MASTECTOMY

Posted by rache on August 28, 2006 at 21:17:25:

Ohhhh...I hated these Nazi bastards! I was on a secret mission to kill Adolf Hitler’s dog, but I'd got caught. My contact in the French underground had turned me in 15 minutes after we'd made love.

"Au revoir, mon Cheri" He was smiling at me and smoking one of those stinky French cigarettes as two Gestapo punks pulled me out of his apartment in occupied Paris.

"You got a little dick, Pierre!" I told him.

The Gestapo guys, I just called them Hansel and Gretel, because one of them was a woman, loaded me into a black Mercedes. I was naked and Pierre's sperm ran down my thighs and I hoped it would stain the seat.

"You want to talk?" The woman asked me. She was a pretty blonde woman who looked like she should have been singing Edelweiss while wrapping her dainty little fingers around some big fat cow teats.

"Ross, Rachael, Major US Army, 06-14-2003." I said, staring straight ahead.

"You will talk; we have ways of making you talk."

I shook my head, thinking there had to be better lines than that in the interrogation business.

"You should talk." The man said. He was driving. "Before we get to headquarters, because they have ways to make you talk also. But they are not pleasant ways."

"Not like ours are." Gretel whispered, finishing Hansel's thought.

Is that proper English? I wondered, but my thoughts were interrupted.

She ran a warm hand up and down my thigh slowly. "Do you enjoy...women?" Gretel asked.

"Ross, Rachael, Major US Army, 06-14-2003." I steeled myself against what I knew was coming.

"I know what a woman needs." Gretel cooed, and her bright blue eyes were shining as she looked into mine. "Especially a beautiful woman like yourself, Rachael. Men don’t know, because they are piggies, but I do."

Her fingers moved across my skin and I tried to ignore them. I'd been warned of this technique by my Aunt Samantha back in Washington, and I'd studied it thoroughly, looking for ways to resist it. I started concentrating on what President Roosevelt's wife looked like. That seemed to work as I suddenly lost any sexual interest in other women.

"Oh, she is a tough one, I think!" The blonde laughed. "I enjoy the tough ones, when they break it is so much more...satisfying!" The evil Nazi bitch took my ear in her mouth, licking it softly with the tip of her tongue and breathing across my sensitive flesh until I had goosebumps.

I closed my eyes as her hands found my breasts. I was handcuffed, with my arms behind me and I bit my lip as my nipples betrayed me suddenly. I couldn't remember what I'd been thinking about as the unwelcome image of Gretel sucking my hard burning nipples filled my mind.

"No!" I whispered and then cursed myself mentally for the mistake I'd just made.

"Yes! My little Rachael!" Gretel squealed with delight and straddled my bare legs. She took off her blouse and then her bra, exposing her magnificent evil Nazi tits. She caressed my face. "Open your eyes, for me! Look at these, the breasts of a superior German woman!" I couldn't help but look, I'm ashamed to say.

Gretel pulled my mouth to her left nipple and entreated me to tongue her.

"Ross, Rachael...Majorrrh!" And suddenly I found a hard nipple in my mouth and I couldn't do anything but suckle it, I nipped it with my teeth, washed it with my tongue, sucked until it became distended and discolored with urgent blood.

And then she made me do the other one until I was weeping with frustration.

"Do you want to talk now?" She asked me gently and I nodded, blinking at my tears. “Yes?” She leaned closer, the corners of her pretty mouth curling upward in a cruel and victorious smile.

"Adolf Hitler sucks donkey dick!" I said, grinning at the woman. You can't break me! My eyes shouted defiantly. I might have been captured, but I wasn't going down without a fight!

=-==-=

"What the hell are you writing?" Paul's voice was full of mirth. "Adolf Hitler sucks donkey dick?"

"Uh..." I blushed and opened up something else...

=-=-=-=

c:\Documents and Settings\rache\desktop\diary\2003\may\22.doc

Pretty soon I'm going home.

My real home too; not some other place where I pretend to be from and live and work and breathe.

