Home » True BDSM F/f F/m “Domination” story – sex slave #Memoir

True BDSM F/f F/m “Domination” story – sex slave #Memoir

This is a true story, related to you with trimmings of poetic license and elegant artistry. Long before the existence of Fifty Shades of Grey. This piece focuses on my earlier experiences as an S&M slave with a renowned Mistress to whom I was her personal subject. I was in my early (very early) 20’s, younger than the beloved Anastasia Steele. I need not divulge much more but this is a story from my memoirs exclusively packaged for you all as a gift, here on this blog. It might not fit with what you know about me as Spanked Angel – but this is real. The picture is also real, when I was much thinner,  much younger and much less experienced.

I’ve eroticized this ordeal to appeal to your senses – not to justify or glorify what happened to me without my permission.

We can say a lot of things about boundaries and the flexibility that exists when pushing them in the world of BDSM, a subject I intend to return to in a different blog entry.

But make no mistake, when it comes to consent it is always and unequivocally #BlackAndWhiteNotGrey

Please Spread the word.

onceuponatime2

Name, locations & identities have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent. If you happen upon a Mistress Aaliya on the Internet or via social media – I have no associations with such person(s). I just happen to think the name is pretty and befitting as it means: high, or ascending. 

Angel moved violently against the lash.  The single-tail was making her dance, whipping musically against her flesh, tenderizing her glowing cheeks.  She was tied to nothing and forced to endure the suffering without the comfort of boundaries to struggle against.

“Be still,” Aaliya demanded, breaking Angel from her trance.  “Don’t move or the whip will fall where it will.  I won’t stop if you move.  Do you understand?”

“Yes Mistress,” Angel replied instinctively, but unfortunately, not audibly.

As a consequence, the whip caught her again and a ripple of pain coursed through her, shocking her, so sharp was the impression.  Angel held back a cry, which was instead dispersed through her body, causing little spasms to shake her.  Before she could regain her composure from the last blow, another one came down in precisely the same area.  The punishing strokes had landed on the right cheek, just where the buttocks meet the thighs.  Angel yelped this time and tried to will away the burning sting.

Aaliya was satisfied enough. “Now.  Do you understand, Angel?”

“Yes Mistress,” she whimpered, but loudly and distinctly this time.

“Good girl.”

Angel was rewarded with a series of stripes across her naked bottom. They came in rapid succession, landing where they would, directed sometimes by the Mistress, and sometimes not (such an instrument is hard to control when there’s too much wine involved).

And all of this pain was less brutal than those two lashes meant to chastise her for speaking too softly.  What a game this was!  This was a psychological enigma, this remarkable distinction between pleasurable pain and tormenting pain.  Could the two really be separated with one just a single word or expression, an encouraging comment or disapproving gesture?

Angel couldn’t think now. She was performing for her Mistress and her man-friend, dancing for them.  She felt no rebellion now.  She relaxed and gave into the lash, losing her breath as she did.  But the performance must continue.  She knew Aaliya’s former lover wouldn’t be able to tolerate one stroke the way she gracefully endured ten.  That alone gave her the confidence and authority needed to carry on.

But she had now received at least forty.  Her buttocks felt like they were beneath hot cinders; they swelled with all their plump roundness, burning with a deliciously terrible heat.  The lash was really cutting into her skin now; she could feel the blood break through her wounds.

Aaliya, as always, was determined to break Angel’s stubborn spirit. The blows came harder and harder, threatening her resolve.  Angel held back her screams, swallowed them like tiny pills – over and over and over until they finally struck in her throat and came chocked back up as sobs.

“No,” she cried against her will, after accepting another twenty fierce smacks.  She didn’t mean to say it really.  The words just came.  There was no stopping them.  There was no taking them back.  Angel heard them come only as she spoke them.  She prayed that it wasn’t her voice that had made the sounds, or that she had only said them inside of her head.  But Aaliya heard them, too, her tolerance for defiance very low.

She caught the whip as she cracked it, letting it dangle dangerously in the air.  Instantly Angel realized her error and understood what the consequences would be.  The whip was not important now.

Aaliya half-knelt before Angel, never letting her knees touch the ground, but leaning forward so she was parallel to her slave. Disappointedly, she shook her head.  Angel shrunk back in shame.

