[Fiction] The Child

[Officelover]

Most of them may not have been raping me for fun, but there were a few for whom I got the distinct impression that they enjoyed my ‘company’ a little too much. These, who the librarians referred to as ‘the passionate ones’, came to me on an almost daily basis. Most of the passionate ones came for a month or two at a time; I never had more than three people passionate about me at once.

Yes, during the time I spent with the former Child, I would have been called a passionate one. The paradox about anyone so eager to destroy the Child, who takes so much pleasure in causing the Child pain, is that they seem to realize the Child is human. To take pleasure in someone’s dehumanization, you have to first accept that they are a person, to start with at least.

Near the end of the first year of my Childhood, I met a woman that would prove herself to be more devoted to me than all the others. She began a relationship with me that clearly was more important to her than any other in her life. I guess that’s how these things happen; when you feel alone in Omelas, when you can’t find people to love you, you turn to the only person you’re allowed to hate.

She seemed to be a bit of a loner the first time she raped me. She came alone, which was slightly uncommon for first-time women. She seemed nervous, as though she wasn’t used to talking to strangers. As if she would be talking to me long. She actually looked at me more sympathetically than most people did—I’m guessing she knew what it was like to be utterly friendless. I actually recognized a bit of myself, back when I was in her position, in her.

That sympathy was what scared me. When I saw that she recognized me as a human being, even if it was only at a subconscious level, I knew she would be working extra hard to make me as inhuman as possible.

She was clumsy, the first time she tried on the strap-on. She had me tied to the slab the library provided for such trysts, and seemed to run out of energy. She looked weak—she was extremely slender, a little shorter than average. Not particularly pretty, very small breasts, brown hair to her shoulders. The only thing distinctive about her with these beautiful greenish gray eyes she looked down at you with that belied her nervous demeanor. No matter how shyly she talked, those eyes showed how ruthless she secretly could be.

Her first rape wasn’t very impressive. As I said, she tired out quickly. She didn’t know what she was doing. But she came back, and kept at it. She raped me every Friday, for a couple of months, until she got good at it. I watched her grow through my pain; over the course of three years I watched her mature into a charismatic sadist. At four months in, she became the woman I feared most with the strap-on, and you could tell she was proud of her success. She was just as good at violating me as any man; she actually had an advantage over them, by not being to orgasm through the strap-on. She could last hours and hours.

She was unsettlingly quiet during the rape. She never made any sounds of lust, she never squealed or moaned. Sometimes I would yell myself breathless, or she’d put an especially thick gag in my mouth, and I would hear nothing but the flaps of my vaginal folds. She got me in many different positions, tightly bound in all of them. I was surprised that she didn’t try to get me to eat her out; almost all my female rapists did. For the first four months, while she mastered the strap-on, she didn’t orgasm once while raping me. For those first four months, I didn’t pay much attention to her. She was still just another weekly rapist. As good, maybe, as a normal man, but not much better, and not devoted enough to make me singularly miserable.

Her name was Morigana. I didn’t find out much about her, until much later. I gathered that she was in high school, not doing particularly well. It’s not that she wasn’t bright, or that she was lazy; she just had other interests. She was an excellent dancer, supposedly one of the best in Omelas. In my former life, before I was the Child, I remember passing her in the halls. I never said anything to her then—she was two years older than me—and I never said anything to her now.

Then one day, she asked me a question.

“Did you sleep with my father?” she spat.

I didn’t know whether or not to answer. I never talked to the people using me. It was a bad idea. It tended to provoke them more. She punched me, hard, in the face, and said, “I asked you—did you, or did you not, sleep with my father?”

I didn’t know. “I don’t know, ma’am,” I said, “I… I sleep with a lot of people.”

Her father, I would later learn, did indeed ‘sleep with me’, only a couple of days before. Her mother didn’t mind at all when he brought it up at the dinner table, as there’s nothing wrong with violating a cunt like me. But Morigana knew better. She was shocked that her father would commit, in her eyes, adultery. She knew I was human, she new it was a sin to rape me (if you’re married). And now, for my degradation of her father, she explained, she was going to degrade me.

[jcogginsa]

I like the introduction of Morigana. hopefully we get some good scenes of her, the summarizations aren't as good

[Officelover]

Sorry I haven't updated in a while, life is kind of crazy. I'll publish a great new installment soon!

[Dareholic]

I just started reading this story, it is pretty good. Keep it up.

[kmacroxs]

Originally Posted by Officelover

Sorry I haven't updated in a while, life is kind of crazy. I'll publish a great new installment soon!