I'm getting married on June 14th. That's a Saturday and I have no choice. I want it to be on a Thursday because nothing cool ever happens on Thursdays. I dream of it. Of calling my fiancé and telling him I've changed my mind. Letting his mouth open and close silently for a long minute while he tries to fill his mind with comprehension. Then just as he speaks, letting him off the hook and saying I changed my mind about June 14th. About a Saturday. I want it to be Thursday the 12th. And our anniversary will forever be the second Thursday in June. Instead of some fucking prison number, it would be a real day.

Ross, Rachael, Major US Army, Thursday.

But I chicken out. Well...Not really. I just don't think it would be as much fun as I imagine, lying in my bed, sleepless at 2am. Lot's of weird thoughts at 2am. Things that sound fun alone in the dark, sleepless or not. I want to...

I want to fuck in a church
I want to shoot a politician
I want to sell drugs
I want to own slaves
I want to fight amnesty
I want to have an abortion
I want to dissect Thomas Mann
I want to sell my soul
I want to yell fire in a theater
I want to break a mirror
I want to hate love
I wanna pull the switch when the last fuckin star dies

I'll never do any of those things, even though I could. And some of them aren't even all that bad, really. There are a hundred wants more, a thousand maybe, that I have which are completely wrong.

Like cutting off my tits.

Mastectomy
fiction by rache

I'd been debating this for a long time. Since I was, oh, maybe 16 or so I guess. Five years is a long time, right? One day, I just decided to do it, all on my own without telling my new husband, Paul. I thought I would surprise him. But I did kind of feel him out first, just to see what he thought about the idea.

"Do you like my body, Paul?" I was just coming out of the shower, naked and dripping wet because I'd forgotten my towel and I hated asking Paul to get me one. After the first dozen times he'd pretty much lost patience and I didn't need to hear it. Anyway, it is hotter than hell around here and the floor is tiled, and we have a maid, so...who cares if I'm soaking wet?

He looked at me, taking in my brown 5'4" 110 pound body. He looked at how smooth I was, how my legs were just a little pigeon toed as I stood there, my narrow hips tilted and my back slightly arched so my small flat tummy pushed out a little. He gazed at the swell of my venus mons, my shaved sex with my labia hanging down just a little from the washing my fingers had just administered. He looked at my arms, my graceful neck, and pretty face. My full lips and soft brown eyes. My wet black hair, swept back and clinging to my neck.

Everything was okay, and then he looked at my breasts. My little A cups that just refused to grow. My hard nipples dangling little rings with little pearls, a gift when I'd been 17 and he'd been fucking my best friend. A bribe that I'd accepted, along with the piercing of my flesh. I'd still been growing then, or so I'd hoped, but my breasts were still the same. I tried to take a deep breath without seeming to.

"Yeah, I love your body. Turn around." I did as he asked. "I especially love your ass."

I turned around again, looking down. "But not my boobs?"

"What? Sure, yeah, I love your boobs too." He laughed. "Why, what do you think?"

"I don't know, I just...was wondering."

"Well, you don't have to, okay? I love you, I don't care what your body looks like." He went back to dressing himself.

"What if I had bigger tits?" I asked him, cupping my breasts and rubbing my nipples.

"What? Like getting implants? It's your body, Rache." He looked at me shaking his head. "I've never understood your fixation with your boobs."

"Don't you ever wish you had a bigger dick?" I grinned at him.

"Huh? What are you trying to say?" He chuckled. "No. I can't do anything about it and you've never complained anyway."

"But I could do something about these."

"Yeah, you could, and if it makes you feel more...secure or whatever, it's up to you."

"Well, what would you think?"

"I'm not going to tell you, okay? Because I don't want you walking around thinking I don't like your tits, okay?" He was getting a little exasperated now.

"So you don't like my tits." I said, closing my eyes.

"Rache." He warned me.

"I'm just asking, okay?"

"No, I hate your fucking tits, alright? You look like a 12 year old with those little things. I hate your tits and I love your ass." He walked over and grabbed one of my breasts, squeezing it hard. "You look like a little fucking boy except you got no dick. So I love fucking you like one, got it? Now shut the fuck up!"

I winced at the little flash of pain. "Okay, great...so I look like a boy now." I knew I shouldn't have said that the moment it passed my lips.

