persephone took another bite as she freed her hand from her panties to scroll down on the video's page.

Penelope Williamson.

"Penelope?" she smiled to herself. "We're just two girls named after mythical Greek women." She saw that the video upload date was 2013. "Let's see what you look like today."

She keyed in her name using her off-hand and searched to see what became of her. At first, she saw a list of other women that she could easily confirm were not the same 'Penelope Williams.' She clarified the results by adding 'Porn Actress' to the search. The first result was on

Porn Actress Database.

The actress's page read: Penelope Williamson, a.k.a. Penny Cox.

"She changed her stage name... " Persephone mused. "Okay, Ms. Penny Cox, what are you doing now?"

As before, she searched for Penny Cox as a porn actress, weeding out anyone else by that unfortunate name. She came upon a series of videos on

Slut tube

and opened the first one she saw.

The scene opened with Penny Cox suspended by a spreader bar cuffed to her wrists. She was in a cinderblock room painted black. Her toes just barely touched the gray concrete under her. Three small weights hung from a chain that spanned between her nipples, kept in place by two wicked-looking clamps. A wand vibrator was pressed into her sex, held in place by a rough rig made of steel pipe and two-by-fours. The camera panned around her, showing that she had a hook embedded in her ass and pulled taught by another chain running up her back to the spreader bar. At first, Persephone cringed, but then she saw a similar hook in the background with a large ball where the sharp point would be. She was still uneasy at the thought of that being inside her.

Gone was the fresh-faced innocence of Penelope Williamson. Her youthful beauty was replaced by heavy makeup and a contorted expression of pain, fear, and lust. Her hair was a short spiky pixie cut, dyed pitch black. She had two rings piercing her bottom lip and, when she opened her mouth, Persephone could see a glint of metal suggesting a tongue piercing. Penny writhed and moaned. Persephone's hand crept back down her panties as she stared at the scene unfolding.

"Did you allow yourself to be put in this situation willingly?" a male voice behind the camera asked with a southern drawl.

"Yes, Sir," Penny answered.

"Why?" he inquired.

"I'm a worthless slut that deserves to be used and punished, Sir," her voice cracked. "I need to be bound, denied orgasm, and whipped so I can remember my place."

Persephone felt her heart leap into her throat. This was wrong. A beautiful girl, humiliating herself, begging to be treated like a piece of meat, all so she could

remember her place.

She had heard of this type of porn, but she had avoided it like the plague. It was demeaning and depraved - everything she was supposed to oppose. Yet the young woman had willingly placed herself in this position and seemed to be enjoying it.

She took her now-soaked panties off and threw them aside. The person behind the camera walked away from Penny and affixed it to a tripod that briefly came into view. The person refocused the camera on Penny's side. Then a large, muscular, bearded man who wore black boots, jeans, and a black tee-shirt came into view of the camera. In his right hand was a flog that Persephone dimly remembered was called a cat-o-nine-tails.

"And who am I?" the man asked.

"You're my Maaasteeer!" Penny squealed as if the word alone teased her perilously close to orgasm.

The way Penny said the word 'Master' sent a creeping tendril of fear up Persephone's spine, and with it a mild electric shock to her sex. Her hand went from caressing and rubbing to insertion; two fingers plunged into her as her thumb continued to massage her clit. Her breath was staggered, and she leaned over, watching her flat-screen TV intently.

"I'm going to whip you until you cum. Do you hear me, slut?" he growled. "When you hurt so much that you can't take anymore, that's when you can cum." Penny nodded. The man took her by the chin and turned her head to the camera. "Tell the good people masturbating to your punishment how much you want this."

"I want this. I need this. I deserve this," Penny said to the camera. The man turned her face back to him, and he spat into her mouth. Then he stepped back and unceremoniously swung the cat back and forth across her stomach, thighs, and breasts, leaving red marks on her pale white skin. She yelped with every strike.

Persephone now had three fingers pumping in and out of her sex. She was shuddering and panting as her stomach twisted in disgust at her own arousal. Penny screamed and shook on the screen; Persephone screamed back at the television as her orgasm crashed upon her, causing a quake of ecstasy between her legs that rumbled out as tremors through her limbs. Her back arched, and her toes curled as she brought her knees up to her chest.

Still trembling, Persephone looked back up to see the man stroking Penny's cheek. "Good slut," he muttered. She imagined herself in Penny's place, being quietly told that she's a good slut. Her chest filled with both the warmth of affection and the sinking feeling of wrongness.

The video ended, and Persephone shut her laptop. The pillow she was sitting on was damp with her cum. She grabbed her half-eaten slice of pizza and took another bite, then stared back at her laptop. Her utter disgust with herself slowly gave way for a thirst for more.

She threw the pizza to the side, opened up the laptop, and scrolled down to the

Related Users

section of the page. There she saw the name 'Master Krysolov' under a jester's hat icon. She clicked on the curious icon and saw he uploaded eleven videos. The video pinned to the top was titled 'Introduction.' She clicked the video, which automatically started playing. It consisted of a deep male voice with a very slight Slavic accent and plain white text on black screen of precisely what was said as it was being said.