Daisy's Changed

The is purely a work of fiction. The events described herein should not be mistaken for endorsement of criminal or immoral behavior. The manner in which the protagonist responds in this story is not typical behavior, and even if it were, it would in no way justify a sexual assault. If you believe that you might actually engage in a sexual assault, then you should seek out psychological help before it is too late.

The effectiveness of this story relies on psychology rather than descriptions of body parts heaving and thrusting. As a result, I recommend you start from the beginning, rather than skip to the juicy bits. I kept the story short in order to facilitate this end.

*

"You promised." She dove under the arm blocking her path and headed for the kitchen. "Brad. Remember Brad?"

"That never stopped you before," I say. I follow her with my eyes as she busies herself making tea. Anything to keep from focusing on me.

"It's different now. We've been together for a year." She's gathering courage. Stating facts feeds her confidence. But nothing she says makes a difference. She must know that by now. It's not that she lies. Rather, what she said has always been a poor indicator of what she really wanted. It was like shaking one of those magic eight-balls. Whatever comes up, she believes, and expects me to believe it too. So I ignore what she says. Her past is more telling than her words.

"Uhuh."

"I told him about us. He agreed that it was early on enough that it didn't count as cheating on him." She rummages through the cabinet for sugar. She has to stand on the tips of her toes to reach the cabinet. Her breasts strain against her blouse, revealing the outline of her bra. She still has unfortunately small breasts, at least when compared to her pudgy frame. I don't mind. While her boyfriend saw it as a shortcoming, I covet it. More flesh means more canvas to work on.

"So why did you invite me here?"

She pauses, as if she hadn't considered this. "Because we're friends." She smiled, brushing her blonde hair from her shoulders. "I didn't want to lose you as a friend", she says, while pouring hot water. She tries to sound nonchalant.

"Did you tell him about your past?"

"Do you want sugar?" I didn't even ask for tea.

"Don't you think it's important for the person you love to know?" I say.

"Why should I tell him?" She looks up at me. "I told you, and you only took advantage of me for it."

I raise my eyebrows. She is a bit bolder than before.

"I had my whole future ahead of me, and you dragged me back." Yup, more bold. "I was trying to move on. I didn't want to be defined by my past anymore. I was trying to leave the past behind."

Without missing a beat, I tell her "You sound like you got that from Oprah."

"Fuck you," she said, under her breath. She dropped two teaspoons of sugar into her tea.

She may be a bit more mouthy, but she was still the same self-deluded Daisy. She thinks she can be someone else. She thinks she's in love. Time to wake her up.

I stride towards her. She doesn't look up, but she noticeably stiffens. I put one hand gently on her shoulder. With my other hand I grab the top of her blouse and rip it downwards. Buttons fly.

She cries out, and tries to push past me. I smack her so hard, that she falls to the ground, hands and knees. She sobs. "Please. It's not like before." She gasps for air. "I don't want this."

I help her to her feet. She's trembling. I gently remove the remains of her blouse. But she resists. I grab her shoulders with both hands and squeeze until she cries out. That's going to bruise. She lets me remove her blouse.

"Why are you doing this?" she sobs. "I don't want this, it's not.." I smack her again, her head and hair fly to the side. I reach around to unhook her bra, but she hold her arms tightly to the side, preventing the bra's removal. Sigh. She's not making this easy. So I grab some of her tummy flesh, and squeeze until she cries out. That's going to bruise too.

She removes her bra herself. She's learning. "Good girl," I say. "Now take off the rest."

She heaves a few breaths and speaks with trembling lips "I'm telling you 'no'. Don't you..." I wrap both hands are her neck and squeeze. It's like pressing a mute button. All sounds from her cease. Her eyes widen. "From now on I'm going to ask everything just once." Her mouth flaps open and close. I squeeze harder. The back of her neck will definitely bruise. Convinced that she understands, I let go. She gasps, and fresh tears stream through her make-up.

Without another word, she strips until she stands before me completely naked. I take her hand and lead her to the living room. I place her in the center of the room. While I methodically close the shutters, she speaks. "I know before I liked this, deep down. But not anymore. I've changed. I don't want this." I finish closing the shutters, then turn around. "From now on, you will speak only when I ask you a question."

I approach her, and carefully grasp all of her hair, and pull her head back. Her mouth opens, and her neck thrusts forward. I gently kiss and lick her neck, tasting the mixture of sweat and perfume. She is breathing quickly.

I lecture while her head is twisted back. "Do you know the origin of the word "slut"? In Middle English, 'slutte' meant 'mud'." I kiss her hairline a few times. She is short, so it's easy. "That's what you are." I took a step back and gazed on her little pudgy body. Her breasts stick out straight. Her thighs touch each other. She has goose-bumps all over. I admire the bruises already forming. For no reason other than to confuse her, I smack her again.

"Someone recognized this in you a long time ago," I tell her. "Someone discovered you were a slutte long before you did. And when you got older, you too came to realize that you is nothing but mud." Her eyes close.

"Let me ask you this," I said. "You're a senior, right? What are you majoring in?" She is afraid to answer. "That's ok, you can speak."

"Jour-... Journal-..."

"Why?" I say. She looks up at me, confused. "You don't know why. You're chose a major just because you were expected to. And what kind of grades do you get? I bet you still get B-minuses. And worse still in Math and the Sciences. Mediocre." She looks down to the ground. "Who are you fooling? You weren't meant to think. You weren't meant to have a respectable job. You're an idiot. A retard. THIS," I say, as I cup her cunt, "is all that you're good for." I place a finger above her chin, and tilted her head back up. "Am I right?"