Paul slapped me hard, snapping my head back. "I warned you, Rache." He pushed me to the bed and flipped me over easily, ignoring my feeble protests. He pulled his belt off his trousers, doubling it in his fist and whipping my ass with it while I bit my lip and remained very still. I felt my eyes growing wetter and I shut them tightly, wincing silently and taking my punishment as I deserved.

When he was done he caressed my hot flesh with his hand, working it between my ass checks and pressing a finger to my anus. "I'll show you what I love about you, Rachael."

He took off his pants and I could see his large hard cock in his hand. He spread my legs, pulling my butt up a little and putting the head to my asshole. "You have the finest ass I've ever had Rache." He pushed forward slowly, but insistently, stretching my rectum painfully and making me groan. Paul rocked back and forth, going a little deeper each time, breathing in my ear and reaching underneath, squeezing my little tits hard as he sodomized me.

My ass was burning from his thrusts, despite my recent shower I was still pretty dry and it hurt quite a lot. "Please....Paul..." I was gasping. "I'm sorry."

"Shut up you stupid cunt." My husband dug his fingers into my tits, pulling them so hard I thought he'd rip them off my body and I gave a loud sob. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?" He jammed his cock inside me hard. "Tell me!" he demanded.

"No...oh, no...please!" I was crying and trying to move my body away from the painful burning in my guts.

"Say it, you slut...Tell me you want it or I'll hurt you, rache. I'll fucking hurt you bad." As if to make his point he twisted my breasts, pulling at the skin so I couldn't do anything else.

"Y-Yes...Paul. Yes...I wa-want it..." I shook with a little orgasm, my body flushing hot and cold all over.

Paul slammed himself into me harder, pushing me down so I was flat on my belly with his palms on my shoulders, using his weight to bury me with the pressure. He liked to punish me like that, using my ass to masturbate his hard thick cock. He was soon fucking in and out of me easily then, disregarding the terrible pain I was feeling until he finally ejaculated into my bowels. He paused, breathing hard and sweating above me, just enjoying the sensations I think.

"Your tits are so useless Rachael, if we did this in the dark I wouldn't even know I was on your back." He rubbed a spot just below my shoulder where my left breast would be if I were turned over. "See? No difference." My husband laughed and pulled his cock out of my ass. "The only reason I know I fucked your ass is because my dick smells like shit."

Paul left me laying there, crying while he went to wash himself. I just didn't know why it was like this sometimes. He could be so loving, so perfect, and at other times, just another sadistic bastard like all the others. And I would take it and love him for it. Even now I was trying to think of a way to make it up to him.

He came out of the bathroom a few minutes later. "Hurry up and get dressed, we're going to be late." He watched me as I sat up, my face red and puffy. I started walking gingerly towards the bathroom. "No time for that, stupid. Just get dressed we need to go."

"Okay, Paul." I said softly and pulled a pair of panties on, feeling his semen leaking from my ass every time I moved. I ached and burned still from his cock. We had anal intercourse once in awhile, and it was always like this, painful and degrading. My husband used it for punishment, as I said.

I dressed slowly, putting on a short skirt and reaching for a bra. "No, just put on your blouse. Show off those tits Rachael, be proud." He chuckled and I knew he'd be teasing me cruelly about them for a week, maybe longer. I blushed and just put on the thin white blouse he wanted me to wear, it was almost sheer and my dark nipples were plain to see.

We were going to a birthday party held by some people we didn't really know, but they were rich and having a couple Americans over was always good for impressing the locals. I was being cynical, but I was getting a little tired of being used all the time by people I didn't really know or like. Mario, our houseboy, drove us to the plantation and it was a long and quiet ride. My husband ignored me and I feared opening my mouth lest it give him some reason to belittle me further.

The party was given in the courtyard of a large hacienda, the sort built by the Spanish when they'd divided the land into huge sugar plantations during the late 19th century. It was enclosed by high walls, largely obscured by trees and bushes, vines laden with flowers that filled the night air with a natural sweet perfume. There were lights hanging by wires above it all, like Chinese lanterns. Soft glowing orbs that gave everything a wonderful golden hue. A small band had set up, playing local and traditional acoustic music and the atmosphere was pleasant and I began to feel better immediately.