“What happens when slaves say NO to me,” she asked.  And without waiting for an answer, she lifted her hand and slapped Angel.  Aaliya had really slapped her, left a burning imprint in the side of her face.  The tears welled in her eyes.  Aaliya was being suddenly cruel to her.  She had always expressed reluctance at slapping women, and especially Angel – whose sensitivity she professed to understand.

When she had to slap her in session, she did so gently and there always existed a moment of tenderness between them. Never did it carry such gravity as it did now.  Yet here she was, slapping Angel as hard as she’d ever been slapped and thinking nothing of it, except that it gave her greater influence.  How she loved power.

At once, she grabbed a hold of Angel’s nipple, pinching it between her index finger and her thumb, pulling and tugging and nearly lifting her off the carpet.  She then pulled Angel down to the floor, leaving her hunched over in pain.

Aaliya turned to her once lover, “Hold her,” she commanded.  “Don’t let her move.”

Without reluctance, the man gently uncurled Angel from her position, placing her head in his lap.  His large, soft hands felt cool against her fiery flesh.  Her face burned from the tears.  He wiped them soothingly and she sobbed gently into him.  The sound of her yielding voice made him erect.  His pants were still on, but she could feel his organ swelling beneath them; she could nearly taste the heat rising off his warm skin.  He embraced her affectionately as her Mistress took to the whip again.

Angel wailed.  The whip hit her repeatedly, straying sometimes to wrap around her thigh or catch the small of her back.

How vulnerable she looked to him now, her naked body trembling before him – her long blond hair tousled and a mess in his folded knees.  He stroked her head lightly.  But every moment of tenderness from him was met with a vicious lick from Aaliya.

Angel couldn’t be certain (nor would she ever dare to suggest), but she felt that Aaliya had been grazed by envy, by her former lover’s willingness to seduce her slave and not her.

He was too eager, that they both knew.  He endured Angel’s suffering with her.  He winced when she winced; he pushed his body into hers when the whip landed, offering the full support of his weight for her to lean upon.  He pulled her hair back gently to whisper in her ear, blowing kisses with his breath and it tickled her.

The beating continued, but it was Aaliya who could no longer endure it.  She thought Angel seduced him, but she didn’t.  Not on purpose.  She had no thoughts of him; expect to be grateful that there were strong, gentle hands there to hold her.  It was true; she showed her gratitude through innocent seduction, which must have been misread as flirting.  But she didn’t want him.  Not even once did she want him.  She never even considered it.

But Aaliya was now needy for attention, and she pinned for Angel’s.  She took a hold of the girl’s hair with moderate force and dragged her over to the bondage table.  She forced her to her knees and sat directly above her on the bed – her body elevated at such an angle that her sex was directly in front of Angel.  Angel didn’t like to look there, but she could swear it was sticky and dripping.  She wished it weren’t.  She would have liked to have rested her head there, for Aaliya to have played with her hair while her face fell in her lap.  That’s when she liked that place, when there was comfort without fear, comfort without pressure, comfort without desire or possession.

“Kiss me,” Aaliya commanded.  She had bent over to be closer to Angel and Angel could see her breasts peaking out from beneath her black sheer shirt.

Aaliya extended her hand to lift Angel’s chin.  “Kiss me,” she repeated, this time curiously – puzzled that Angel had to be told a second time.

Angel was petrified.  She retreated in a panic.  Kiss her?  What was this?  It was the wine talking.  Aaliya doesn’t let her slaves kiss her.

Angel looked at her in astonishment, so lovely, so alluring.  So why did she suddenly seem so un-kissable?  Isn’t that the way it always happened with Angel?  Every time she found someone lovely or irresistible, they at once became un-kissable?.

Angel didn’t say no.  She said nothing.  Silence.  Maybe that was worse than saying something.  Angel was suddenly offended.  She could not determine why.  This was all too confusing.  Aaliya betrayed her with this flattery, tortured her with it.  She didn’t want it.

Aaliya had diminished the boundaries that Angel held firmly in place.  They were never to be challenged.  She couldn’t deal with instability.  Aaliya was breaking the rules and Angel despised her for it.  That distance, that safety – it now crumbled before her.  She was angry, more so than afraid.  Her expression could not be concealed.  She was beside herself with fury and fear.

