Version 3.4 of my Omnibus is up!

As always, my linktree is the best place to find links to all my work.

You can access my Omnibus here - Warning, it now only downloads the HTML file. Just open it in the browser of your choice and it will work exactly as it did before as everything is self-contained in one file.

Anything tagged with an * cannot be found on Reddit.

Version 3.4
Continued to revise, tag, and date older stories
Added the following stories...
*Welcome to the family (Read the tags)

Version 3.3
Continued to revise, tag, and date older stories
Added the following stories...
*The breaking of the Batgirl (Added chapter 2)
*The Truth (extensive update)
*How I started online (extensive update)
She knew who she was

Version 3.2
Continued to revise, tag, and date older stories
Added the following stories...
It wasn't supposed to be like that
The breaking of the Batgirl

They watched her

(Broken, ruined, watched, manipulated, groomed, needy)

They watched her, hungry. Some saw a person, some prey, some a little girl, some a bimbo. Some just saw a victim, a thing to hunt down and destroy. But all of them saw her. They knew that made her tremble, what made her wet and eager. What can send her appetites spiraling out of her control and they wanted to feed her so bad. Some would leave her sated, even begging for more. Some would drag her to the edge of the cliff, pounding away as she teetered on the abyss. A select few would finish with her and shove her off, waiting for her to hit below.

And they knew all those fates made her wet. Whether she was broken, sick, damaged goods, groomed, or conditioned, she wanted it all. They knew that. And they all wanted to give it to her. Every one of them wanted to take a part of her and make it their own. To mark her, to break her, to ruin her, or end her. Everyone wanted to see the crazy in her eyes, to taste her fear and need, to see the gray and either banish it or drown her forever in it.

So many of them wanted to hurt her. They wanted to touch her soft white skin, pale, and slap it until it was red. They wanted to grab her hair and jerk her about until her roots were almost torn out. Slap every inch of her. Her fat tits, her ass, her belly. So many would hit her on her thighs and cunt. Beautifully red. The more cruel ones would focus on her hands and feet, loving the way she hobbled about.

But that was just for the tamer ones. Some wanted more and knew she wanted more too. Unable, incapable of saying stop. So they don’t want to slap her, they want to curl their hands into fists. To make her pretty, to make her scream. Some would hit her fragile spots. Make her fingers and toes barely work. Some would give her cunt the prettiest of purples, swollen until it was closed. Her breasts would be made lumpy, black and blue, her belly red, until she bent over, retching. And some, some would make her beautiful, dash crimson on her face, her eyes unfocused, stumbling, confused. Made better with black eyes.

Of course, not all of them wanted that. Some just wanted her to be as disgusting on the outside as she was on the inside. They would fill her belly with alcohol, piss, or food, then squeeze her guts. Mash them, hit her gut till she got sick. Ramming their fingers in her mouth, gagging her on their hands or cocks, until she threw up all over herself. Punish her for being fat, not good enough, making her throw up on their manhood and her tits, face, and hair until she was purged. Thin and pretty again.

Others didn’t want fluids going out of her. They only wanted them going in. Most only wanted her to drink gold, day and night. A walking, breathing urinal to be voided in as needed. Sometimes in her ass or cunt, but always in her mouth. Her belly would be pregnant with piss, swollen, as she was tied up in a men’s room, reeking like the toilet she was. Even when not being a toilet, her Mountain Dew bottle would lie, containing their cold fluids, always with her. If she got sick, she deserved it, but no respite from the other porcelain device. The only difference being she was warm to use, the other cold.

Some would want to see her used by Baxters, Coppers, Maxs, Rockys, and Dukes. On all fours, rutted in like the sub-human bitch she was, mounted again and again, devoid of love by human hands. Runny white would leak from her gaped-out holes, being filled again and again, drooling their love onto the floor, kept in a crate where she belonged. But not only there. Many wanted to see more and more, for those animals were too small. Larger, beautiful black and brown males, literally stallions were wanted. Stretching her jaw until it wanted to break, battering her cervix while barely in her, filling up her guts, rearranging them. Her body would never be the same after. Or maybe a few dark men wanted to see more. To see her impaled on massive cocks, shaking, torn apart on the inside, one last beautiful gift to humanity.

