A Matter Of Family Business

I. A Night In Hell

Rape number twelve: "What kind of rapist will this one be?" Suzy Lewiston asked herself, despairing, as a naked figure slowly approached the bed to which she had been tied.

By her count, this would be her twelfth rapist of the evening. The first several had been terrifying, to be sure. As had been the horror of being abducted right off the street, in the blink of eye! But the human mind can adapt to almost anything. And the mind of the human female, sadly and of necessity, has had a long time to practice in coming to terms with many things women could not control. Foremost, and especially, rape.

And so it was for Suzy, who had had a lifetime of education on how to come to terms with less than ideal circumstances, and find ways to turn them around. To mitigate them. And, even, turn them to advantage. In the words of her father, "If you're getting fucked, and you can't prevent it or stop it? Try and find out what they want. Learn that, and you have an advantage, even though you are still getting fucked." Though her blunt speaking father had been referring to working through business deals where you suddenly found yourself on the losing end, Suzy was now, of necessity, beginning to apply that principle to her current reality.

By the fifth rape? Even though still terrified, and humiliated at being stripped, bound, and sexually assaulted, repeatedly? Humiliated at her own body's responses to the unwanted sexual stimuli being forced upon her? In front of a crowd of people she didn't know? Whose faces she couldn't see because of the masks? In spite of all of that, obviously meant to degrade her and break her spirit, she was getting her mind back in action, starting to think. If she was going to get out of this, alive, she was going to have to think, to use her brain. For rapists six through eleven, she had begun to manage to distance herself somewhat from what was being done to her body.

Not that she could completely escape the sensations being forced on her, or ignore her body's reactions to the stimuli. But enough so her mind could work on the problem. She wondered how many more raping assholes they had in supply, waiting their turn to force themselves on her, and use her unwilling body to satisfy themselves?

"And what are they going to do with me when they're done?" she wondered. She saw her newest tormentor getting closer to the bed.

"What now? A man? A woman?" she wondered. As the twelfth rapist approached her, she again retreated as far into her mind as she could, and began reviewing what she had learned so far:

Item 1: Apart from kidnapping her, stripping her naked, tying her up, and serially raping her, they had not been physically violent with her. There had been some hair pulling, face slapping and spanking, at random. Some name-calling. "Rich Bitch" seemed to be their favorite epithet. But nothing injuring, nothing that would leave a mark, even.

"So there has to be something they want. Right? But what?" She had already asked herself that question a thousand times, and still had no answer. Apart from her ties to her family's business, sure. But everyone knew she didn't have controlling interest in that. Her Dad was famous for not giving his children free rides in the family business.

Ransom was the only possibility she could think of.

Item 2: Some of the rapists were women. At least four of them. Two used strap-on dildos. Two of them assaulted her with their mouths and fingers, and forced her to use her mouth on them. The assaults by these women had been her first lesbian experiences.

"If it hadn't been rape, it wouldn't have been so bad," she thought.

Item 3: The women were more physically and emotionally abusive than the men. Far more so! In comparison, the men were, at best, only half-assing it. They felt her up, slapped her around a bit, entered her, came quickly, and were done, thank God.

The women were much more engaged in the degradation of the assaults.

"Does that mean this entire ordeal was being orchestrated by a woman?" Suzy wondered. Another bit of info, of unknown significance, filed away.

Some of the men, and one of the strap-on women, had turned her over and sodomized her. Whenever they repositioned her, the "crew" that did it were all naked women. They knew what they were doing, in handling an awake, unwilling, combative victim. Between using animal-control wire-loop collars on her neck, wrists, and feet, and two women on each handle of the wire-loop collar, she had no chance of escape.

Item 4: They knew what they were doing. From the abduction, to the prolonged sexual assault and degradation, there were too many individuals involved, and they were too organized for this to be some random event. That was evident in how the rapes had been constant, giving her no time to think, to adjust. And that meant this was most likely not the first time they had visited this kind of horror on someone. That meant they probably had resources, training, and financial backing.