This had become a battle, a war so intense the room radiated with the heat of it.  “Kiss me,” Aaliya demanded.  Her face turned scarlet with temper.  She dripped with dominance, so swollen with it that it started to spill from the corners of her perfect mouth.  And when Angel retreated apprehensively, Aaliya spit it in her face – a powerful, misty spray that at once disgusted her.

But she didn’t dare wipe the droplets from her chin.  She knew better.  She was very adept at playing the role of submissive, so long as it remained within the boundaries of acting.  And Aaliya taught her proper slave etiquette, such things as never looking your Mistress in the eyes (although she’d often forced Angel to look directly at her, knowing her anguish would be that much greater), how to pose properly (bent on knees, head bowed with hands folded courteously behind your back) and certainly, how never to wipe the Mistress’ precious spittle off of your sticky face.  That much Angel knew.  When it came to kissing your Mistress and desiring it with all the passion your body could muster… she was strangely perplexed.

“Fine then,” Aaliya nearly growled.  The corners of her mouth turned up in fury and she used her foot to knock Angel off of her knees.  Aaliya jumped off the table and went over to the man desperate to make love to her.  He was lying on the floor as if he were at the beach, arms folding up behind him so he could make a pillow of his palms to cradle his head.  He looked comfortable, relaxed.  He enjoyed the spectacle unfolding before him.

Throughout this intense interaction between a Mistress and her slave, Angel had forgotten the man was even there, so entangled was she in the heat of Aaliya’s scheme.  The man was just a phantom to her.  But he was watching them, mystified, curious, eager – his arousal bobbing up and down, his mouth watering with the possibilities.  He tore his shirt off as Aaliya approached him, revealing his broad chest full of muscle and tone.  It was splendid really, defined by strong muscle and hairless – just the way Angel would have loved a man’s chest to be if she could love a man.

Angel starred at them drowsily.  “Kiss me,” Aaliya demanded.  Those words again, Angel wanted to scream!  But this time the command wasn’t meant to be followed by her.  Aaliya’s former lover would carry on where Angel had failed, only he had practice and interest and so it really couldn’t be called fair.

Aaliya glared at Angel from the corner of her faltering eyes.  She secretly desired to make the girl jealous – painfully jealous – to make her regret her disinterest, or maybe – to show her by example how to properly treat passion.  Maybe he was a better slave than she, or maybe – he was just a man.  Whatever the case, he obeyed instantly, cupping Aaliya’s smooth face into his manly hands and devouring her with his mouth.  So sensuous, so violent, so sinful…

Aaliya kept peering out at Angel, waiting for any trace of emotion.  Nothing.  Angel remained fixated upon them, but not in a jealous rage as Aaliya must have hoped and even anticipated.  Angel drove her crazy.

But Angel didn’t want to be jealous.  And she wasn’t.  To be honest about it, having the attention diverted from her was a relief as opposed to a torment.  Poor Aaliya knew this.  She was as lost as a Mistress could be.  It was she that had failed.  For all her beauty and devilish charm, she could not seduce a helpless slave into desiring her the way she wanted, no needed, to be desired.

Aaliya could not entice Angel with her intoxicating perfume or her hypnotic voice; not even the fascination with the whip could hold the girl now.  She desired nothing but to escape.  To be touched by sex terrified her.  It was a demon; somehow she had known this since she was small and no one could tell her or show her otherwise.

How she loathed seeing people possessed by it.  She wanted to exercise them right then and there, tear them away from this thing that stroked them.  For the two of them were now writhing around on the floor, grinding each other in the most perverse of ways.  It was pornographic, the way his tongue plunged into her desperate mouth and the way she impatiently embraced it as if it were life itself.

Angel watched Aaliya transformed by her obsession. “Ah”, Angel thought to herself.  “Not a Mistress anymore, a slave now.”  Her emotions were mingled, clouded.  She was unable to get a grip.  Part of her was revolted that her Mistress was exhibiting the kind of lax and sexually sloppy behavior of an inexperienced, excited schoolgirl. The other parts of Angel – the parts that weren’t quite so disgusted – were perversely satisfied, and simultaneously disappointed.

The woman was human after all.  Sooner or later it comes down to just that.  Sometimes Mistresses tell you their real names; sometimes they accidentally slip with “Please,” or “Thank You.” Sometimes they take off their heels or their lipstick fades… and sometimes, (if they’ve had enough wine) – they’ll let the demon possess them, right there in front of you and expose those same instincts that draw together man and beast as the same animal.