It may seem a contradiction, but I am most comfortable around a great many people. I feel as though I am safe then, not an individual any longer, but part of a group. The responsibilities are no longer mine, if you can understand that. Alone, with one or two or three other people, I feel overwhelmed. The attention, the focus upon me, is harsh and almost painful to bear. My husband knows this. His understanding of my psychology is equal to my own, if not surpassing in some ways. It's part of his power over me.

"...and this is my wife, Rachael." Paul pulled me closer to the small circle in which he was engaged. Three men and a woman stared at me, all of them mature and well mannered, the local aristocracy passing judgement.

I felt my nipples burning through the thin cloth of my blouse and my face reddened noticeably, I'm sure. "It's very nice to meet you." I mumbled, pressing against Paul's arm in the hopes that he would release me, but he kept me there, exposed beside him.

"Oh yes," one of the men nodded, "your husband has told us quite a lot about you." He was tall and thin, with graying temples.

"All of it good, I hope." I smiled bravely.

"Oh no, my dear." The woman spoke. She was younger than the men, around 30 I'd guess, and very beautiful. Her words took me aback momentarily and it made her laugh gently. "It was all quite...entertaining."

"Oh." I tried to smile, but couldn't and I just looked up at Paul.

"Perhaps your wife would permit me a dance, Paul?" Another man asked. He was shorter than the others, just a few inches taller than I am, and a little more than overweight. His eyes traveled my body slowly and I gave a tiny shiver as Paul agreed and gently, but insistently pushed me forward.

I wanted to decline the invitation, but I could sense no opportunity without insulting the man, or angering Paul further. I surrendered, offering my hand and letting the stranger lead me through the crowd to the area being used for the dance floor. I tried to keep my eyes on Paul, but he was lost to me almost immediately and I soon found myself preoccupied anyway.

"My name is Marcelo." The man told me. "I'm afraid our introductions were not complete." He took me in his arms and pulled me very close to him, so that I could feel his hand on my hip, firm and strong.

"What is your business, Marcelo?" I asked, feigning interest as I turned my head slightly, looking for my husband.

"A little of this, a little of that..." He chuckled and I felt his hand moving slightly up and down, working its way to the small of my back and under my blouse to my bare skin. "You know how it is."

"Oh." I looked at him and nodded, smiling weakly. "Of course."

His fingertips slipped inside the waistband of my skirt, inching down to the top of my panties. I twisted slightly, trying to separate us, but the man only held me tighter. His other hand squeezed my fingers almost painfully in his fist, as though warning me.

"I...I have to go." I said softly. "My husband..."

"You're a beautiful woman, Rachael." Marcelo caressed me softly. "Why do you resist this?"

"I don’t feel...beautiful." I shook my head. "I'm married...don't."

"You're afraid your husband will see, eh?" He chuckled and his hand continued its motion. "A woman like you should worry about her husband."

"What do you mean?" I looked up into his face. "A woman like me?"

"Young, inexperienced. There are many women here who know how to please a man like your husband, I think."

His words seemed cruel to me and I felt a small flash of anger at his presumption. I was sorely desperate for a cunning riposte to end our conversation, but my wit was failing with my patience. "He's happy enough." Was the best I could come up with.

Marcelo laughed loudly at that and several people turned to look at us. I closed my eyes, looking down as I was acutely aware of his hand against my bare skin, under my blouse and inside my skirt at the small of my back. He was teasing me, trying to provoke me.

"I'm sure you're right." He nodded, but his tone told a different story.

"I think I should go." I whispered. "I need to sit down." But what I meant was that I needed to find Paul, to reassure myself. I tried again to push myself away, using my right hand to press his shoulder.

He seemed to ignore my words, and my effort was equally useless. His own hand moved lower and I felt myself blushing furiously as a finger found the cleft at the top of my ass, sliding down slowly between my cheeks. He used it to good advantage, pulling me even harder against him so that I could feel the unmistakable form of his erection pressing against me through our clothing.

"Marcelo...please!" My voice was barely audible and I felt that he had to understand I was not interested in this.

"Very well…" He shrugged and let go of me so suddenly I almost collapsed, holding up his hands and giving me a smile. "Perhaps next time."

I walked away quickly, avoiding the eyes of the guests around us. I was certain they were staring at me and I hated it. I hated everything and I wanted to find my husband and leave. Marcelo had confused me, angered and embarrassed me, and I didn't understand any of it.

