[Fiction] The Child

[Officelover]

Thanks, AKindaSlaveGuy. I've given you a couple comments on your story.

I'd be very interested to know what people think about... and this is an odd question... what my story means. It doesn't have any secret meaning or anything, but I'd like to invite some discussion as to what themes are coming through in the story. I'm really indebted to a great short story.

And, I'd love to know what tortures people would like to see happen to our Yalda.

[heyy1]

Please continue this story it is REALLY good

[kmacroxs]

What a twist

I'm trying to figure out how that happened. I think the librarian was pissed off at Yalda. Anyway, this is a good story. Please continue.

[Officelover]

Thanks for the comments everyone!

~~~~~~~~~

The men led me to a small prison “cell”—Omelas was too enlightened to have much use for prisons, so the cell was really just a small, lockable room. Nothing inside but a small cot and a carpeted floor. There were three police officers. The first one was quite tall, and a little muscular. He seemed to be the one in charge, and somehow looked right for the responsibility. The second one was a slightly overweight, but didn’t seem to mind. He had curly, brown hair. The last was very thin, slightly short, and wore glasses.

“So, you’re the new Child?” The leader said, “You know, the whole town’s been looking for you for a couple of days now. You have a responsibility to the people of Omelas, and you’ve been avoiding it for some time now. Isn’t that right?”

“I don’t owe anyone anything,” I answered, defiantly.

The man spit in my face. It was the first time I’d ever seen anyone spit in someone else’s face before. I’d never even considered doing it to Shitface. I’d shit on his face, but never spit on it. Though it was far from the last time someone spit on my face, and though I’d never considered doing it before, it was an immediately, inherently humiliating experience.

“You owe us everything,” the second one said.

They closed the cell door. The three of them surrounded me—the tall one in front, the one in the glasses in back. The second one laid his hand on my butt. My eyes flew open, wide, and the leader ordered the other two to take off my clothes.

“What… what are you going to do with me?” I asked, as they started fidgeting with my shirt.

“We haven’t had a female Child in twenty years,” the one in the glasses said.

“I guess you could say we’ll play it by ear,” the chubby one menaced.

As time would go on, I would realize that they were not the best rapists I’d ever had. They lacked the brutality or the pure energy that distinguish world-class rapists from the rest. The three of them were uncoordinated—stuck in the world of civility, unable to lose themselves in the dance. If they were to rape me today, I would think nothing of them. They would not destroy me, reduce me to tears, or leave me pain to remind me of their punishment. As an aside, they would not give me pleasure, as some of my rapists did. Some of my rapists—the shy, ugly ones typically—would rape me slowly, almost respectfully, and I would occasionally orgasm. They would just be like any others.

The only thing that made them stand out is that they were the first. They were the first, and I felt like dying after they did it.

[Officelover]

That morning, my first rapists brought me to the library in the police car. I wasn’t able to sleep that night, for obvious reasons, so I must have been exhausted. I don’t remember much, other than hearing them laugh at how tight my cunt was, and how small my tits were. I didn’t think they were that small, but I guess they weren’t to their satisfaction. I looked at the backs of their heads, with their short haircuts, through the bars of the car. They kept gibbering about the rape as if I wasn’t even there.

After a short drive, the last one I can remember taking for years, they stopped in front of the ol’ library, that hallowed hall of learning and intellectual curiosity. They got out, and yanked open the door, hauling me out of the car. They had handcuffed me, and I couldn’t escape as I desperately wanted to. Did I forget to mention that I was totally fucking naked?

When they finally succeeded in prying me from the car—I did my best to resist them, which earned me a slap to the face—I stood outside, the hot summer sun beating down on my breasts. I’d never been outside naked before.

It wasn’t against the law, in Omelas. People were allowed to go out wearing what they wanted, or not wearing anything at all. Some people wandered naked, mostly the sex people, but some who just liked the way it felt. I was never one of those. I must have been hardwired toward modesty. I never felt comfortable, not in front of anyone, when I was naked. A bad trait for the Child to have; I didn’t wear clothes for years to come.

They made me go up the stone steps to the library first, ogling my ass, I’m sure. We went under the cool shadow of the building, and they pushed me through the door. I fell on the hard floor of the entrance. When I lifted my face off the ground, everyone in the library silently looked at me. I don’t know why, but I screamed.

A librarian hurried over and demanded to know what all the noise was about. One of the police officers, the leader, explained that I was the missing Child, and that they had captured and brought me to the library.

She smiled at him when she heard this news, and kissed the man on his cheek as he blushed. “Thank you,” she said to him, “I feel so much safer now.” As I started to get up off the floor, she kicked me in the chest. “And just who said that you could get up, disobedient wretch?!”

That was when she made the speech. She stood me up, and held me tightly by the shoulders as I tried to wriggle free. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have an announcement,” she said loudly to the people in the library, “these fine officers have located the Child, and returned her to us.” There was a boisterous round of applause.

“No need to thank us, ma’am,” the police officers said politely.

“Nonsense. She is now in our care, and she will now be used by anyone who sees fit. A reminder of our checkout policy: the Child is a resource for all the people of Omelas, a key into the darkest secrets of humanity. Anyone is allowed to use her, for whatever purposes they want, but be wary of letting the Child influence you. The poor soul was perverted by the old Child.”

“So we should stay away from her?” a man asked, nervous.

