His voice leaves no room for discussion, sadly. I glower in half-pout half-shame as I remove my top and bra, pausing briefly as I get to the skirt. Not only am I pointedly aware that I am naked underneath, but I hate being naked, and most of all, I hate him knowing I hate it and making me do it anyway. The top is fine - large, proud breasts jutting out, a reasonable-looking prettily made-up face... I can cope with that if I just sit up straight. But the stomach, the stretchmarks, the thighs... oh god please, please don't make me do this...

"Faster, slut. Don't make me wait."

My eyes fall to the floor. I begin to slowly wriggle out of my skirt, hating myself and, in this moment, hating him too.


Apparently I'm not wriggling quick enough, as I am knocked to the floor with a blinding pain in my cheekbone where his open palm makes contact with my eye socket. Surroundings phase in and out as I swear and clutch my throbbing face.

"I. Said. Faster."

I free myself from the skirt and throw it, not exactly at him, but not exactly submissively either. He makes a sharp intake of breath, rather like a car mechanic who's just seen a skatty female with a old banger come in for its first ever service. I kneel back up, naked, and wait with lowered head and closed eyes. This is going to hurt.

There is silence. Eerie, horrible silence, broken only by the rasping of my own breath trying not to betray my fear. After what feels like hours, I register a sharp pain as his fist finds my hair, yanking my face up to look at him.

"Bitch. That was dumb, wasn't it." he spits. "Open your fucking eyes... LOOK at me. That was dumb, wasn't it?"


He pulls my hair harder... "Yes SIR, yes Sir... that was dumb, Sir..."

His other hand grips my cheek, pushing where his slap landed earlier. I whimper. He smears his hand across my face, spreading the meticulously applied make-up down my cheeks. My resolve weakens. Another slap - he releases my hair as his hand cracks into my cheek - the same cheek - so that my body can be limply flung to the ground with the force behind his blow. The first tear falls. Bollocks. And I was doing so well...

He stands up, leaving me a crumpled mess on the floor. I hear him muttering but can only make out the odd phrase as he rifles through his bag... "fucking useless"... "pathetic little whore"... "every FUCKING time"...

I am scared. He approaches again, and pulls me to my knees by my hair. He's holding a gag, my most hated one, with the O ring that causes me to dribble and drool all over myself no matter what I do. I loathe it. Bastard. He attaches it and kicks my thighs, hard, until they're as far apart as they can get. He reaches for his marker pen, and scrawls 'cunt' across my chest. He thrusts a hand between my legs, and predictably but to my eternal shame, finds me soaking wet. He smirks.

"Horny little bitch."

I lower my head again, I can't bear to even look at him. Unfortunately gravity works against me as the first line of saliva drips down through my open mouth and pools on the floor in front of me. I close my eyes in embarrassment - I want to make it all go away.

"Oh no, we're not quite ready for you to zone out just yet..." he sneers, and I see his feet walk away from me. I hear him move something... I look up and, to my horror, see him maneuvering the free-standing full-length mirror - MY full length mirror - towards me. He can't be serious...

I look down, scrunch my eyes up, I am not this strong. I can't do this. I actually feel sick. He positions it in front of me, though I am still refusing to look. He stands it up, and moves to sit on the bed behind me.


I refuse. I can't, he must know I can't.

"I. Said. Look."

Again I refuse, although I know it's futile. He leans down, places a hand deliberately around my throat, and gruffly whispers obscenities into my ear about how wet I am, how he can see my cunt glistening for him, how my cheek is already starting to bruise, how much of a pathetic little whore I look kneeling like this for him, dribbling all over myself and my floor, what a filthy little cunt I am... he squeezes on my throat, not tightly, but enough to make me feel light-headed as the blood begins to struggle to reach my brain. Fuck. I can't do this. Fuck. Fuck.

Suddenly I erupt in a fit of panic and desperately try to tell him I can't do this, it has to stop, it's too much, but the gag negates any real sentences and all that comes out are terrified sobs.

"I'm going to remove the gag - I do so love hearing you beg. You are not to try to wipe yourself clean, do you understand?"

I nod emphatically and his hand releases my throat - I gasp for air despite not having realised I was short of breath. True to his word, he removes the gag. True to mine, I return to my head-lowered status without trying to wipe the drool from my face, breasts, and thighs. His hand returns to my throat, this time with no such softness. I immediately begin to choke.

"Look, cunt. Just look at yourself."

My survival instinct kicks in as I realise he will not release my throat until I either look, or pass out. Gingerly I tilt my head up.

"Good girl." he coos. I very, very slowly, open my eyes. He releases my neck and sits back, satisfied. In a cheerful voice, he continues: "Now. Tell me what you see."