They seemed to take delight in her efforts to resist, in demonstrating to her that she was entirely under their control. When she stopped resisting, they often tried to provoke her, with insults, verbal and physical, to elicit a response from her, so they could justify further harsh treatment of her.

Which led to Item 5: they wanted her combative. They were looking for reasons to beat her resistance down. One of the most constant refrains in their very limited comments was, "The rich bitch is getting what's coming to her, now!"

Item 6: She was mean to understand she was purposely being degraded, de-humanized, used. She was being forced to watch it all happen to her. The room had been set up with mirrors, everywhere, on the walls and ceilings. If she closed her eyes for more than a few seconds, they started slapping her face, breasts, vulva, ass, and viciously pinching her nipples until she opened her eyes.

"They want me to see what they are doing to me," she thought. "They want me to know I'm helpless against them. And that they are going to do this to me as long as they want, and I can't stop them." Again, all of this seemed to be designed to break her spirit, crush her will. But for what? She had no answer for that, yet.

Item 7: they wanted her to know they could use her body, and make it respond how they wanted it to respond, against her will. They did this by forcing her to have an orgasm after each rapist.

If she hadn't had one while being raped, then afterwards, the nine naked women came out with various sex toys and used them on her until she came.

The treatment at the hands of the Nine, as she was coming to think of them, was rough and hard, far more so than the useless men who had just slapped her a bit, blown their load in her pussy, and slunk off.

On at least four assaults this evening, she had had an orgasm during the assault, and she had been riddled with shame, each time, as she came down from the high. So deeply ashamed. To be brought to an orgasm as a result of having been assaulted seemed like the worst betrayal her body could perpetrate on her.

Because of her position in life in one of America's most successful family businesses, she had received training on what to do if ever this situation happened to her. She had been taught that often when a woman is forced to endure a sexual assault, their bodies can react in all the same ways as when having consensual sex. That it was just the female body's reaction to stimuli. Even moaning and groaning, as if she were being pleasured; and she was doing plenty of that, too. Suzy had been taught that these reactions of her body had nothing to do whatsoever with what she "wanted." It was in no way an indication that she was "enjoying" the predations to which she was being subjected. It was purely a survival mechanism of the female body: lubrication as a means to avoid further harm to her genitalia. And hopefully satisfy the attacker. And with that, the possibility for escape. The orgasm response in this instance was nothing over which her conscious mind had any control.

And she had been taught that rapists will use these reactions against their victims to further shame and degrade them.

Suzy had been taught all of this. But it was one thing to know it, and another thing entirely to have to endure it happening to her own self. But still, the knowledge that the orgasms she had been forced to have were merely a survival mechanism, not an indication she was enjoying any of this? That bit of knowledge, tiny though it was against the horror of it all, gave her some measure of strength. Because it took that one weapon away from her attackers: they could not use her shame at her body's reactions against her. Because there was no shame for her in her body's fight to survive. The shame was on them, for their violence against her.

And, by far, the oddest thing of it all was the masks! All the men, and the two women who had used strap-on dildos, wore masks of her father's face. All the women who didn't use strap-on dildos, and the Nine who "handled" her for repositioning and made her orgasm after a rape, all wore masks of her mother's face. Her parents were the famous Robert and Wilma Lewiston, so these masks were available in almost all party-supply shops. They were forcing her to call them "Mommy," and "Daddy." She quickly found she was punished if she said anything else. Though they would let her moan and groan as they used her body like a living fuck-toy.

Apart from the masks, they were all utterly naked, as were the non-participating spectators. The audience of about 20-30 people were completely silent, except for their breathing. And they were all masturbating, while they watched her being raped.

Item 8: "So I guess I'm supposed to feel shame because of my family?"

While she wasn't gagged, none of the men had wanted to risk putting their cocks in her mouth. Two of the women had forced their pussies on her mouth, and slapped her pubic mound and vulva until she pleased them. Leaving their fingers hooked deeply inside her vagina, fingernails poised to claw viciously inside her, Suzy didn't dare try to injure them with her teeth. What they would do to her would have been far, far worse. Her only option had been to submit as meekly as possible to their cruelty, throughout the night.

