Two Letters

Dear Sara

If everything goes as planned, you will receive this letter 10 years after it was written, and you will finally understand what happened all those years ago.

From the moment I saw you, I knew it had to be you.

I could see the anger in you; how it was consuming you, rotting you from within. You needed an outlet, someone you could hurt, degrade, and destroy with absolute impunity.

But who could it be? Certainly not your husband. You loved him, and I think you will even after I have enticed him into every imaginable betrayal. You need someone less malleable, someone whose spirit will break with a satisfying crunch, who will resist until you have poured out every ounce of your hate onto them and then shatter into irreparable shards.

We need each other.

By the time you read this, he will have fucked me in your bed, in your wedding dress, in your car, in every room in your house, and in the bathroom of your favorite restaurant when you're having a date night. He will have bought me expensive gifts, taken me on exotic trips, and learned how to lie to you effortlessly.

You will have caught him, divorced him, and tried to move on with your life.

But it won't work.

Until the day I show up at your door, looking so sad and pathetic that you can't help but let me in. At first, you'll want to hurt me even while you try to help me. Then, you'll want to help me even while you're hurting me. In the end, all that will be left is hurting.

You will never love me, not like you loved (and, I think, will still love) your husband. But I think you will come to need me.

And we will have each other.

Becca

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Dear Becca

I want to thank you, but I know you can't. The thing in my basement... the thing that you became, that I must now conclude that you WANTED to become... is not you. Still, I will leave this letter in its cage tomorrow night. Will it read? Can it still read? I don't know, but that's the closest I can come to thanking you.

I don't know how you looked at a shitty administrative assistant in a shitty office who had shitty missionary sex with her shitty husband and saw what I could be. But because of you, now I spend my days in MY executive office, where no one steps over me, looks down on me, or dares to try to slip something past me. I spend my nights having the kinds of sex with the kinds of partners I once wouldn't have even dared imagine. And I have you to thank for that.

At first, I yelled at you, spat on you, slapped you... because that was all that I understood. But using you as punching bag to vent my anger upon wasn't enough. It couldn't enough for me, and it couldn't be what you deserved. I learned... I learned how to hurt a person with pleasure. I trained you until you were conditioned to only be able to climax with a cock in your mouth or a pussy in your face. Then I watched for days as you tried desperately to push yourself to the orgasm you would never be able to have.

It was then that I discovered that there were thousands of people in this city who would gladly pay me to use you. Some wanted to fuck you, some to degrade you, and some to humiliate you. Some dragged you so far into all 3 that it became like a vision, too bizarre and grotesque to be identified as anything.

I know now what it does to a person to be used like that a hundred times a day for well over a year. I saw the accumulation of damage on your body; the straight twisted, the smooth made rough, the beauty made formless. I saw the light in your eyes diminish until they were dead and empty. I had reduced you to something that no one could ever love or respect. Even desire was barely possible.

So, I started you on hormones. Over the next several months, your once pert C cup breasts grew to over halfway through the alphabet. Your lips and ass swelled until you had become a sick parody of a sex doll, leaking milk from your chest and desire down your legs.

The right sort of people were happy to pay thousands of dollars for the chance to use that version of you, and for three years they did exactly that.

They are not... good people. They do not want good things. They had fallen beyond the desire for pleasure or domination; they sought only their own degradation. And you gave it to them. What you did, at their command, cast them beyond the limits of redemption. They sought nothing else, and you gave it to them, daily, for years on end.

In time, even that market went dry. Now, you do the only thing that you're still capable of. You sit in a small, dark room, sucking anything that gets pushed through one of the holes in the wall while you finger yourself through countless orgasms. You bring in around a hundred dollars a day this way.

I mentioned your cage earlier. It isn't really a cage anymore, just a rectangle drawn in chalk on the concrete floor, scarcely larger than you are. But you do not defy it; the real cage, in your mind, is far stronger than any metal on this earth.

I did think about selling you, many times. There were no shortage of offers. Even now, I have been offered six figure sums for you. I tried, once, to find a new... you. But that young woman, her eyes so full of desire and fear... I could not bring myself to hurt her.

No, it has to be you.

Sara