The story will make much more sense if you have read the previous parts
...
The car that came to take me away to my new life of servitude was black, expensive and on time. My husband carried my bags out to the boot. My anger flashed and I thought that even seeing me off to pay the prices for our crimes, he acted just like another servant of Mr. Croker. When he tried to hug me goodbye all I could do was stand passively and accept his arms around me. I couldn't respond in kind as I was so filled with fury and hate.
All through the drive to the private hospital, all through the admission process, the pre-op, all through Dr. Khan explaining what was to be done -- that not only would they tighten my vagina but inject collagen into its front wall for G-spot amplification -- I refused to cry. Even through the signing of what were ironically called 'consent papers', I refused to sob.
That changed the night before the operation when Mr. Croker visited my private room. I think it was the fact that he brought flowers and chocolates. This despicable, cruel man who was modifying my body for his pleasure, to demonstrate his power over me dared to pretend he cared. I began to cry in both hot hatred and fear.
I knew from my previous to encounters -- my right cheek was still tender -- to obey his order to: "Snivel more quietly, we don't want the nurses to hear." He then pulled out camera from one of his suit pockets and gave me more orders: "Lie on top of the bed. Place a pillow under your arse. Lift up your medical robe till it is bunched around your hips. Spread your legs for Daddy, that's it, spread them wider."
Too intimidated by the blackmail he held and by fear of the physical punishment he may unleash if I was uncooperative, I meekly complied. Feeling scared, vulnerable and ashamed at having to display my most intimate parts this way to a terrible abuser holding a camera.
"I am going to take some before photos of your cunt for my Anne-Marie scrapbook. I'll take some after ones post-surgery of course and send both to Alex to remind him of what his wife's sex looked like before I had it re-made according to my will. Oh I know, it's a tactless display of power over you both, but I enjoy that sort of thing."
He began to click away, entirely focussed on my sex, not even giving a glance to the tears falling down my face. "Now hold yourself open. Hold your puffy little lips open for Daddy. Good girl. That's it, display yourself like a wanton little whore. Now masturbate for me. Show me how you like to play with yourself."
Utterly crushed and ashamed, I went through the hollow actions of pleasuring myself. I stroked my lower lips, pulled a finger between them, nudging apart their tender folds. All the while Mr. Croker clicked and made disgusting, lewd and abusive comments. I felt none of the usual pleasure these actions would give me, only revulsion.
"I own this cunt now Anne-Marie. It's Daddy's to fuck, to sell, to use anyway I see fit."
Mr. Croker then reached into his suit and pulled out what looked at a distance a tube of toothpaste and a shiny metal rod. It was only when he threw them onto the bed that I saw it was a tube of lubricating gel and the outer casing of a container for a large cigar.
"Lube yourself, then show Daddy how you fuck your cunt before Dr. Khan makes it virgin tight for me. Do you know, I've promised him that once I've broken it in, I'll let him come visit and experience his handiwork for himself."
Crying, broken and mortified, I applied some of the cold, slippery gel to my fingers and gently worked it across and into my sex. Then I smeared some of it across the cigar container's six and bit inches of length and an inch of width. Whether out of fear of what would happen or to lessen the discomfort I might face, I began to use the cigar casing exactly as I would my own favourite smooth mini-vibrator.
First I pulled it from my taint to my bud in long, slow strokes. Then I applied a little pressure and let it part my lips as I moved in gently up and down. As I pushed it into myself like a small dildo, I remembered the foul taste of cigar-flavoured saliva Mr. Croker had spat into my mouth while fucking my breasts and I gave out an involuntary moan. I told myself it was only the shock of the tube entering me. Gently I begin to push it in and out of myself, all the time Mr. Croker taking pictures and offering obscene encouragement."
He fiddled with the camera and then set it down between my open legs. Then taking the tube from my hand he began the process of fucking me with it. His pistoning in and out was more forceful and deeper than my own had been, but it wasn't faster and he maintained a constant rhythm.
"What a little whore you are being fucked with Daddy's cigar. Don't pretend there isn't some small part of you enjoying this."
Mortified I was was to admit it to myself, Mr. Croker wasn't entirely wrong. Despite his torrent of horrid, abusive words, his pushing and pulling the smooth metal phallus substitute in and out of my sex was having a physical effect. It wasn't anything like desire or being turned on, but I could feel all those slight physiological tells of arousal -- unbidden and detested as it was under the circumstances kick in. I could feel my lips puff up, a little reddening blush come to my face and chest. I could feel my bud throbbing.
With one hand violating me with the cannister, Mr. Croker used his free hand to roughly maul my breasts through the fabric of my white hospital gown. In between his strong squeezing of my flesh, his fingers would find my nipples and pull and pinch them till they embarrassingly became erect.
"Rub your clit Anne-Marie. Do it for Daddy."