The same thing that made Aaliya a Mistress, made her a slave.

Angel watched in utter fascination.  This was that same pattern that has possessed animals since the beginning of time.  Why couldn’t she understand it the way others had?  Why was the thought of it so repulsing that she couldn’t even bear it?  Was it the trauma she had endured, trauma she couldn’t even recall in its entirety?  Was she born meant to remain sexless, guiltless?

Suddenly she cried, her tears straining to be free of her closed eyes.  She wanted to go home now.  She didn’t belong here.  Would they let her go home? Home – not back to Aaliya’s luxurious apartment – but home halfway across the country, away from this dungeon, this demon, this sex.  Angel nearly collapsed.

They were staring at her now, hungry, starving.  Angel slumped back in terror.  Aaliya glared straight at her, her radiant, half-twisted (all evil) smile shining on her like a light.  Angel’s heart was pounding in her chest and her ears, pounding, pounding – like a rainstorm inside of her.  She was saturated with fear.  She couldn’t stand it.  She couldn’t breathe.  Why did they look at her like that?

Aaliya played her games again.  She propelled herself backwards, just slightly… just enough to be alluring but not entirely inviting.  “What do you want?”  She did not speak, but Angel could read her thoughts, could hear her words as clearly as if she had spoken them aloud.

This is your last chance,” Aaliya implored, trying to conceal her eagerness though the Mistress’ veil.

A Mistress must never appear eager.  The demon hovered above her, but was temporarily outside of matter.  It was immaterial, ready to jump into one of them, or two of them…. Or all of them?

No, not all of them.  Angel held the imaginary crucifix to her heart, begging God to stop them, to stop time, to stop the demon so desperate for recognition.  She had a feeling something terrible would happen.  What should she say?

“Oh God,” she cried out.  She might have even spoken the words, words that had failed her so many times before.  But they say there are no atheists in foxholes, and so she found herself saying them again.  Over and over.  Her stomach felt funny, uneasy.  She thought she might faint possibly.

 “What do you want?” Aaliya repeated silently with seductive hostility.  “Want me, want me…” she pleaded inwardly.  “Say it, foolish girl.  Little bitch!  Say it!  Don’t make me do something horrible to you!  Don’t make me punish you this way!”

Aaliya’s skin was creamy white, just a faint rosy hue to blush her cheeks.  But mostly, she looked ghastly, like an apparition, seemingly not real… All that was real was her anger, her raging frustration.  It gave her essence, purpose.

Look at me Angel, don’t resist me.” It was nearly sad.  “Tell me you want me.  Tell me you want to suckle at my breasts.  Tell me you want to kiss the rose between my thighs.”  Aaliya glanced down at her body, her eyes grazing across her chest and then wandering down her belly, and then further.  She opened her legs ever so slightly and remained obsessed with staring at the core of herself.

Her beautiful dark eyes moved back and forth slightly, as if speaking to Angel directly.  She was helping Angel, giving her direction, putting the very words in her mouth. Angel imagined it must be painfully humbling, to force a slave to desire you.

Angel knew what Aaliya wanted, yet she refused an answer of any sort.  She thought silence would be better than articulated rejection.  Yes, Aaliya was a paragon of beauty.  Angel didn’t think she had ever seen a woman more beautiful than Aaliya.  Why then, did she fight her?

Aaliya’s jet-black hair hung loosely over her shoulders. It framed her perfect face like an angel and made her eyes look large and shimmering.  They were a deep brown and glistening so magnificently that Angel suspected there might be a tear… a tear for what she had done, a tear for what she was about to do.  For there was innocence even in Aaliya, but the jealousy devoured it.

Angel’s virtue was stronger – not because she consciously cultivated it, but because it had a will of its own that would not be deterred, not even by an exotic temptress.    

Angel was repulsed now and there was nothing to be done about it. The reality was shattered.

When Angel could examine Aaliya in the face of these recent events, she could see that her Mistress had lost her allure.  Nothing could persuade Angel to desire her the way she craved to be desired, not even her tacit threats.

No, I won’t whip you.  It will be worse.  Much worse.”  She was too stubborn to say the words aloud but Angel wasn’t about to volunteer that she was about as readable as a picture book.

“Damn you then.”  Angel was almost sure she had heard those words.