But most? Most want to strip her of her humanity. To break her down, piece by piece, until she was blank nothing. Some would leave her like that, a thing, an it. Some would build her back, put the pieces back together, to make her better. Better for them, though some would make her better for herself as well. But most would make her better for them. Pretty, obedient, a good pet who would do anything they asked. It wouldn’t be easy of course, reprogramming her, fixing her flaws and wrong-headed thoughts. Some would enjoy her sobs as she completely broke down, as her blonde hair fell to the floor, shaved off her head. Almost all would deny her a name, other than Pet or Cunt or It. Sammie no more, only people deserved names like that. It would never be a person again, had never really been a person, just a cunt playing pretend.

Stripped of clothes, it would be treated like the stupid flesh it was, taught harshly again and again that it was a thing existing only for them. That part wouldn’t be hard at all. They knew what buttons to push, her near-psychotic need for approval and validation. No punch could ever hurt her as much as you could simply be refusing to call her a “good girl”. A simple denial of praise would break her down so much that when it was finally given, there would be no act she wouldn’t do to hear those words. No limit to her depravity as long as she was given that drug above all others. For that, she would gladly become an it. They would barely have to lift a finger if they did it right. A breathing toy, to play with until it broke.

And so they watched with bated breath every day for another morsel. Perhaps a bit of personal information that she would accidentally leak. Maybe an unedited photo would be briefly posted. Another fictional story that rang just a bit too true, felt a bit too real. Or glimpse another slice of her depraved reality as she tried to juggle all of her selves. They watched all of that. Some cheered for her. Some wanted to see her fail. Some wanted her to be safer than she was while others wanted to see her self-destruction. The gray, the spiral, the neediness, the craving for validation and acceptance. No matter what things she did, what drugs she snorted, what pain she felt, or how many times she came, she would always need that approval. Their approval. And so she fed the men watching, and hoped in return, they would feed her. In one way or another.

She couldn't understand - Revised (rape, gaslighting, manipulated, abused)

She couldn’t understand it. She had tried, again and again, to figure it out. No matter how much she pushed, no answer would come. She knew it was possible, she'd had friends on occasion. She would talk and see the horrified looks when she spoke about it. It wasn’t their reality, their truth. She might as well have been speaking in tongues by their reaction.

That’s not to say her friends hadn’t been harassed or bothered by men, they all had. But nothing like hers, and not repeated, locked in some vicious cycle she could never escape. No, hers was the exception, and so far from their experiences, that she had felt like a freak and never opened up about it again.

But somehow, the men knew. They always knew. And she couldn’t understand it. It was like she had a magnet that attracted abusers, that called out to them like writing all over her face and chest that said, “Rape this stupid fuck!” Was it something in her eyes? She’d heard guys talking about her before. They used the word “dead-eyed” a lot. She didn’t grasp what that meant. Her eyes weren’t lazy, and she could see well. She didn’t need glasses. She just couldn’t grasp it.

Not that she grasped a lot, or easily. And it wasn't as if she was stupid either. She could sit down and eventually puzzle out or get the hang of most things, even if it took a while. She felt like she was that all the time, however. Even more than dead-eyed, she was called stupid. As soon as they had cornered her, gave her something to drink, forced her down, or barged in on her, they would always blame her. It was her stupid fault. What did she expect to happen? She can’t really be that stupid could she, they’d say. Maybe she was.

She deserved it. That much she knew. She’d heard one variation or another on that all of her life. From her dad, her mom’s bf, and her first boyfriend, to multiple strangers after. They all agreed she’d deserved it. As a “reward” or punishment, for the way she dressed, the way she acted, the way she drank, she fucking deserved it.

Sometimes, she just deserved to be held down and raped. Used, came in, and then discarded. Sometimes, she said something stupid and deserved to be punched, slapped, or choked. Sometimes, she deserved to be shoved around or robbed. But the truth was, somehow, she always deserved it.

And she couldn’t figure it out. Some of the men told her it was because she was a woman. That was why she deserved it. But that wasn’t true. She believed it for a while, but she had seen firsthand that a guy that could rape her could love and care tenderly for another woman. A woman that either had something she didn’t or lacked something that she did. She didn’t know what “that” was, however.

She’d watched a guy chat with three different women at a bar, a man that she didn’t know. He’d be nice, funny, joking, and chatting with the other women. He'd spent hours trying to coax them to dance, party, or go home with him. After failing, the man eyed her and sighed. She didn’t know why, but somehow he seemed disappointed that she was his last option. She was at least as pretty as them. It was the number one compliment men gave her. She was pretty. Sometimes even sexy. She’d been hearing how pretty she was since she was a little girl. So, it couldn’t have been her looks.