I made a circuit of the party, around it peering in, but I could see no sign of my husband. I was finally stopped by the tall man, the thin man to whom I'd been introduced earlier, although I hadn't gotten his name.

"Is everything alright, Rachael?" He asked me, gripping my arm at the elbow.

"I'm looking for my husband." I wanted to shout, but my voice was soft and held just the smallest tremor.

"Oh." The man seemed to straighten slightly and he let go of me. "I believe Donna was going to show him around the house." He gave me an awkward smile that fed my already much too active imagination.

"Donna?" I stared at him.

"Yes, Marcelo's wife. The woman you met earlier."

"She's Marcelo's wife?" I felt a little dizzy.

This seemed some sort of poor melodrama designed to tease and torment, rather than deliberately provoke. I pictured her in my mind. She was tall, and her hair long and black with a natural sheen I could never hope for. And her body, her hips and large firm breasts were perfect and womanly. No one would ever mistake her for a boy, in the dark or otherwise. She was nothing like me and I'd ignored her instinctively, avoided her gaze, because she made me feel dull and inadequate just by being near.

"Of course. He didn't tell you?" The thin man chuckled and took his leave of me. I watched him, walking away until he found Marcelo near the bar and then they were both laughing.

I made my way to the bar, really just a few tables from which several waiters worked. I don't drink; the medications I take do not mix well with alcohol. And even without that excuse, I know I don't handle it very well. But I didn't care. I had a brandy, which seemed the most palatable thing, although I really didn't like it. I drank it too quickly, feeling it burning as it sat in my stomach. I'd have had another, but I was interrupted by Marcelo.

"It is shameless for someone to leave you so alone!" He smiled at me. "Would you care to see the house, I would very much like to show you something."

I shook my head. "I can imagine what you want to show me, Marcelo." I pointedly looked down at his crotch.

"What? Oh no, my dear!" He laughed. "I had something else in mind...Or someone else, I should say." And his dark eyes seemed full of mischief.

"My husband?" I asked, feigning boredom. "He does what he wants, I'm sure he's told you that much."

"Yes, he spoke of your...agreement? Is that the right word?"

"It's a word."

"He asked me to do him this small favor, but if you'd prefer..." He shrugged with an operatic sigh.

"I don't understand." I looked around nervously; feeling like some sort of joke was being played on me. Everyone else seemed oblivious to me though, so I focused on Marcelo. "What do you mean?"

"I mean come with me." He arched his eyebrows and took my arm in his hand, gripping me just above the elbow and steering me towards the house.

The house was opulent by local standards, and even by comparison to many such homes in America. But I didn’t look around, I had no time. The man led me through a marbled foyer and through a sitting room, up a rounded staircase of solid and intricately chiseled mahogany. My heels echoed through the house and it seemed empty of life. Everyone was outside, I realized, as if seeking refuge from this cold interior.

"This way." Marcelo whispered, arching his heavy brows and smiling. "Quietly now and we shall see what has become of your dear husband."

But I already knew. Did he think this was the first time he'd taken another woman, behind my back or otherwise? At one time it had been a secret and he feared getting caught, perhaps as much as I dreaded catching him. But no longer. He knew I enjoyed it. The pangs of guilt and anger and frustration were like physical things, driving spikes into my body. The tears, the useless questions...and later the punishments I delivered myself, of begged from someone else. Not his, but mine. I loved and loathed that aspect of our life.

"Tell me how it was..." I would urge him, lying on his stomach with his hard cock between my legs. "Tell me how you fucked her." And I would pretend I was that woman, as if my real self was meaningless to him, useless for anything but that. He would tell me too, while I fucked him, he’d tell me every little thing until I wept with my orgasms. That pain was my strength.

My mind was abruptly brought back as Marcelo jerked my arm, pulling me into a small bedroom. It was warm inside, with mosquito netting hung over a bed with four tall posts. An electric fan sat idle near the open windows and to our right was a large doorway, teak panels that opened and closed on small rails. They were open now, leaving a gap of 6 or 7 feet, and through it came the sounds of familiarity. Soft sighs and gasps; flesh on flesh and bodies slapping with a slow sticky rhythm. I didn't really need to see them, but how could I refuse? Being humiliated is like masturbation, I feel guilty for enjoying it, but that’s the best part.