“I think it’s time you had a man inside of you,” Aaliya whispered as a last resort, her faltering crystal blue eyes suddenly alive and wild, glowing almost – glowing with that same kind of preserve excitement a pedophile feels when he first touches child flesh.

And how beautiful Aaliya’s face looked illuminated under the soft candle light, striking really – her Cherokee background evident in her features, making her appear strong despite her natural softness.  Even her nose was perfect, cut at exactly the right angles as if it had been carved by an artist and placed there.

“You’re beautiful,” Angel wanted to tell her, “especially when you’re angry, when you’re injured, when you’re dangerous.”

Oh yes, Aaliya had won Angel’s admiration, commanded her respect.  Angel truly was her slave that way.  She wouldn’t deny that.  But why was that not enough?  Surely that had to mean more to Aaliya than the shallowness of bodily passions.  Her heart was impassioned, her soul enraptured.  Isn’t that what mattered by the end of it all?  Angel was never bound by the thought of “sleeping” with her Mistress.  She never knew it was a criterion for devotion.

Suddenly a wave of panic rose within her, then died down as quickly as it had risen.  No, that would be unthinkable.

“A man inside of you…”

The words played inside Angel’s head but didn’t fully register.

Surely Aaliya wasn’t serious.  No, not serious.  Aaliya always said things like this to torment her, teasing her because of her aversions.   Why should this time be any different?  She relaxed again.  Aaliya was absolutely wicked.

“… with a condom of course,” Aaliya continued, her words more distinct.  Purposefully, and with bitterness, she laughed.

Angel’s eyes became doe-like, large and wholly alert.  Aaliya was going to drag this out to the last second, to make her squirm and sweat uneasily.

Her skin was clammy already.

Angel wanted to speak but there was a lump in her throat.

Aaliya interrupted her efforts “Oh yes,” she hissed, as if reading the girl’s thoughts.  “It’s time.”

The reality of the moment took Angel’s breath away.  It was as if she had been punched in the stomach and all the wind was taken out of her.  Her heart had slowed.  Or it was beating rapidly.  She was too unsettled to tell.  She only felt that it was different. I’ll save you.  It pounded out the words severely, like a drum.  Your mind won’t, but I will.

“Time, time….”

The trust she once had in her Mistress instantly died.

“It’s time,” Aaliya repeated.  She was only humoring Angel.  She never believed for a moment in her innocence, not in her real innocence, anyway.  It was the illusion Aaliya lusted after, not the reality.  Aaliya couldn’t fathom that there truly was such a thing as the reality.

She was always suspect of the things Angel told her.  Angel was still a little girl and Aaliya couldn’t determine whether or not it was an act.  She supposed it must have been.  It was too pure to be real.  That she convinced herself of.

And here Angel was tonight, painted like a doll, eyes large and glistening with heavy, wet tears, making her all the more hunted.

She had even been wearing her Mistress’ clothes tonight – the very shirt Aaliya had let her borrow because she only bought sweet little girl outfits from NY.  And she brought the shirt to Aaliya, whining – pathetically and dependently like a child, “I need you.”  And Aaliya had to help her put it on.

“You really are helpless, aren’t you?”  Aaliya smiled softly, trying to conceal her curiosity as she pondered whether or not a girl her age could really be so helpless.

There was no doubt about Angel’s vulnerability now, her helplessness.  But were there degrees of vulnerability?  There she was, naked, lying on the floor with her innocent sex appeal; unaware it was ever there at all.  If she would only realize, then maybe it could be contained.  Maybe she could make it go away so that no one would know it was there.

But Angel knew the power of innocence, knew it through witnessing numerous compulsions to devour it.  Surely, there’s something superior about it, for it can never be replaced once it’s gone.  It can never be whole.  It can only be taken away, stolen, stripped from those who may have it.  And a taste of it is never enough; it has to be ingested through the internal organs before the thirst can be quenched.

Angel had learned through experience that it makes people beastlike, almost the way drugs do – or maybe worse.

Aaliya inched towards Angel until she had her pressed flat upon the ground.  She crawled on top of her, taking the girl’s arms and placing them above her head so that she could not move.  And then she cocked her head to one side so that her hair fell upon Angel’s chest, teasing her, comforting her, repelling her.  Aaliya moved closer.  Her breath was warm and smelled like cinnamon; Angel could almost see it as it escaped her tiny mouth.  She could taste it on her own lips.