YAY!! I'll be waiting.

[Officelover]

Here's the new installment! Hope you like it!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

Morigana stared me straight in the eye she had blackened as she kicked me in the vagina. She was far from the first to stray from using the bed bonds, but not many rapists used the wall the library provided. I was handcuffed to the rod, my arms stretched above my head. Each one of my legs was shackled by a short chain to the wall.

The librarians had taken the time to fit me to it, and it was extremely effective at keeping me from most wriggling. It left me exposed and exhausted—the way they had me chained, I had to slightly lift my heels off the ground or else my arms would be tugged down.

I think Morigana invented the cunt punt. To be sure, no one in Omelas had ever fought much, and violence was almost nonexistent, so the exotic torture had never been heard of. Whether or not some barbarians outside of Omelas had ever tortured some poor woman by kicking her in the pussy, repeatedly, I can never be sure. But the punishment felt fresh; each time her boot touched me, I could hear the scuttle of pens, recording the invention. How did it feel to be the inaugural recipient of this torture? The maiden voyage was the same as every other. Torture is timeless.

She “cunt punted” me twenty times that day. It was easy—my legs were very well spread, I could scarcely move. She didn’t gag me; she wanted to hear me scream. I don’t know how people never realized that a kick to the cunt hurt like what I would imagine being kicked in the balls would like. Every time she kicked me, it felt as though I was giving birth to a boot.

And she was just getting started. While she had my legs open, she declared, in what was still only the third thing she ever said to me: “I own your cunt. The whole town might own you, but your cunt is mine for what you did to me. You can keep using it for filth, if you want to, but maybe you won’t find whoredom so pleasurable when I’m through with you.”

Morigana took two clamps and put one on each fold of my pussy. They were very small, so they really hurt. Each clamp was attached to a short, stubby chain, which suspended a rusty old bucket. While I looked down at the bucket, Morigana grabbed a little vial, uncorked it, and started to shove it down my mouth. For all my wrestling, she was taller, and bore the advantage of not being bound. I knew that smell—kinser oil. The most powerful laxative in Omelas.

In two minutes’ time, it seemed every tributary in my body had formed a conflux. I peed. My decision to do so weighed heavily on my cuntfolds, as the added weight caused them more pain than the kicks had. Morigana smiled and sat on the bed watching me for a half-hour or so. Eventually, she got bored, yanked the bucket from my cunt (which hurt like a motherfucker) and threw the piss at my face. She snickered as she watched it drip from my eyes, and replaced the bucket and clamps. Then, she pissed in it herself, and walked out the door.

She might have been satisfied for the day, but she still craved my suffering. The next day, she found me in the same position. “Really, no Prince Charming stepped in to rescue you, my damsel?”

No one had come in since she had left. As she unchained me, my body felt as though it was ready to collapse. Recognizing this, Morigana said, “Let’s take a nice rest, shall we?” She led me to the bed, tied me as she had used to. “Now, are you still horny, slut?”

“No, ma’am,” I said in a tiny voice.

“No?” she asked, as she swatted my cunt. “Don’t lie, Child, the only thing that comes out of it is pain.” I knew what she wanted to hear, so I gave it to her, in a tinier voice. As she put on her strap-on, Morigana said, “I want to hear you beg for my cock.”

Nervous, I pleaded, “Please, Mistress, let me have your cock.”

“Again!”

“Please, Mistress, let me have your cock!”

“Again! And call yourself ‘this cunt’ from now on.”

“Please, Mistress,” I said soberly, “let this cunt have your cock.”

Smiling like a lion, she said, “I knew you were still horny. One day of torture cannot cancel a lifetime of depravity. Well, I’ll give you what you want, since you begged so nicely.”

She started using the strap-on on me. Better than she had ever used it before. She was just as good as any man at violating me. But the worst part about it was that my cunt was in agony. Residual, from the weight stretching on it, and the twenty kicks swiftly delivered. A hard dildo was the last thing my pussy needed. She was just as silent as she always was. Sex with her was like kayaking—if you didn’t talk it was just the sound of the waves lapping the oar. Except I was screaming this time, and she clearly did not want to gag me.

I found out why she left my mouth open soon enough. She stopped her raping, and stood to my left. She sultrily mounted the hard bed, and dropped her pants. This was the first time I had seen her uncovered. She moved her ass toward my face, and said, “All right, cunt, how do you like your mirror?”

She slammed her pussy into my face. She seemed to be penetrating my mouth with it. It wasn’t even me eating her out. It was her forcing herself into me. Soon, she took the back of my head and forced me into her ass crack. “Kiss my ass!” she told me, and I did so, but before long—I don’t think she so much as came. She just left.