This was also something she had been taught in her abduction classes, as a young woman: a woman being raped has two options: fight or submit. If you can fight, and you know how, and have some skill with it, then fight with everything you've got and don't let up for an instant until you get free.

Or, option two; and sadly, the much more likely option for most women: submit. And if you were going to submit, then submit totally. Give the attacker whatever they want. Because a woman's only goal in such a situation was to survive.

She had been taught that there was no shame in submission. If the odds were impossible, if a woman had no chance of escape, then do whatever the assailant demanded. Don't fight back, and don't do anything to give them an excuse to hurt you any worse.

There was no shame in submitting. The ultimate goal was to survive, and get free, with as little harm to yourself as possible.

And finally, she had been taught there was no shame in having been raped. The unfortunate fact is that it does happen, all too often, to all too many women, of every ethnicity and socio-economic class, ever since Women and Men had been made. Being raped, in a sense, was a lot like being in a car crash: you can take every precaution to prevent one, and it can still happen. It's something that can happen just going about the ordinary course of one's life. Even if a woman shut herself into her home and locked her doors, it could, and did, still happen. And it is just that: something that happened to you. Being raped was no judgement on the victim.

Suzy was reviewing all of this in her mind as her tormentors continued their never-ending miseries on her body. At the moment, the knowledge was of little comfort. The difference between studying a subject versus the reality of experiencing it. But still, knowing all of this, it did give her some small measure of strength to endure, and hope.

Sexually, most of the men had been pathetic. They had come in under three minutes, most of them. Only one of them had lasted more than five, and his cock had been pathetic. Honestly, the strap-on girls were more committed to the degradation process than the men! At least they could keep it up! She was on birth control, so Suzy knew she probably wouldn't get pregnant. And if she did, she would decide what to do about that, if it happened.

And she hoped and prayed that the overall level of apparent health and hygiene of her sexual predators meant they were STD-free. But there was no escaping the horror or the helplessness of the situation to which she was being subjected. The inability to resist being sexually violated, degraded, and dehumanized. The indignity visited upon her by the endless raping and forced orgasms. Again, Suzy asked herself,

"Who are these people, and why were they doing this?"

###

Six hours earlier: ​

Martin Lewiston III was furious. He had spent months, MONTHS! putting together the proposal for a new expansion of the company. He had worded everything just right, to get his damnable son-of-a-bitch father to look at the proposal the way he wanted him to see it. Covered up all the flaws, covered up the legal problems, union problems, staffing, and regulatory problems, and made the pitch. It would have been the biggest money-losing project the family business had ever undertaken, maybe even big enough to crash the entire company, and with it, a large part of the United States economy. All as planned.

The resulting economic chaos would usher in a new era of political leadership, and here he was, on the verge of making it all happen!

And it had been working, too! He could see the insufferable old asshole practically counting the money he thought it would earn, never even once thinking of the downside, even before he closed his presentation.

And then his never-sufficiently-to-be-damned sister, Suzy, had asked,

"So, Martin? Who is our customer?" She was 21, two years younger than he was, and already far more successful in the company. It wasn't right, proper, or fair, and when he mentioned this injustice to the Old Man, he'd just laughed at Martin.

"Both of you are in the places in the company which you have earned," he said. "No one can say either of you got where you are because you are my children, and I'd have crippled you both, if I had just appointed you to the top ranks. And no one would respect you. And if you have noticed Suzy has risen to a higher level than you, maybe you should ask yourself why? Maybe Suzy has worked ten times harder than you ever have." His father had no sympathy for his lack of status in the family business, and it just wasn't fair!"

And now, here was his even more damnable sister, threatening to throw off his plans to sink the company, by asking questions she had no right and no business, to ask!"

"I don't know what you mean," he said, in answer to her question.

"No, you don't," Suzy said. "Because you never thought to ask yourself that to begin with, did you? You didn't spend a dime researching who was actually going to buy the product, did you?"