Marcelo put a finger to his lips and motioned me closer so that we were standing side by side, looking through the partition at my husband and Marcelo’s wife. Donna was on her hands and knees on a large ornately carved bed. Paul was behind her, his fingers digging into her supple and generous hips while his long cock slid in and out of her pussy. They were facing our left and with the slightest turn of their heads, Marcelo and I would be seen. I made to step back, away from it, not worried so much about my husband catching me, but the thought of the woman, fucking my husband and knowing I was watching...That seemed suddenly unbearable.

But Marcelo grasped my arm above the elbow, squeezing me almost painfully and holding me in place. "Look at them!" He whispered. "I love to see my wife fuck!" And he was moving, still holding me, but shifting his body behind me, wrapping his right arm around my waist, pulling me close so that I could feel his erection pressing against the small of my back.

"No." I was shaking my head, twisting and trying to get away, but not very hard. I was afraid of drawing attention to us. My struggles were slow and weak and perhaps my voice had no sound at all beyond my imagination.

I felt Marcelo's breath on my neck, on my cheek and in my ear. He nuzzled my hair and the hand squeezing my bicep pulled my arm back, his hand sliding down, guiding my own fingers to feel the bulge in his trousers. I recoiled from it, but his hand was on my wrist, hurting me as he urged me to rub him. I was bent over, as if I might avoid the kisses Marcelo was giving my neck and cheeks, but he merely bent over with me, enjoying the position, I thought, as it pushed my ass back even more. His other arm, the one around my waist stayed there, but his hand moved, down to press against my sex, to cup my vagina through the thin skirt I wore.

In front of me, Donna had her eyes closed, her back arched as she moaned sweetly, plainly enjoying my husband's cock. Her heavy breasts swung beneath her, the nipples dark and hard. I stared at them, watching as their weight pulled the smooth golden skin tight. They were beautiful and nothing like mine.

“Take it out…” Marcelo was whispering hotly in my ear. His fingers were caressing my sex now and I was suddenly aware that I’d grown moist and hot down there. It only shamed me further as the man had to know I was aroused.

“No…” I breathed, closing my eyes, determined not to see any of it any longer. But a moment later I was staring once more, seeing my husband kiss the woman, their heads turned mercifully away from us.

And my hands moved of their own accord. I was rubbing the bulge in Marcelo’s trousers, squeezing his trapped prick even as he hunched himself against my ass. His left arm moved underneath me as well, so that he could fondle my smallish breast, rubbing his sweaty palm over my burning nipples while he kissed my neck and ear.

I felt dirty and humiliated, being held by that pig of a man. I imagined I could smell the stink of his lust filling the stifling room and I wished desperately to be away from him. But so often my wishes had little to do with reality and I was working my fingers blindly, awkwardly unzipping Marcelo’s trousers, making him quake with anticipation.

“Hurry…get it out.” He was telling me and so loudly that I feared discovery. I turned my head to tell him to be quiet, feeling nothing for him but anger and annoyance. My own desires were for little more than his cock, which I suddenly wanted more than anything.

I pulled his penis free, surprised at the large shape of it as it filled my hand, heavy and hot and humid. Marcelo put a hand between my shoulder blades and with the other ripped my panties down my thighs, just enough to give him access to my cunt.

I gasped loudly as the man entered me fully, splitting my swollen labia easily and finding the way greased and ready with my juices so that he could sink his prick inside me completely. My husband turned, and so then did the woman he was fucking, so that they stared at us and I felt my face burning as I looked down quickly, closing my eyes and suffering the insistent pounding of Marcelo’s cock inside my body.

“I guess you found her.” I heard my husband’s voice and he sounded nearer to me than I expected.

I opened my eyes and they were damp as I glanced up to see Paul and Donna, side by side and naked just a few feet away. My husband’s cock was still hard, glistening with their juices and I could see the woman’s sex, puffy and distended, her thick lips hanging down through the dark tangle of her pubic hair.

“How is she, Marcelo?” Donna smiled at me, keeping her arm around my husband’s waist. “Is she hot inside?”

“Oh, very hot!” He giggled breathlessly, not pausing as he gripped my hips and thrust himself eagerly inside over and over. “Like an oven!”