“You can’t refuse.  If you tell anyone about this, you can never come back here.”  Aailya unwrapped the condom.  Angel had felt truly terrified many times in her life, but she had never felt terror like this before.  And that plastic!  The sound of the plastic ripping was like none Angel had ever heard before.  It was tormenting and louder than the thundering oceans.  Or was that just in her head?  She could swear it screamed, maybe even cried as the material crinkled in her Mistress’ hand.

Aaliya looked at Angel, glaringly.  “If you tell a single soul, you will never return.  No one will believe you, anyway.  You don’t have a choice.”  There was venom in her voice now, a poison that flowed freely from her delicious lips.  Yes, those mouth-watering lips, plump and freshly glossed with a cherry polish… so tempting, so inviting, so painful to resist — Painful for the man because he couldn’t have them anymore, painful for Angel because she could – painful for Angel because she expressed reluctance, and more gravely – refusal.

Sometimes it’s good to take what you don’t really want, Angel tried to convince herself.  The words lingered. Aaliya backed away from her.

Angel suddenly became aware of the man, again.  She froze, unable to move.  Was he looking at her?  Did she remember his name?  Maybe it was Michael, or Mark, or Mason.  It might have been Moses.  How she kept forgetting he was there.

He was staring at her, consuming her with his deep eyes.  They were rust colored, deep brown with an orange glaze forming over them.  They roamed over her, burned into her. And she shuddered, pressing her legs together and her arms into her chest to conceal her nakedness, as if this was the first time she was aware of it at all.

He removed them instantly, at Aaliya’s command. For a moment Angel’s gaze interlocked with his.  He was beautiful too, with lustrous wavy hair, long and thick and dark.  Some little brown hairs stuck to his forehead, to his model-like face, damp with his passion.

But Angel wanted no part of him.  She could appreciate beauty from a distance.  She could be intimate with beauty and she never had to touch it.  That’s why she was so hated, because no one else had the forethought or willpower to resist passion in favor of truth.  That’s all Angel ever wanted really, to appreciate beauty from a safe distance.  But beauty, it had to lay its fingers all over her, inside and out – making itself ugly, hideous, undesirable and evil.

Why hadn’t she had more to drink earlier?  Maybe she could endure this better.  What was she to do?  She shook her head frantically.

“No, no, no…” she whispered, over and over and over, crawling on her back towards the door.  “Please,” she begged Aaliya.

Without regard to her desperation, Aaliya slid the condom over her once lover’s large penis.  What was happening?

Angel couldn’t interpret it, it was just confusion.  Her mind played games with her.  She had to stop it before it destroyed her completely.  “Stop thinking for God’s sake!  Stop thinking!”  She berated herself silently while trying to keep her captors at bay with expressions of panic.

They couldn’t do this to her.  But they were. She wanted to scream.  But she couldn’t.  The words stubbornly refused to come.  She was paralyzed.

Don’t think.”  She scolded herself more gently this time.  She cursed language secretly, how she hated it.  For what if there were no words?  Would it still feel so terrible?  Or would fear lose one of the elements that gave it its very substance?  Let there be no words.  “Stopthinking.”

And suddenly, as if her mind had finally obeyed her, she didn’t think.

Mark, or Mike, or Moses… he came closer.

“Nooooooooooo!” she screamed, startled by her own voice as it finally erupted from its shell.  “Stop, I don’t want to!  Don’t touch me!”

The beautiful man looked at Aaliya as if seeking her permission to continue.

Angel looked at her, too and then screamed.  “Aaliya, get him away from me!”  The name Aaliya sounded foreign to her without the title of Mistress before it.  But Angel was serious and she did not want to play the role of the slave any longer.  That had ceased much earlier when Aaliya devalued herself as a Mistress right in front of her.

No one was paying attention to Angel’s pleas or her demands.

Angel closed her eyes.  She didn’t want to keep them open.  There wasn’t a whip in the entire world that could force them open.

Before Angel even realized what was happening, Aaliya’s man-puppet was mounting her – preparing to enter her unwillingly body.

Still, Angel shook her head violently, reflexively.  She was hardly even aware of it.  She tried to crawl away again, but he grabbed her leg and kept her there…. He waited passively, watching her resist until she nearly tired herself out.