[jcogginsa]

oooh. nice chapter, can't wait to see more

[Dareholic]

Not bad, please continue.

[Officelover]

Morigana came back every day from then on. She had a standing appointment: 10 in the morning till noon. Sometimes, she went later; other times she had to come later in the day. But I spent at least two hours with her for at least two years, and she hardly wasted an hour of that time. Even on holidays, when they closed the library, the librarians just couldn’t stand to see someone so passionate denied the opportunity to do what she loved. They gave her a key.

The tortures she used were… eclectic, to say the least. She never did the exact same punishment twice, though she did combine basic ones in many unexpected ways. For the sake of time, I will omit the individual tortures she exerted on me. One of the great surprises I’ve had when narrating my story to others in the past is that torture bores people. If it hadn’t been for Morigana’s indefatigable drive to cause me pain, I could have added the torture of boredom to her repertoire of torments. That was one agony she spared me. It was enough that I was to be physically violated for two hours a day, every day; at least she had the common decency to make sure each session was fresh.

There is nothing worse I can imagine than being whipped in the exact same way every day. The days would run together and blacken, until you could hardly distinguish one whipping from another. Pain is pain. The question is: where, and how much, is it applied? At least she didn’t destroy my mind.

She didn’t stop making sure my pussy felt guilty for sleeping with her dad. She stretched it out, with dildos she bought herself. The largest one I ever inserted was a full foot in girth, and she pushed that one in far. But she didn’t spend much time on widening my vagina; “it’s already been stretched out enough already,” she’d say. I think she thought I enjoyed it; she seemed to use it as a reward.

Morigana specialized in coming up with creative ways to torture it. Often this was simply rubbing something painful on it—an ointment or cream that caused it to burn, or sandpaper. Sometimes she’d shove ice cubes up my cunt and refuse to take them out. Often, it was a matter of simply whipping me down there with the many whips and crops that the library provided. (Yes, I was “pussy whipped”.) Also used were clamps, weights, needles, Wartenberg wheels (pinwheels of pain), ropes, elastic bands, the occasional cactus, and a menagerie of other instruments to bring my crotch to its knees.

She owned my cunt, but that didn’t stop her from borrowing the other parts of my body as well. She was a big fan of torturing my tits, using many of the items described above on my breasts. Also, she seemed to take pleasure in the sound of the whip rushing across my back. Really, almost every part of my body was subjected to torture at one point or another, but no part as much as my vagina.

This was the time of the greatest pain in my life. Never had anyone so passionate found their way to me, and no one so passionate could succeed her. I hated her so much. Our relationship was so diabolically personal; we both thought of each other as human beings, but acted as though the other was a monster. She liked to treat me like a monster that needed to be beaten into submission; I liked to fantasize about taking revenge on her and using some of the tortures I hadn’t used since I had known the former Child. But I always felt so guilty after those fantasies because, after years of being treated so terribly myself, I could never wish my treatment on even my worst enemies.

What kept me going during this time was the presence of a boy, a few years younger than me. One who would not rape me.

He had very strange features; he was awkwardly tall, very skinny, and possessed the most beautiful legs. His whole face was covered in zits, and his hair—if I could catch a glimpse of it—was messy. He always seemed to be pushing up his glasses, though he never wore any. Though he was overall a very gawky, uncoordinated person, but he spoke with full confidence and a little kindness. He never told me his name, but he spoke with me quite often.

The first time I met him, he came in looking as though he was in the wrong section of the library—as though he had been looking for the history section and instead discovered a naked woman tied to a bed. But immediately after he came in, he said, “Hello, what shall I call you?”

I hadn’t been asked that in ages. I considered telling him my real name, but realized that wasn’t even mine to give out anymore, so I told him he could call me whatever he wished.

“I won’t call you anything, then,” he said, not quite offended but not quite joking, “and in return you won’t call me anything.”

I said nothing. He said nothing, only diverted his eyes, and scraped his shoes on the concrete floor. “Okay, see you tomorrow,” he said, as he walked out the door. He said it as though it was to someone he had known for ages.

The boy came back. He came back quite often, actually, and after the initial awkwardness of the first three or four times (he would literally just sit there humming sometimes, or ask me questions like what my favorite color was), I finally got the courage to ask him what his ‘deal’ was. Why was he so interested in spending time with me? Why wouldn’t he leave me alone?

“Because I want to help you,” he answered, “I want to make your life less of a living hell.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t believe you did anything wrong, and I hate to see the innocent suffer.”