“She wants a baby.” Paul shrugged. “She’s probably ovulating.”

I dropped my head again, biting my lip and feeling my body burn. The cock inside me was good, hard and thick and I was pushing myself back, wanting him as deep inside me as possible. My husband never fucked my vagina without a condom, another form of torture he enjoyed because I did want a baby so badly. His baby. But even if I became pregnant with someone else he’d make me abort it. It had happened before.

“I want a baby too.” Marcelo’s wife pouted a little and I couldn’t help but look again, watching through the dark veil of my hair as she grasped my husband’s penis and stroked it slowly. “Don’t we Marcelo.”

“What? Oh, yesssss…” Marcelo was panting and he pushed me down even further, as if he might find some deeper part of me that way.

The blood was rushing to my head as I was very nearly bent over enough to touch my toes. I had my arms to the sides, like I might fly away, waving them slightly with every jerk of my body, keeping my balance with the help of Marcelo’s hard fingers in my flesh.

Paul steered Donna back to the bed, looking over his shoulder at me with little more than pity on his handsome features. “…it’s been too long since I made love with a real woman.” He was saying and I knew he was stabbing me with his words.

“But your wife…” Donna giggled as she sprawled on the bed invitingly.

“Nevermind her…” And then I was cumming, hard and the vision of my husband pressing his body between the woman’s wide spread legs was lost to the sensations of my body surrendering to the pleasure of Marcelo’s cock.

“Uh…Uh, good…fuck…good, bitch…” Marcelo was grunting, driving himself inside me and one orgasm supplanted another until I could barely stand and I was screaming when his cock erupted in my womb, filling me with a stranger’s sperm.

I did collapse then, with Marcelo’s weight on top of me, his penis still jammed within my spasming cunt. I was breathless and dizzy, my whole body moving as I tried to find relief from the overwhelming pleasure. I felt sick and black inside as guilt and anger and humiliation fed my climax. They were watching me, I knew, my husband and his newfound lover, even as they made slow passionate love on a soft bed, they were watching me getting fucked like an animal on the dirty floor.

My senses dulled mercifully as I dropped my head and kept my eyes shut, giving soft sobs as Marcelo finished with me slowly. He’d kept his cock inside me as far as he could until he’d finally stopped cumming, and now he just moved it back and forth, enjoying the sensation I think as his penis softened.

Marcelo groaned and I felt him pull out of me and the small tugs at my skirt as he wiped his dirty cock off on my clothing. He said nothing more to me, but merely zipped up his pants and walked away, his footsteps echoing amidst the soft sounds of Donna moaning beneath my husband.

I opened my eyes a few minutes later, feeling the wetness running from my sex and down my thighs. I hadn’t moved at all, my face was down against the cold floor and my ass was high, knees close together, bound by my stretched and soiled panties. I was filled with hatred, for Marcelo and his wife, for my husband, for myself and the world entire. I didn’t understand why I was there at all, why I was doing what I did. I had choices, didn’t I? So why did I choose this and not the other?

My body ached and I didn’t want to move, but the sounds of the two lovers on the bed were growing louder, or so it seemed, and I had pressed my hands to my ears, lifting myself to kneel and then finally stand on shaky legs. I tried to avert my gaze, but that was hopeless. I had to see them, the way Donna had her long legs over my husband’s shoulders, accepting his kiss as he buried his penis inside her over and over. They were moving slowly too, taking their time, enjoying it the way lovers should.

I pulled up my panties, frowning at the mess between my thighs. I felt dirty and almost nauseous. I retched, my stomach knotting up and forcing me to bow slightly. I covered my mouth and ran from the room, looking for a bathroom and giving up on that as I found an open balcony. I bent over the rail and retched again, this time vomiting that small bit of brandy that I’d drank. It burned and left a bitter, acid taste in my mouth. I coughed weakly and spit onto the ground below, wiping my mouth and closing my eyes. I just stood there, holding my stomach, praying that I wasn’t pregnant.

“Are you alright?” It was the thin man, standing in the doorway and I ignored him. “You look quite the mess, come on let’s get you cleaned up.”