She nods, her eyes look away. More tears.

"Good. We're making progress." I circle her nude body. "Now let me ask you about Brad." She stiffens. "He's smart, right?" Nods. "Has he figured out that you are just a slut, pretending to be smart enough for college and for the working world?" She stays still. "Just be honest. Regardless of how you answer, I won't hit you." She shakes her head. "What's that? Say it."

"He hasn't figured out... that... yet."

I let her get away with the demonstrative, this time. Baby steps.

"So why are you wasting his time?" She is silent, except for the periodic, tell-tale gasps that follows crying. "Why are you trying to pretend to be someone you're not? A normal, intelligent, thoughtful, respectable, young woman? I saw through the act from the first moment. It was like seeing a monkey dressed up in a person's clothes. You may have managed to fool Brad, temporarily, but not me." I grab one of her breasts, and twisted it until she winces.

I look around the room. One of the dining chairs doesn't belong to the set, and has no arm rests. I recognize it. "So you bothered to bring this old from your previous place?" I chucke. I sit upon the chair, and after a moment's hesitation, she walks like a zombie, and climbs over my lap, her ample ass sticking up. "When was the last time?" I bring my palm down so hard that I wince at the pain in my hand. She cries out. "Bet the last time was with me, huh?" I spank her again. Her flesh rippled. "I bet you've been aching for this for so long... and you couldn't ask Brad, huh?" Three red hand marks now. "Maybe you tried asking him, and he didn't understand. He spanked you playfully." I wish I had a paddle. This was beginning to hurt me. "He never spanked you out of disgust. He never called you a..."...SMACK... "slut... or a..." ...SMACK... "retard... and even if he did, you'd know that he was just playing games. That he isn't serious. And that isn't good enough. You want someone who knows that you really are a worthless cunt. You want someone who means it." I get up suddenly, and she falls to the ground. She stays there, curled up, crying.

"Now get up, and get on you couch, on your hand and knees." She moves slowly. I stride over, and trip her. "Faster."

When she is properly positioned, she actually gathered the courage to speak again. I am simultaneously disappointed and impressed. "I don't want... you to... fuck me. I love Brad. I really do. And... I hate you."

"Uhuh."

I lower my pants and boxers, spread open her ass cheeks and dive into her cunt. She tries to squirm away. "No, no, no, no, NO..." I have to place a hand over her mouth.

"Your problem," I said, in between thrusts, "is that you were born with vocal cords."

She quiets down. "Do you remember this?" I say. "Do you remember what its like to be fucked by someone who recognizes you as nothing more than a walking cunt?" She is making squeaking noises with each thrust now. "Stupid. Fucking. Worthless. Cunt."

After ten minutes of this, she gets into it. Just like before. I slow down, and she speeds up. I feel myself reaching that point, so I flip her over and pull her down to the ground. She looks up at me, with her tear stained face. I take a few steps back and gaze upon her, with her legs wide and pointed straight up. Bruises here and there. Her skin always bruised so easily. That's probably what it was for. I approach her again. I carefully slipped myself into that opening of hers, and pounded her until she yells out with each impact. I feel her cunt-muscles begin to squeeze. I pull out. She halts and looks up at me, confused. Always confused. "You're one stupid bitch, you know that?" She nods. I quickly replace my dick with my fingers. I reach in with three, then four fingers. She stretches out. I reach in like I'm trying to find something, and I continuously spew insults.

Suddenly she buckles and squeezes down. "Do you love me?" I say.

"YES!" She screams, while convulsing.

"What do you think of Brad?"

"I HATE HIM!"

She convulses a few times, and then "out, OUT! Pull out! Stop!" and the rest is incoherent. I don't pull out. With her legs she pushes herself backwards, sliding along her back. I keep up. She pushes until her head hits the wall. She's still convulsing, and the yelling has become silent, open mouthed gasping. She looks like a fish flapping out of water.

When she dies down, I pull out. My hands are covered in her cunt juice. I wipe it, feigning disgust, on her tummy and thighs. There's a puddle on the floor between her legs.

I let her rest.

After she's fully calmed down. I pull her to her feet, and lead her to the shower. She's silent the whole time, and dazed. While she's showering, I look for her towels. I hear the shower shut off. I enter the bathroom. She is shiny, her blonde hair is matted, and rivulets of water skip down her curves. She smiled as I hand her a towel.

"What do you say?" I ask, in an expectant tone.

"Thank you!" she responds, in a girly voice.

"It's nice to be somewhere familiar, isn't it?" I say. "To know where you belong. To not have to pretend. Welcome home." She is smiling and crying. She lunges forward and embraces me, getting me all wet. It's ok. She whispers "I love you" in my ear. After she pulls away, I lean forward, and with my tongue I trace a circle around one of the wet bruises on her shoulder. She closes her eyes and shudders.

"Now how about you finish making that tea?"

*

Note:

The is purely a work of fiction. The events described herein should not be mistaken for endorsement of criminal or immoral behavior. The manner in which the protagonist responds in this story is not typical behavior, and even if it were, it would in no way justify a sexual assault. If you believe that you might actually engage in a sexual assault, then you should seek out psychological help before it is too late.