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I'm already blubbering with tears by the time my pants are around my knees. I planned to be stronger than this, planned to take it all with a cocky, self-assured grin and devil-may-care attitude. I planned to act unbothered when she opened the buckle of my belt and yanked my favorite trousers to my knees. I planned to not be crying when my underwear followed.
"You've got a nice cunt, dyke," she sneers. She's just as gay as I am, the word shouldn't sound like a slur from her mouth, but that doesn't stop it from cutting.
I can't look at her when she's staring between my legs. I can't bear to see the smirk on her face, and I especially can't bear to see the predatory lust in her eyes. She can see exactly what I am when she looks at me like this. With my pants around my knees, I am the thing between my legs. I am the cunt I have that exists to be used.
When I'm like this, I'm acutely aware that she is stronger than me. I think she's probably faster and smarter too – but maybe it's only starting to feel that way because of how she is looming over me. How she is impatiently opening my shirt and pushing up my bra to get at my tits. How she is callously slaking her curiosity for the chest I try to hide under careful cuts of fabric and patterns that redirect the eye. Everyone knows it's there, but most are polite enough not to acknowledge it. Polite doesn't strike me as her thing.
Her hand has made its way between my thighs some time between one moment of coherence and the next. It's going to be like that, I suppose. Trying desperately to forget it's happening while it goes on. Her movements starting and stopping in my awareness.
"At least you're already wet," she announces dispassionately. And it's true, I can hear it squelching obscenely when she moves her hand.
I'm grateful when she takes her fingers from my cunt. Of all things, I've always hated probing fingers the most. But then she's on top of me, and I'm really not sure it's actually any better.
"Give me your hands," she tells me. And for some godforsaken reason, I do. I hold them out towards her, already limp with surrender. It doesn't occur to me until I've already done it that it might have been worth something to put up a token fight. To at least pretend to be made of something resembling the masculinity I hold so tightly to my name.
She pins my hands beside my head, and the fight that never started is over before it began. She's right. I probably don't deserve the title. I just use it to make myself feel better about being this. Graciously, she doesn't try to stop me when I deliberately close my eyes.
"Yeah, that's good, daddy," she says as she enters me, and I can hear the sneer in her words. The misuse of the title cuts through me like a knife, dissecting through the part of me that ever rejoiced to hear the word. It's just a reminder now of all the things I couldn't live up to. And her cock inside me really doesn't help.
I can't keep my eyes closed during the rape, but I can't look directly at her either. She's there, somewhere, above me. Part of me can even hear the searing words that burn through the remnants of my mind. "You were born for this, cuntgirl. You deserve it for ever trying to be what you're not." I nod, but then I'm crying again, and she won't let me move enough to hide my face.
"Do you want me to fix it, little, stupid girl?" Her voice sounds so mocking when she says it, but it's the kindest thing she's said all night.
I nod, and finally look up at her with nakedly pleading in my eyes. The please that warbles from my throat is so broken and pathetic that it's almost surprising she doesn't cum right then. I sound desperate, clinging to her offer like a life raft. And that's exactly what it is. Her salvation is the only way I make it out of this intact.
She speeds up for a moment, and I can see cruelty brighten across her features, feel her hands dig more tightly around my wrists. She's thinking about denying me the gift she offered. I know she is. And the knowledge that she could leave me in my horror rips a new sob from my throat.
Maybe it's pity that changes her mind, maybe she just gets off on it when she sets me free, maybe somewhere underneath it all she cares more than she likes to let on. It's not my place to know what motivates the decisions of a god.
"Good dog," she tells me as she cups my face. It's not quite a tender touch, but it's not designed to bruise me either. "Good dog."
She moves her hand to my hair, and I'm crying quieter now, more peaceful. It twists and slices my gut to ribbons to be a cunt, but it's blissful to be a dog. Even when it hurts.
I thank her with a whining sound, but it's not enough self-abasement to repay the kindness she's given me, so I offer her a bark too. It's hard to tell if she finds it amusing, pathetic, hot, or sad. Probably all of the above. But the fact that I'm even thinking about that tells me I need to sink lower, so I look her in the eye and bark again. She does actually outright laugh at me this time, but that only sends me spiralling deeper into the abyss.
I stick my tongue out and pant for her. She looks at me with an expression approaching disgust.
"You are so fucking pathetic, dog.”
I am. I need to be. It's the only thing that will set me free.
I whine and grind my hips upwards to meet her thrusts, letting out an eager yipping sound. It's not that the rape feels good now, pleasure isn't something this cunt is wired for, but it certainly feels more right. It feels a lot more like what's supposed to happen, and the knowledge that I deserve this makes me writhe.
She speeds up again, grunting in pleasure. Her fingers fist in my hair, and even though my wrist is free I still don't move it. There's nowhere for me to go.
“Yeah. Stupid fucking dog. Dumb fucking cunt.” Her words hammer into me like bliss, and I make whatever pathetic noises my throat can muster.
“Good dog.”
I can feel my wetness as it smears between my thighs, drawn out of my traitorous body with every thrust, coating her in my involuntary desire and making her passage into my violated depths so much more easy and slick. I just hope it feels good for her, even when I am disgustingly wet.
She groans again, and I hope it's a good thing. I hope it means I'm pleasing her. “Going to breed you, dumb fucking mutt,” she grunts.
I try not to think about it too much. Try not to think of my womb, battered at the end of her cock. Of the way she will mark me, and how indelible that mark might turn out to be. The thought makes me spiral into a panic, so I bark desperately again to cling to my salvation, blinking rapidly as unbidden tears leak down my temples and trail into my hair.
I whine, and she looks delirious with pleasure. “Yeah, good dog,” she mutters with a particularly deep thrust. “Good dog,” as she rapes me deeper again.
My body hurts when she cums, one hand in my hair, and the other squeezing my tit so violently I'm certain it will bruise. I can feel the rush of fluid inside me, the way it makes me feel even more traitorously wet. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to block it out. I can't think about it. Can't let myself feel it. I might die.
She collapses beside me in a huff, grinning madly as she lays back. There's a trail of her cum and my own juices across my thigh where her cock slid against my skin. I want to curl into myself and shudder, but I'm not sure if that would be rude, so I lie there, shivering, trying not to be sick in the aftermath of the rape.
“Nice job, cuntgirl,” she tells me. I want to say thank you, and I might even almost mean it, but the words are trapped like bile in my throat. I just want to curl up and cry. Really, I want to disappear.
She looks at me expectantly for a long moment, but I can't think clearly enough to begin to guess what she wants.
“Well?” She asks.
I look at her, blinking.
She gestures to her cock, a look on her face like I'm the dumbest mutt alive. “Clean up your mess, dog.”
Oh.
I'm grateful for the opportunity to hide my face against her body as I set my mouth on her to clean.