He steered me away from the balcony and I resisted, but only barely and then not at all as we walked a wide hallway and then into a large bathroom. He turned on the lights and I caught my reflection in the mirror. I looked terrible, with red swollen eyes and damp, stringy hair clinging to my face and neck. My bottom lip was cut and had been bleeding, although I hadn’t noticed that at all. I’d bitten through the skin at some point. My blouse was wrinkled and torn so that I’d lost a button, and a second one hung by a thread.

“Here, let’s take these off…” The man was gentle, almost paternal and I was relaxing despite myself. It’s hard to rage for so long, and that’s what it had been. Anger never left me, but the rage was a fire that consumed me and I was nearly exhausted with it.

The man undressed me slowly and I didn’t complain. His hands were gentle enough and his voice comforting although I paid little attention to their meaning. I didn’t even protest when he pushed me over the faux marble countertops so that my face was staring at us in the mirror while he fucked me. I was numb and the idea that he’d tricked me somehow was ludicrous. He didn’t want to clean me up, to help me find some sense of dignity or self-respect, he just wanted his turn. All men did and I’d learned that lesson early and often.

I took his penis silently, making only the smallest sounds when he thrust himself inside me harder near the end. He indulged himself with my flesh, touching my everywhere, letting his hands roam my body and face. I sucked his fingers when they entered my mouth, but only because it was expected and I had no will left in me at all. I was broken finally, and it wasn’t the first time. My husband would be pleased since it would give him the chance to rebuild me, to repair me somehow so I would be content to go on living.

Suffering is its own reward and this was how I earned my love.

He was done all of 10 minutes after he started, the thin old man, and he took his leave of me with a little slap on my ass and a word of appreciation. I waited until I heard his footsteps fade and then I moved, locking the door and looking around. I couldn’t do this anymore. I wouldn’t, I couldn’t. I was ever being used and in the morning I would think back on it as if I’d enjoyed it somehow. My husband would hold me and reward me, making love to me and filling a condom with his seed in my honor.

It was like a knife in my stomach and I bent over, feeling the physical pain of it. I groaned and stumbled and searched the bathroom, knocking the contents of the closets and shelves and cabinets to the cold tiled floor until I found what I was looking for. A good razor, the sort that that unscrews to insert and remove the double edged blade inside.

I ran the tub with water made hot by the long afternoon sun and turned the handle carefully, almost smiling as the top of the razor opened. I picked out the blade between my finger and thumb, along the dull edges of the sides. The sharp edges gleamed and cut the light reflecting off it with just the smallest hint of blue and red and the colors in between.

I’d done this before, a long time ago. Sat in a tub of water and played hard to get with a razor. You want me? You have to stop me. You have to save me. You have to prove your love in other ways besides hitting me all the time, raping me and giving me to anyone who wants me. I’d cut him out of me, the way I’d tried to cut my father away. Would I be any more successful this time, I wondered? Or did God have other plans…I hoped not, I had a lot of questions I wanted to ask Him face to face.

The first cut is the hardest, you know. But the second is even harder. Only a real suicide understands that and that’s how you can tell us apart.

And the pain was numbing. Cold and sharp and distinct beyond reason. I’d spent my life preparing for it, practicing by myself and with others, but the reality of what I was doing was obscene. It was pain beyond limits and my hand was shaking, the razor becoming slippery as blood poured from my body. A third cut and I could barely keep my eyes open. My legs were straight and tense, my back arched, my mouth open with a silent scream because my lungs were selfish and refused to work.

A fourth cut was ragged and I used the weight of my arm, which seemed suddenly altogether too heavy to finish the task. Sawing at my flesh weakly until I was through and it was with no small satisfaction that I fell into darkness. The stench of blood was all around me, that sharp rusty odor that smells like no other. The water was still running, splashing and churning the water red. Not pink, but red as I bathed in what I’d done. There’d be no tourniquet this time, no bandage or pressure to staunch the flow. I was dying and it was beautiful like that and I hoped my husband would appreciate my efforts to please him one last time.

I’d cut off my tits for him, afterall, as much as for myself.

End
rache696@yahoo.com

End note: What is there to say? I told you how this would end a long time ago. Don’t act surprised. I’ll write a less romantic version later, something involving French fries and a bus, no doubt. Just to appease you. -rr