“God, God, god.”Angel sang the words inside of her head, humming them like a hymn.  But God wasn’t listening today, as usual.

Finally, with all his brazen manliness, (which had earlier somewhat disguised itself as effeminate and non-threatening beauty) and hardly any warning, he pushed himself inside of her.

Angel felt the walls closing in around her.  It was so violating, so cruel, the way he thrust himself into her soft flesh.  Terrified, she closed her legs, but he spread them apart again with his large hands, pressing her knees to the floor.  It hurt her, but she didn’t think he meant it.

The tears fell freely down her face now.  She shuddered trying to restrain them.  Don’t let them see you cry.  She tried to reason with herself.  They like to see you cry.  It will only be worse for you.

Angel could feel his heat against her.  He panted, exhausting himself.  He didn’t bother to try to kiss her.  It was the demon now.  He didn’t care whether she returned his lust.  He needed to have her.  She was being worked, like an animal.  He was raping her.

There was no reprieve.  Her eyes opened in spite of her wishes.  She caught a glance of Aaliya, who ceased to look at her so crossly.  For a moment, Angel thought she saw a trace of fear burning in her eyes.  Or was it sympathy?  Or perhaps contempt.  Angel couldn’t tell any longer.  Nothing is ever what it seems.

His penis caught her again, slamming into her so that she thought she might tear from the inside.  She looked at Aaliya again, but saw only a blur.  The images of the room faded in and out.  She reached out to Aaliya, imploring her.

“Help me,” she mouthed the words without sound but she was sure that Aaliya read her lips.

Aaliya didn’t move, she looked startled.  There was nothing she could do now.  It was too late.  Angel reached out to her again, desperately, awkwardly… her hand searching for that maternal comfort.

Aaliya instantly went to her this time.  “Kiss me.”  Those words would haunt Angel always.  There was no threat now, just words, just desperation, advice perhaps.  The girl’s body rocked as the penis swayed inside of her, it moved and jumped, twisted and turned violently.

She couldn’t push him out.  His hands were so strong, and his strength too brutal.  She contracted the muscles inside of her.  She had been doing this all along.  But she was no match for him.  She had failed.

It didn’t matter now.  She reached up, dazed and met Aaliya’s lips with her own.  She kissed them.  Devoid of sentiment and not even filled with disgust, she kissed them.

Angel stopped crying to God. A tear fell down her cheek again.  She thought they had stopped.  How she prayed they would stop.  Her brain was distorting things.     Finally, she cried without tears.  Without thought she reached for Aaliya’s lovely breast.  She cradled one of them in her hand, touching it like an infant.  She clutched at it, played with it, sought to use it as a shield, some kind of maternal comfort she was seeking for relief.

That’s how she survived when the man relieved himself of all his pent up passionate aggression. Angel’s body shivered then froze as he came inside of her.  She clutched at Aaliya’s breast for comfort.

The bodily explosion was something she had never felt before.  She loathed it. Only the condom saved her, not having to feel that slime on her flesh. For a moment she felt fear and desperation, unparalleled desperation.  She was ruined.

Then there was an equal calm, a moment of truth that transcended all moments.  Why was she so worried?  She had already been ruined so many times before.

Angel fell into Aaliya’s arms at the thought.  She collapsed there.

“Shhh…” Aaliya had tried to calm her.  But Angel had not been crying at this point.  She had not been anything.  She almost had not even been real.

There was alarm in Aaliya’s tone, worry and sadness.  Angel quivered.  She was cold.

“I’ll hold you,” Aaliya whispered softly, as if this would atone for what she had just done.  “It’s okay.”  Her voice was shaky now.  Maybe the wine was losing its effect.  “I’ll take care of you.

“It’s okay,” Angel, she promised, except it was more of a question than an affirmation.

Angel knew that Aaliya would keep her word, that she would hold her, that she would take care of her.  Only Angel didn’t care at all.  She just needed to be warm.

With sincere tenderness, Aaliya wrapped her arms around the quivering girl.  Angel could no longer resist the urge to weep, so she did – softly.

Aaliya embraced Angel with all the gentle affection she once had for her, finally letting the girl rest her head in her lap.  It was nice there now – not sticky and not wet, not that way, anyhow… just damp with Angel’s tears.

 

Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2015 Angel Spanked

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *