Rape Fantasy Pt. 04 - Clients

I gave Angel's presentation to our potential clients the following Friday. Even though it was her work, I always did the presentations since I was in charge. She sat against the wall, as always, only this time an evil grin was plastered on her face as I talked. Tobias had her give two weeks notice to make sure that there was an "orderly transition."

"As a part of our consulting services, we will be setting up regional, popup offices around the state. Using machine learning," click to next slide, "we were able to come up with optimal locations to get maximum return with the minimum of investment." The four of them smiled and nodded appreciatively, the three men taking a moment to remove their gaze temporarily from my chest.

There was a knock on the office door. Mateo peaked his head in. "H_____, do you mind coming here for a minute. We're having an issue with one of the vendors that need your immediate assistance."

"Sure thing, Mr. Graciani. Will you excuse me for a moment. Ms. Jones, would you mind taking over while I help out Mister Graciani, please."

"Not at all, H______."

I stood up, and Angel walked to my seat. "Thank you, Ms. Jones."

As soon as I closed the door, Mateo quietly barked at me, "office."

"Yes, Mister Graciani." I quickly walked into my office and closed the door behind him.

Before I could even take a breath, he pulled me into him so that my back was to him and started squeezing my tits violently.

"Let's see what bra the office whore picked for me today."

"Yes, Mister Graciani." For the last week, Mateo has been the most brutal of all my coworkers.

His arms pinned mine down to my sides as his fingers fumbled with the buttons of my straining blouse. I could feel myself losing my self as he assaulted my body while whispering filth into my ear. "Fat ugly cow udders. You're nothing but a walking pair of tits. You know you want me to squeeze those fat cow tits, don't you? Need to always show off lots of cleavage; all your good for is those fat jugs made to be milked."

I instantly began spiraling out of control from the flood of feelings and sensations that his hands forced out of me. My mouth gasped open wide. I knew better than to close it. Many slaps to my face had taught me that. I tried to form the words.

"Please, Mister Graciani, please..." I always addressed men as mister, followed by their surname.

"What's that, cum bucket?"

All I wanted to do was moan as loud as I could, but with prospective clients in the other room, I couldn't risk them hearing me. Angel made me hand copy out the rules they had come up with as they made me suck them off on Friday, that way, the only evidence of what they were doing to me was in my own handwriting. Rule #12: CUNT will beg to have its mouth stuff if it needs to be quiet. I had no choice.

"Please, Mister Graciani..." RULE #5: CUNT must always address men as Mr. followed by their surname... "please...!" His hands started violently twisting my obscenely hard nipples as I squealed in my high, winey voice, "please stuff CUNT'S mouth."

"But with what, sweet cum cow?"

My brain struggled to get out the answer to his question, desperately trying to form words instead of just moaning in denied ecstasy. "My cunt..." Rule #8: CUNT must always keep a pair of panties stuffed in one of its holes during work hours when CUNT is not being used. "Panties in my CUNT."

Mateo pinched my nippled hard. "Who's cunt, CUNT?" They quickly discovered how incredibly sensitive my nipples were and loved how I lost control over my body when they played with them.

For a moment, I could only pronounce variations of the letters N and G as my brain desperately tried to overcome my bodies need to writhe and arch, "nnNNNgggggggaaeeeennnnnnnnggg.' Eventually, my mouth remembered how to talk, "CUNT's cunt. CUNT'S panties in CUNT's cunt." Reality is a spinning chaos of myself trying to force the words out of my mouth through the thick sludge of feelings he is pushing out of me.

His right hand pulled itself out of my bra and slapped my cheek hard. "Remember who you are talking to, CUNT."

The twisting and the sound of his voice just made my cunt hump the air as I relived the feeling of his cock making me choke as he forced my face down onto it. A week ago, he was just another face of someone who worked for me. Now, he was a thick, dark cock that curved in a way that made it the hardest for me to get down my throat. My brain formed a collection of senses of him, but they were combinations of senses and feelings.

The clean musk from his balls... the sweet flavor and thick texture of his cum... how hoarse I was from how the curve of his cock stretched open my throat... the way my cunt juiced from the obscenity of the rules he was having Angel write on the board... the way my back arched involuntarily into his fingers abusing my tits. Is this how animals' brains work, a collection of senses and feelings that their brains are incapable of forming into words?

He slapped me again, helping me to focus on his question. "Please punish CUNT, Mister Graciani." Rule #16: CUNT must beg for punishment when CUNT makes a mistake.

"Please put CUNT'S panties in CUNT's cunt, Mister Graciani." This made him laugh. His hand went back to cupping my right breast, as my mouth returned to its safe place of squeaking, "eeeenNNNNNNNNuugggggggg."

"Sure I can." His fingers started rhythmically pulling on my nipples, hard, away from my chest, making me dance along to his exquisite torture. "Now, where are they, H______?"

I don't know how my body twisted and humped as my brain tried to make sense of his question. After weeks of this abuse, I can honestly say that it is maddeningly addicting. My public self, more and more, feels like a straight jacket.

"CUNT'S panties are in CUNT'S cunt, Mister Graciani." His name came out as "nnnNNNNGGRA ssss sss ssssssiannnnneeeee." Suddenly, my body and mind hit a random moment of clarity, as if a lucky spin of a wheel just happened to hit the right combination by accident. "Please pull CUNT'S panties out of CUNT'S cunt and stuff them in CUNT'S mouth, Mister Graciani."

It was my little girl's voice. I was a little girl begging for approval. I had no control, no agency, just the clarity of knowing that I existed for no other purpose than to make him hard.

As his right hand squeezed my tit flesh hard, his left hand snaked down to the hem of my skirt and started pulling it up, exposing my sex. "What do we have here, little girl?" His fingers began dancing up and down my obscene, thick cunt lips. "Such big thick cunt flaps on such a little girl." My head rocked back against his chest as my mouth opened wide in a silent moan.

Mateo was also the man who discovered how my body went into convulsions when he played with me and said the words, "little girl." This was a secret he saved for himself.

He reached into the folds of my sex as my hips pushed forward, desperate to gain any additional contact from his fingers. As he started to pull the soaked panties out of me, my body rocked back and forth, grateful for how tightly he held me in his arms.

I struggle with linear time now, especially during these moments. My life is a series of images and feelings shuffled like a deck of cards in my head.

The obscenity of having the panties stuffed in my cunt pulled out... the horrible emptiness of my exposed sex when he pulls them out.. the horror of stuffing them into my wide-open mouth... the way the obscenity of their pungent taste and smell turns off my brain.

There is no center, only extreme feels. His words trigger me. "That's my girl." His fingers twist my nipples, making my whole body shake. "Such nice fat titties on such a little little girl." I don't know how many times he says it. I am pure CUNT, and he is making my body explode.

Finally free to moan as much as I need with my cunt soaked panties filling my face, I fall over the edge. I never thought I could have an orgasm without anything touching my pussy, and yet Mateo was making it happen harder than ever before.

I feel his obscene words burning into my brain. "That's a good little slut. This is all that you're good for... you're nothing but a walking pair of tits. Such big fat cow udders just made to be milked. You're my secret cum cow, aren't you H______. My secret little cum cow." It's what I am now. It's what I call myself as I look at myself edging in the mirror. "I am a cum cow. CUNT is a cum cow." I picture myself holding up my breasts in offering as their cocks pump cum all over them. I am a cum cow. This is all that I am good for. This is why I exist. It's a moment of pure, obscene bliss that I treasure every morning, even as if it leaves a disgusting aftertaste in my heart.

Then he violently turns me around and forces me onto my knees. He doesn't need to tell me what to do. I can see his cock wonderfully tenting his pants.

I had developed a perversely maternal relationship with their cocks. Each one is special in its own way. When my boyfriend dumped me for my best friend, he told me that I was cold and didn't know how to express love. He was right. I had never felt it for any man the way I now felt for their cocks. It wasn't rational. It was just there. Why don't they tell you how intimate sucking a man's cock is. How you feel connected to him, unlike any other way. How, when you are kneeling before him, focused entirely on pleasing him, that it's the most religious experience in the world. He's abusing me... he's assaulting me... he's raping my mouth. The truth of these statements disgusts me, not from his actions, but by how alive they make me feel. The more I feel them shattering me, the more real I feel. Instead of a glass figurine, they are crafting me into a twisted mosaic. I can't tell if they are rewriting me or uncovering the brokenness that was always there.

No cock makes me feel more like my face is being fucked than Mateo's. Its curve constantly reminds me that his thick shaft is forcing itself in and out of my mouth. It takes all of my concentration or lack of concentration just to relax and let it own my face.

The way he talks to me when he is face fucking me is a maddening counterpoint to his brutality of my mouth. "That's a good girl. Suck it, little perra, suck papi's dick." His accent got thicker when he was using my mouth as if he was dropping his mask. It made me feel special as if I was only genuinely seeing him at these moments.

The hardest thing for me to handle in all this is the religious feeling I get in my soul, looking up into their eyes as they force me to choke on their dicks. I've always considered myself a Christian, yet this is by far the closest I've ever felt to God. I rationalize it by telling myself that we are servants of men, that men are in God's image, and the only way we can truly understand God is through men. While this gives me comfort, I haven't worked up the courage to say my theory in confession.

I've always considered myself intelligent. Writing this, I feel myself spiraling over how everything in my life now more and more revolves around the men casually raping my body. All of my interests in philosophy, politics, and history are being forcibly replaced by my rapes. My faith becomes one that only wrestles with the horror and the justification to my feelings about my rape. I now see every aspect of history through the lens of rape culture. Politics is a codification of that culture into law—my mind reels by the profound implications of how I feel myself becoming my rapes. It's not that I'm any less intelligent, just that more and more my thoughts are focused on my brokenness.

At these moments, I don't know if I'm working on auto-pilot or functioning as two separate people; my intellectual self trying to deconstruct the effects my rapes are having on my psyche and my physical self gagging uncontrollably on the man, who at this moment is my entire world. If I am honest with myself, the rational person trying to understand my reactions to becoming the office's fuck toy is just a mask of consciousness that develops over me like a scar needed to keep functioning as a person.

The alternative truth scares me to death. I say to death because it means the end of everything I identify as me. Here is that alternative truth:

I am kneeling before God. Mateo's primal needs define my entire perspective on reality. He is a man. His cock demands to be drained. I am a fuck object. All that matters is that I have tits to grope and holes to fuck. The fact that I lose myself entirely in the service of his cock, is natural and right. My eyes exist to gaze up at God and use every bit of my subconscious mind to pick up clues to how he needs me to service his cock. My mouth is hypersensitive to his hardness as it completely takes possession of my face. I am a slave to his cock, and its needs are my entire world.

I would be lying if the abuse he was inflicting on my throat was painless. My body naturally struggled to pull off of his cock as it stretched out my throat and made me choke and retched. His hand held onto my ponytail like a vice, and I could feel how my struggle only made him grow in my throat. I was in pure terror. I was being raped even as I was willfully allowing him to use my mouth. I've stopped trying to deal with my feelings' contradictions or how my mind rewrites my memories of what happened.

When he pulled out and held my face right in front of his cock as it began to pump cum onto my glasses, face, and blouse, when I look back on the memories, I feel the intense high of him telling me, "good girl, that's a good girl," as his seed painted me. I feel that now. I know that to be the truth now. But I also know that at the time, I was gasping for air and shaking all over how brutally he was using me. Still, as I touch myself reliving that moment, the pain and terror is somehow a blessing, the natural feeling of someone lucky enough to suck off God. I'm a good girl. He pumped cum all over my face because I was a good girl. I instinctively open my mouth to receive the seed of my God, manifested in Mateo's cock. This feeling... this high... it's religious. It's better than an orgasm.

What is wrong with me? What am I becoming? They're turning me into a cheap, disgusting whore, and I love it. I hate myself, but I love the feeling.

I'm still trying to put the pieces together of how Mateo face-fucked me. It feels like the first part was him trying to break me, like a wild horse. My throat just tightened, remembering the pain from other times his cock used me. He hurts more than anyone, and my body just closes up in response to him. I'm not sure what triggers it. Is it the smell of his crotch mixed with his cologne or the look staring up into his eyes? Now, my body arches reliving the feeling of how fucking sexy he is in those moments. Why is it then that at the moment, my body resists?

He's an expert at claiming my throat. He doesn't need to be fancy. The curve of his shaft takes care of that. He's just systematic and cruel. He pushes down hard, finds the place where I resist, pushes beyond it just a little bit, locks me onto it, and then when my body seems to lose all control, pulls me off of him just enough so I can breathe. Just when it almost feels like I have gained control of myself, he forces me down harder on his cock, finding the place where we were before, and pushing just a little bit beyond it. I am not a person at these moments. I am a throat resisting a cock trying to conquer it. His brutality makes me wet. Only a Man can do this. I never really considered myself attracted to him before. Now, I am madly in love with his brutality.

His sweet words mindfuck me as he claims my throat. "Good girl. That's a good little girl. Take Papi's cock. Just a little bit more. You can do it." It short circuits my brain. I'm a good girl. My pain is good. My suffering for him is good. I am proud of myself for taking him in my mouth. Finally, I was able to do something right.

Then, he breaks through. There's a moment when my throat is just open for him. He is buried in my face. Now, instead of fighting his invasion, the spasms of my choaking throat caress him. Looking up at Mateo, my mind registers that even my resistance to him raping my mouth has been designed to please his cock. My gags milk it. My struggles harden it.

Now, he makes sure that there is no doubt that he owns my face. I pull back, but he just holds on tighter. My hands press against his thighs, but they are like tree trunks. I am drowning on his cock, and it excites him. And just when I feel myself slipping away, he pulls me off. All I can do is desperately fill my lungs with air. Before I can figure anything else out, he is forcing me back down deep onto him. He is demonstrating his power over me. He is showing me that he owns my mouth and that I exist for him and nothing else. I am an object, Mateo's fuck face. The moment is timeless, and pure, and perfect. Death isn't an end. Death is a beginning.

Once he has locked in that my face is his, he shifts to showing me just how much I am no longer a person. He pinches my nose, and I press myself harder down onto his cock, needing to show him that his needs are more important than breathing.

At random moment he pulls me off of his cock. Sometimes he just slaps me; other times, he spits on my face; some times he asks me, "who do you love, my little girl?"

At those moments, I reply, "I love you, Papi. I love your big dick."

Then he will impale me again onto him.

At these moments, I don't want to touch myself. I don't want to be bent over and fucked. I just want my face to be owned and used and be able to please him. Everything is focused on his needs. Realizing this makes my body sing. I'm turning into porn. I am becoming one of those girls.

Then he pushes me off and orders me to get cleaned up. Each time it happens, it gets easier. I always have a change of clothes in case they decide to cum all over them. I've gotten good at touching up my makeup fast. I know to scoop up his cum and lick it off my fingers. Ben continuously monitors the cameras he set up, ensuring I follow the rules set up by my unique "Employee Handbook."

It's so disgusting. I am a freak. I make sure to face one of the cameras so that Ben can see me enjoying being the office cumslut.

Every night, I spend hours touching and reliving what happened. I am grateful that I have these moments to cum hard from it. It used to be so hard for me to cum. Now it's easy.

I look in the mirror, and looking back at me is my evil doppelgänger. She has a twisted smile. She's walking back into the meeting, her mouth still coated in Mateo's cum. The other girl in the room notices that she is wearing a different blouse. This makes her smile brighten.

That night I touched myself, saying, "she could tell... she could tell that I just sucked him off... she knows I'm a slut. She knows I'm the office whore. She could see how hard my nipples were through my bra. She could sense how flush I was from how hard he fucked my face. She can smell my wet cunt leaking cunt slop. She knows what I am. She knows I'm a slut. She knows I'm a slut."

As I got closer and closer, my voice got louder. I needed people to know. My cunt required me to let people know. That was its price for being allowed to cum. That, and writing this chapter.