Another librarian, the one who had announced my satanity in the first place, stepped forward and answered, “Absolutely not. It is the citizen’s duty to do battle with evil and to keep its Child down. We must be even more vigilant in punishing this one, for it has already proven itself cunning by running away from us who are trying to help it. My only word of advice is don’t be soft on her.”

And that was that.

[kmacroxs]

Is the story over already? Aw. Can't you continue it?

[Officelover]

Oh, hell no! This story is just getting started. Thanks for reading, and please comment.

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

All of the librarians met privately for a couple of minutes, and decided that my arrival was special enough of an occasion for them to close the library. They had me chained to a pole in the meantime, and the patrons of the library just sort of looked at me with fear. I must have looked like a strange sort of demon to them—completely naked, shivering, still showing signs of last night’s rape.

They didn’t have to do anything to me; it was humiliating enough just to have them stare at me like that. When the chief librarian came out and announced they had to go, that the library was closing to deal with its new inmate, most of them hurried out of there without making eye contact with me.

When they had all left, a black bag suddenly appeared on top of my head. I could feel them pushing me down the chairs. Panting, I tried to kick my way out of their clutches, but when they pulled the bag off me I found myself tied to a chair in the old basement I used to torture the Child in.

They turned on a bright light. Squinting to see, I saw the head librarian.

“Do you even know my name?” She asked, sharply.

Confused, I asked, “What?”

“I’ve been your librarian your entire life. I introduced you to the old Child, and you two certainly hit it off. I’ve recommended books to you, and given you the key to this room God knows how many times. Do you know my name?”

“Um… no.”

“I thought not,” she said. “My name is not important to you now. It would be a great insult to the name for you to utter it. You will call me mama. You may be the child of Omelas, you may be public property, but you should know that you are my Child. You are mine, and I will do what I want with you. I was the one who recognized the evil in you; though I can’t get it out of you, I will do my best, Child, to keep you from hurting the people of this town. If you are good and let the people do what they want to do to you, you won’t hear from me. If not, I guarantee you that I will do what I want to you, and it will be much, much worse than what they were going to do to you in the first place. I hope that’s clear enough for you. Do we have an understanding?”

I nodded at her, to petrified to speak. I thought that this woman, who clearly hated me, was going to torture me. I thought of all the vicious things that she could do to me. Instead, she merely nodded to the other librarians, and they left. She pulled up a chair in front of me, and stared at me. I thought that this was it---she was going to beat me to a pulp.

Instead, she just stared, and stared, until I fell asleep.

[kmacroxs]

It's just that when I saw the phrase "And that was that." I thought that meant it was over. I am really glad that it isn't over. Please continue.

[Officelover]

By the way, I'm so sorry that these chapters have been so short recently. I hope to publish a big chunk soon.

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

The rest of that summer I got used to cock. All types of cock.

The men of Omelas were not exaggerated, pubically. There were a few huge ones in there. I think the biggest I had was a 9 and a half incher. That really sucked. But for the most part, I got average dicks. Cocks that were five inches long. I also got a lot of tiny ones—three inches, and under. You’d think that they would be the least painful rapists, but the men who owned the tiny ones beat me harsher to compensate.

I said I got used to all types of cock; that doesn’t just mean I got used to sizes. I got used to colors. I got used to shapes (some were circumcised, some weren’t). I got used to pubic hair, however it was maintained. I could tell a man’s age by his cock—the awkwardness of the adolescent cock, the virility of the adult penis, the first sagging of the midlife crisis, and the pathetic limpness of the elderly. I even got used to false cock, provided at no cost to the women who wanted to get in on the fun.

I got used to being beaten. I got used to the filling my cavities, all types of cavities. When tears got too familiar for me, I got used to not being able to cry anymore. In short, I got used to getting used.

But the humiliation I felt never wore off. The response provoked by a stranger insulting me, torturing me, and invading me never changed. I may have stopped crying, but I never stopped wanting to kill myself. I never stopped wanting to kill everyone who hurt me.

I got very familiar with the structure of being raped. I grew to be an expert at minimizing my pain. But that pain never went away. Even now I get night terrors.

It’s not as if the people of Omelas were sex-starved. They were liberated people, who taught their children to be safe and let them do what they wanted. There were people whose entire lives were devoted to sex in Omelas. Most marriages were open, and most couples were happy. It wasn’t as if the men of Omelas needed more sex in their lives. It wasn’t as if the women who used the strap-on on me were repressing their lesbian leanings.

The people of Omelas raped me because they wanted to punish me. They always told me that sex was nothing to be ashamed of, and that you shouldn’t judge a woman or a man on their sex life. They told me that sex can be fun, or beautiful, or the best way to connect with someone. But it seemed that everyone knew that this wasn’t sex.

Just as how when I had raped the former Child, he had been a dildo to me, I became a couple of holes for them. It wasn’t that they needed the holes. They could have whole bodies and souls, and it would mean more to them. I figured out after the first Summer of Cock that they needed to make ME into holes. You might not be able to crush evil, but you can fill holes. Most of them weren’t raping me for fun, because there’s nothing inherently fun about a hole. They legitimately believed that by transforming me into a vehicle for sex they could control me.

[sweetiepi]

Really like this story, can't wait for the next instalment