Maybe I wasn’t the only one who saw it that way. I asked him how he was so certain that I wasn’t the Devil incarnate. He told me that if I was the root of all evil, I wouldn’t get the people of Omelas to torture me. Because the torture they were enacting is evil to use on anyone.

Needless to say, I needed a friend.

[Dareholic]

the Devil incarnate, sounds like a professor I once had.

[Officelover]

He was passionate in a very different way. He would come just as often as Morigana—sometimes twice a day. But he never hurt me. He never so much as kissed me. Not until…

At first we wouldn’t talk much. But the more we talked, the more we couldn’t stop. I missed talking about normal things. There is a certain joy in talking about the weather, one that you all take for granted. To be able to commiserate over a muggy day; to bemoan the heat, or chatter like teeth about the coldness; to do what human beings do when they are thrust into situations they have no way of controlling: in a word, to kvetch.

He was a radical. In Omelas, just talking to me, like a human being, was a radical idea. It was one that I’m sure could have ruined his life too. They couldn’t charge him with anything, sure, but I warned him that the librarians didn’t like people getting too close to the Child. They somehow think of Childhood as a communicable disease. I told him I was the Child because I loved the former Child.

He shrugged and told me he didn’t love me.

He was very eccentric. He would talk to me about the oddest things: animals he’d seen on his way to the library (he was a big animal lover—he often got in trouble for releasing birds from their cages in the marketplace), bizarre dreams he had had during the previous night, curious books he had picked out from the library upstairs… None of these things sound odd, though I assure you, they sounded so odd to me then. Maybe it was just that the normal lives of people seemed strange to me.

He was a very intellectual person. He was always reading something, always thinking about a new idea. He taught me a lot. He marveled that I could be kept in a library and never get to read; he was furious that the library could be ‘in the business of freeing minds and enslaving bodies’. His way of rebelling those days was giving me the books from the upstairs to read.

One day, when I was out searching for breakfast to steal, I saw him sitting on a bench, lost in thought. I tried to decide whether or not to go over and talk to him; I wanted to say hello, but I didn’t want to expose myself to more attention. In the end, I worked up the courage to go over to him. I approached him from behind, and greeted him.

He swiveled around nervously at the sound of my voice, and asked in a loud whisper, “What are you doing here?”

“Nothing. Getting some breakfast.”

“Someone might see you!”

“All right, come with me, into the shadows.”

After a second of concentration, he got up and followed me. Against the wall, he looked at me, and asked, “You go out naked in public?”

I told him that I had to be naked at all times.

He just shook his head. “You shouldn’t be going out. You shouldn’t leave the library.”

“How will I eat?” I asked, incredulously.

“If it’s food you need, I can bring it to you. I’ll bring you breakfast, lunch and dinner; it’s just not safe for you to leave the library.”

I spat back, “I know it’s not, but do you think it’s any safer in the library? When at any time anyone may come and rape me, or use me as they will? I go crazy in there, with that monotony. Who are you to tell me where I should and shouldn’t go?”

“I’m your friend,” he retorted, “I care about you. These people out here—they want to hurt you.”

I stared him straight in the eye for a second, and said, “You don’t think I know that?”

He said, “It’s best for you to be back there, where at least you’re safe. Only one person can hurt you at a time. Out here—they see you—it’s madness.”

“What do you know about my life?” I yelled, “You don’t know the first thing about me. You don’t even know my name. You’re so interested in your ideas, and your dreams, and your books… You don’t even realize it, but sometimes you talk to me five minutes after I’ve been raped. Sometimes, when I’m awful quiet, someone has just rubbed me with sandpaper then whipped me. Sometimes they’ve stuck more needles than you can imagine into my skin. You don’t know what it’s like to walk down the street, and to try not to look at the faces. Because all of them have used me. And if they haven’t, they could.”

I was shaking, and I collapsed against the wall. I started crying. He slid down next to me, and started comforting me. I forgave him instantly—he had only been trying to help.

Then, a couple of figures started emerging into the shadows. “Shit!” the boy said under his breath, and he got up. There were three of them—all looked like high school boys, relatively well built. Athletic type.

“What’s up, Ozer?” one of them called to him.

“Uh… not much,” the boy answered.

They approached. I was still crying. “Seems you have a little friend.”

“She’s not my friend!” Ozer immediately responded.

“He’s just kidding,” another boy said, “did you find the Child out here or did you bring her here yourself?”

“He isn’t cool enough to have brought her here,” the first boy said.

“Apparently he can make her cry though,” the third one said, “how’d a pussy like you do it, Ozer? I was beating her up a couple weeks ago, didn’t shed a tear.”

“I… I don’t know… I guess I just have that effect on her.”

“He probably found her crying and now he’s just taking the credit,” the third boy said.

“No—I… kicked her in the cunt. Hard.”

The first one approached me, and said, “Like this?” as he started swinging his leg toward my crotch. Ozer grabbed his leg before he was able to kick me.

“No! I mean… not like that.”

“Okay, Ozer, you show us how it’s done.”

“I… I couldn’t…”

“Come on, show us how you did it,” the second one said, “it’ll be fun.”

My eyes pleaded with him. He said, “No, I—”

“Do it or we’ll beat you up after her, loser,” the first one threatened.

Ozer gulped and stood between my legs. I screamed and the tears still came out of my eyes. He did it, swiftly, and it was done. My vagina—ever sensitive from Morigana’s tortures—hurt. Badly. I screamed harder, and cried a little more. Not because of the pain though.

The three laughed, and the third said, “I didn’t think that would work so well. I’m gonna try that now.”

I hung my head. Ozer said, “how about we give her a break? I punished her enough for one day…”

“Evil never rests,” the second one said.

“Yeah, I want to do my good deed for the day,” said the first, as he kicked me—five times, and much harder, in the pussy.

Ozer said, “Well… I’m gonna get out of here.”

“All right loser, catch you later.”

The three of them kicked me, punched me, and raped me to their heart’s content.

[kmacroxs]

What the......
OK then. I'm still reading it, though.

[Officelover]

To the people who've waited so long for a new installment of this: I'm so sorry. Life has been really really busy for me recently, and this is something I wrote today.

**********************************************

I didn’t go back to the library that night. I knew that the librarians would beat me the next day for that, but I couldn’t find it in me to move from the ground of the street they left me on. I was crying all night. A few older women passed me, looked at me lying there in the dirt, butt naked and bruised. They just gave me a kick out of pity and moved on.

I didn’t sleep. I didn’t think.

When I got back the next day, of course the librarians beat me. And then of course tortured my pussy, like usual. And I found myself thinking that this pain must actually be getting boring for all of them. Even Morigana, passionate Morigana, seemed today to be slowing down. It hurt like usual, but what hurt the most was that they didn’t even seem to care if I was in pain or not. I was literally so meaningless to all of them that…

I don’t know.

Ozer came a week or two later. To apologize.

“You have no idea how sorry I am, Yalda. I didn’t want to hurt you. I…”
I calmly muttered, “You kicked me.”

“And I’m sorry about that,” he shot back. Trying to match my calm, he said, “They threatened to beat me up.”

“That would have been awful, Ozer. You still don’t get it, because you don’t see it. I am tortured in ways you can’t imagine on a daily basis. If I am raped twice in a day, it is an easy one. But I’m sorry you almost got beaten up.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said bitterly, “I’m not as strong as you. But I’m your friend.”

“You denied that too.”

“I was wrong. But imagine how much of an uproar there would have been in town if I had admitted to being your friend, if I had stood up for you. They wouldn’t have just beaten me up, they would have martyred me. And you? The temptress who led me astray, the devil who made me fall? They would have made your life a living hell.”

“They already have.”

“Then they would have killed you.”

I looked him in the eye and said, “Better a dying heaven than a living hell.”

“How can you say that?!” He yelled.

“No one would miss me,” I said.

He took my hand, “I would miss you, Yalda, and I will do whatever it takes to keep you alive…”

I expected him to kiss me. “Why do you care about me?” I asked him.

“Because,” he said, nervously, “you’re my friend.”

“Really?”

“Well… yeah. But… it’s more because I…” he trailed off and said, “because I love you.”

“Oh.”

He kissed me, and I felt goosebumps run through my entire body. I hadn’t felt this way since I kissed the Child before me. It was maybe the nicest thing I had felt in years, which isn’t saying much but it said something to me.

And then we started having sex. For the first time in years, I had sex. I was not a thing for men to masturbate with. He was gentle. He knew he had to be. We were so quiet. I made no sound. I could tell he was a virgin.

And then Morigana walked in. And then we stopped and both turned to look at her. And then in a horrible moment she looked at Ozer’s naked body and started to cry. And then Morigana, for the first time I can remember, left the room and didn’t come back all day. And then Ozer told me that was his sister.

[Karasub4]

Realy love this story :-)

[kmacroxs]

Well, you certainly went in a way I never expected, I can say that much. Please continue.