A Bad Place

The cocks pumped in and out of her as she squealed in terror and delight. Three cocks, one for each hole. She used to be a lesbian. Maybe she still was, and all this was just forced pageantry. She couldn't tell anymore. She didn't care anymore.

What did her feelings matter, after all? She was just a toy to be used. All that mattered was how she was perceived. All that mattered was the pleasure that her appearance gave these men, or the last men or the next men. The pleasure her body gave them. The pleasure her perceived pleasure gave them. Or her perceived pain. It was all the same.

She was there for men. These men, the last men, the next men. The men who had done this to her, but for them no more then any other men.

She used to have a name. What was it? She couldn't remember and she didn't want to remember. She was just a slut now, a cumdump, a fucktoy.

The cocks pumped in and out of her in a strange, disconnected rhythm. One of them was mauling at her tits. She didn't know which one. She couldn't see past the crotch buried in her face. Probably the one in her pussy. That would make the most sense.

The one in her pussy came. Would she get pregnant? Could she still get pregnant? That would probably be inconvenient.

She moaned in pleasure, moaned in pain. What was the difference anymore? Was she even capable of feeling either?

The one in her asshole came too. He grunted as he did, grabbing her waist. They left.

The man in her mouth lasted longer. He had her to himself for what feels like forever. Pulling her hair, pumping in and out. Would he pump it down her throat or let it out all over her face or her tits?

He pulled out and painted her face. She licked her lips, getting some of it into her mouth. Then he left.

He left her to her thoughts, or he would have, if she still had thoughts. Thoughts were for men.

She was just here to be a set of holes.

Not to think, not to feel.

Just to be fucked.

In her ass, in her throat, in her pussy.

She used to be a lesbian.

Why was that the one thing she remembered?

The room was dark and wet.

She felt it on her hands, and her knees. The cold, damp concrete was all she knew. All she could think about was this place, and the men who came in it. In both senses.

Men she could barely see under the dim fluorescents. She touched herself idly. Not for pleasure, but just because there was nothing else for a cocksleeve like her to do in the absence of a cock to fill her.

Her right hand handled her tits as her left fingered her pussy.

She whimpered softly.

She'd been doing a lot of whimpering lately. Whimpering, moaning, screaming.

Her throat wasn't sore.

They had done things to more than her mind.

There were more women in the room. Whimpering, moaning, screaming. Being touched in all sorts of ways. They didn't matter. Only the men mattered. Them and their cocks.

They were here to touch and be touched.

Another cock entered her mouth. She moaned softly, swirling her tongue around its head. Two more men came near.

She started moving to present her pussy and ass, but the first man placed a hand on her head, motioning for her to stay kneeling. Undeterred, she reached out one hand, then the other, beckoning the other men, and began stroking their cocks as they approached.

The man in her mouth came at the same time as the men in her hands.

The semen felt cold against her skin, and sticky in her hair.

She used to be a lesbian. She remembered that. She didn't remember anything else.

But we can.

Deirdre Roberts was a lawyer. She was almost married. The laws letting that happen had just been passed in her state. She was happy. She was really happy.

One day she went to see a client and didn't come back.

Tom Harris had seemed like such a good guy. Caring, friendly, sincere. He'd hired her on a small civil matter. He'd invited her to his mansion to discuss the terms. He only had one condition. There was a room in the basement that she wasn't supposed to open.

She didn't listen.

They never listened.

Unusually, he had hoped she would. It would be such a hassle to hire a new lawyer. But she didn't.

She opened the door, and she stepped in before she registered what she saw, what she heard. That was a bad idea. Maybe worse than opening it in the first place.

The whimpers, the moans, the screams.

She turned but the door was already locked.

She screamed, but it got lost in the whimpers and moans even before the men came to clamp hands over her mouth.

They took her to another room, all white walls and bright fluorescents. There she forgot everything, and realized what she was, and was only too

willing to fuck and suck the men who had done this to her. As willing as she would now always be to do anything to any men that they wanted. To let any men do anything they wanted to her.

But she still remembered that she used to be a lesbian.

Did they mean to leave that in? Or was she just an unusually strong will. Not that it helped. Not that it ever helped.

Her fiance missed her of course. For as long as they let her. It was probably just bad luck that she got the attention of the one person they had in the police department when she tried to file a missing persons report. But she hadn't stepped in the room, so she would not be totally remade. She would not forget everything. Only her love.

Perhaps it would have been poetic if she'd joined her lover in servitude. Maybe they would have been asked to make out for the enjoyment of men who would never know they had done it so tenderly in another life.

But this is not a poetic story. It is an ugly one.

It is a bad story about a bad place.

One of many.