"We're above that! Everyone is going to have to buy it because we're going to get laws passed that say they have to buy it!" he had shouted. Because she was, as always, correct! The whole point of all of this was that it would be something nobody wanted! They wouldn't even be able to give it away! They'd have to have laws written to force people to buy it! And she was ruining the whole thing with the most basic business question of all!

The Old Man looked at him, and said only two words: "Are we above knowing who wants to buy the product?"

"Dad, seriously?" He had blurted it out in front of the entire Board. That was a big mistake: the Old Man hated it when you called him "Dad" in front of the little people! And now he was going to get lectured on it, in front of the entire Board. And Suzy. Again. When he had been so close to winning!

"Son, I have told you before in private, and now in public, and not for the first time, I might add: when we are in a business meeting, I am "Mr. Lewiston. Or you can call me "Chief." Or "Boss." Hell, you can even call me "Asshole." Many here do, and rightly so." And that actually got a genuine laugh from the group.

"But you will not trade on your name or your place in life as my son, in a business meeting. Business is business, and you either have it or you don't. After this, I'm seriously thinking that you don't. In fact, after this, I don't know what you are thinking. This could have cost us everything. We already have substantial sunk costs in this, because I told the Board that this time, you had it all figured out. I TOLD THE BOARD! I VOUCHED FOR YOU!"

"But Dad, dammit, I worked hard on this-"

The Old Man slowly pressed his fist to the table, and said, "You were warned. You are excused from this meeting. Go home. Tell your mother I'll be home late for dinner, because I'm going to have to salvage everything you've nearly capsized here by failing to consider the primary element of business: "WHO IS YOUR CUSTOMER?""

The old man was shouting, now, and that was never a good sign for Martin, because he was usually shouting at Martin. "WHAT HAVE I ALWAYS TOLD YOU? IF YOU HAVE TO FORCE PEOPLE TO BUY IT, THEY DON'T WANT IT! OTHERWISE THEY'D BUY IT!

"Now get out."

It was so unfair! Martin was young, good looking, fit, and healthy. Impeccably groomed in custom silk suits and custom made Italian shoes. He had gone to Ivy League schools and paid all the right people to get a 4.0 GPA. He had a ton of classmates who had thought he was the coolest guy around because he always had booze, drugs, and women, all in huge supply at his parties. And he was always having a party.

He had returned from college at the age of 23 with an honest-to-God bought-and-paid for MBA. Hell the fact that he could buy it should have made it count for more than if he had earned it the old-fashioned way!

The Old Asshole should have hung it all up and turned over the reins of the business to him the day he was back. He had earned it! He hadn't spent those six years freezing his ass off in Northeast winters for nothing, after all! It was his right, by birth, as the male heir, to run the company!

But NO! Little miss perfect, his own damnable sister, who was so stupid she still believed in capitalism, for God's sake! She HAD to shoot off her mouth!

It wasn't fair. The Old Man had always liked her better. Martin was the elder sibling. He was the male heir. The company should have been his to destroy!

But the Old Man doted on Suzy because Suzy always did everything the old-fashioned way. Give her a project? She studied it, researched it, till she knew it backwards and forwards. Need staff? Instead of filling open slots with warm bodies, she believed it was better to leave a vacancy unfilled until you found the right person for the job. Instead of just throwing money at people who said they would do the work, she looked for those who would actually do the work, and then she paid them to keep them! And the Old Man just doted on her!

Now Martin was in trouble. So much trouble. With people who weren't nice, or forgiving. People who had a long-term view of history.

"God damn the American People's Worker's Party, anyway!" he thought, not for the first time. If they didn't have all the hottest girls, eager to put out, he'd have sent them packing the first time they tried to recruit him! But he was always in search of more girls for his parties, and the commie chicks were bought cheap. To this day, though, he still didn't know why or how they had become such a large part of his life, but he did know exactly why he wanted to please them so badly: they'd ruin him, if he didn't do what they wanted. If he were lucky, they would only ruin him, if not have him killed. And anyway, destroying his father's business was something he'd always wanted to do, ever since he could remember.