Resolve strengthens in my anger - I hate him so much for this that it becomes easy. I will do this, I will get it all over and done with, and then I will leave. I won't ever have to do this shit again. Fuck this. Fuck him. How dare he not know where my boundaries are? How dare he push me further than I'm safe to go? Bastard. I see the anger in my eyes, as does he. I see him smile slowly over my shoulder.

"What. Do. You. See."

I explode.

"I see a fat, ugly, weak and pathetic mess. I see someone who's about as alluring as a stuffed pig. I see a grotesque, revolting woman who will die alone because she's too fucking fat and ugly to ever be loved."

I break. The anger, the words, the hate - not for him I realise, but for myself - all comes flooding out as I throw insults punctuated only by desperately unhappy tears at myself. At the end of my tirade I collapse, without permission, and curl myself into a ball facing away from the dreaded mirror, and sob huge guttural sobs that threaten to actually make me vomit. My entire body shakes with emotion - rage, blind hatred, loathing, anger, sadness... it's all there, being cried out as I ball up on the floor determined never ever to let anyone anywhere near me again.

And then he's by my side. He touches my shoulder softly and I shrug him off, moving away from him, his touch repulsing me as though it were electric. Unphased by this and, frankly, having none of it, he abandons the softly-softly approach and scoops me into his arms, holding me close to his chest as I continue to sob and retch, my fists clenched, still trying to get him the fuck off me, my strength weakening by the second. After a few minutes, I've stopped fighting it all together, and am nestled into him just sobbing, finally taking comfort from his strong arms. He holds me and just lets me cry until I am exhausted. The tears abate, and he sits me up.

"Come." he gestures.

He moves me and I assume we're going to the bed, but he stops by the mirror. I balk. No. Fucking. Way...

"Trust me, Beautiful. Trust me."

Fuck it. I am too broken to argue. I will never, ever recover from this. What more harm can he do? I kneel and face the mirror. He kneels behind me, legs either side of mine, and holds me close, his head resting on my shoulder.

"You know what I see? I see a beautiful, amazing girl, made all the more special and unique by her submission to me. I see strength the likes of which I've never seen in anyone else. You think I could have done this with just anyone? You're the strongest person I know, and if it kills me, I AM going to make you see yourself the way that I do. It kills me that you have no idea how beautiful you are."

I turn myself around and collapse into him as he cradles me, pulling me closer and closer to him. The abated tears now return with a vengeance, but this time springing from a different source - this one is neither destructive nor angry. He smooths my hair and shushes me, telling me I'm his little girl, that he's got me, that it's all okay. He says I'm a big brave girl - HIS big brave girl - and that he's so proud of me and always will be. He tells me that this is why he loves me.

I look up at him, and he smiles. He lays me down and I notice he's hard - how can he be hard? This has got to be the most unsexy thing in the world - and as he brushes his fingers down my sides I shiver involuntarily. His eyes are locked on mine, reading every thought, seeing every sign, as he lowers his hand and my breathing deepens, chest rising and falling obviously. There is no more need for words - he wants me and, as always, is going to fucking-well have me whether I want him to or not.

Except, I always want him to. I can't help wanting him to. Even when I hate him with every fibre of my being and I am going to leave him because he clearly doesn't know me and isn't capable of loving me and pushes me too far and... yes, even in those times, I still desperately want him. My mind will argue but my body - my abused, battered, terminally-honest body - will always speak the truth.

His fingers flutter over my thighs and between my legs and find me once again (and, he would say 'predictably') drenched. Eyes still locked, I see him smirk.

"Dirty little bitch." he delights, and for the first time that evening I smile, almost proudly. He fucks me brutally yet briefly with his hand before bringing it up to our faces and demanding I clean him. He sees the blush spread from my face to my chest as I do so without hesitation. I am broken still, but safe this time, and happy, and oh god I so desperately need him inside of me. And just like that, he is. Fucking me slowly, deliberately, as he moves a hand up and strokes my bruised cheek tenderly, before resting it on my throat.

"Mine." he growls.

The room moves in and out of focus as he fucks and chokes me, playing with my most basic of functions as I writhe and squirm beneath him. I whimper in complete abandonment of any feeling that isn't this, just this. I know I'm close, I can't lie still and I'm whimpering and aching to come. There is no teasing tonight.

"Come, my little whore" he whispers, and squeezes my throat tighter as I convulse around him, my body shaking in stomach-clenching orgasm. He continues to fuck me until I am utterly spent and on another plane entirely, before pulling out and ejaculating onto my face and into my open, pleading mouth. He looks down and smiles at me, pulls me tightly into him once more, and tells me once again that I am his.

And marked with his cum, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I really do feel beautiful.

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