And then, unlike with the other women, he didn’t ask. He told. He groped. He grabbed her wrist so hard it bruised and took her out to the alley. And there, despite saying no a dozen times, he had slapped her so hard she tasted blood, and then hiked up her skirt and took what he wanted. He called her a stupid bitch, dumped his load in her, kicked her in her ass to the rough concrete, and told her to get the fuck out of here. She didn’t know, couldn’t understand why.

It plagued her so much that she drank most nights, until she went out again. Some abusive asshole would pick her out of the crowd, and like most times, there was no discussion or foreplay, just use, abuse, and kicking her out of his apartment after he was done.

Finally, one night, she limped to the bathroom of the man who’d just raped her ass and punched her back a half dozen times. After she wiped away the mess and blood from her ass and mouth, after rinsing her mouth out and hearing him tell her to get the fuck out, she gave up. She had to know. She limped out of the bathroom, eyes red, face wet, no spirit left to break, just a question unanswered.

“Why? How did you pick me out? How do you know?” she asked. She wasn’t even really crying, she just didn’t understand anymore and had to know.

The man smirked at her, standing up naked. She cowered a bit and flinched as he quickly moved his hand, raising it up.

“That’s how. You’re twitchy. You’re meek. Your eyes are fucking empty. You’re clearly been a victim your entire fucking life and are hollowed out. You reek of damage. Those fucking scars you try to hide? We notice them. Every fucking thing about you screams damaged. Screams victim.” He said all that as he gripped her chin painfully, shoved her against the wall, then bounced her head off it before grabbing her face again.

“And we smell how fucking wet you get. Like you are right now when we treat you like the piece of shit that you are. Touch yourself, you stupid fucking cunt!”

She did as told, her finger glistening, as he squeezed her hand painfully and made her stick her fingers in her mouth. Then he shoved her to the floor and threw her clothes at her.

“Now get the fuck out, you stupid bitch,” he screamed, kicking her in the ass as she walked out, struggling to get dressed. She finished putting on clothes in the hallway, trembling.

They knew. Every man knew, when they saw her, what she was. What had been done. Maybe not all the details, but the damage, the smell, the sight of her. She knew how they knew.

She at least had the truth of it. She had heard the truth that would set her free. But it felt like a chain, dragging her down. She went home and masturbated, slapping and choking herself in front of a mirror, and knew everything he had said to her was true. It was much the same words her dad had told her from childhood. Even then, he’d known.

She didn’t realize she could try to change her behavior, that perhaps therapy and pills could help her. That she could stay away from certain men, she didn’t understand any of that. And so, that spoken truth slowly became her truth, became her reality, and defined all that she could and would ever be. A broken cunt, waiting to be raped.

And that truth, it dug in under her skin, and would never, ever, let her free.

If you enjoy my work, everything I write and do can be found here -

Changing myself for him - Revised (M+/F, manipulation, consensual abuse, beaten, snuff)

It started so small, so simple, in the beginning. Little things, that didn’t matter but made him so happy. A little bit of makeup, smoking a cigarette, dressing up as a little girl. Little things, like I said.

And you know what, I loved doing them for him. The clothes he bought me, the inhalation of smoke, being naughty, being trashy, being anything but me. Pleasure and escape, all wrapped up in one beautiful package.

Later, I would learn other escapes, pain, use, impact play, choking, dropping out; more and more things that both he and I enjoyed. All the while he kept pushing me, my limits, further and further. Changing me.

At first, little things, once again. A small gemmed plug. It was cute, and wearing it made anal later in the day easier. It made me feel special, it made me feel sexy. It made him happy. Thus, it made me happy. Just a little change.

The dress-up and role-play continued. I no longer dressed little, no. It was more than that, it was now truly an escape. I didn’t just dress up little, I WAS little. Each time feeling smaller and smaller, younger and younger, safer and needier.

He wanted piercings. Never ordered, never demanded, but hinted and I knew it would make him happy, so once again, I changed for him. A small change. I got my hood pierced for him and he loved it and thus, I loved it. I truly did as it made sex better and more intense. Even walking upstairs felt better now.

Not everyone approved of my changes. It caused problems and concerns. My newfound love of pain, of intensity, drew questions and doubts about the marks and bruises left behind. They couldn’t understand how happy they made us. So I told stories, made excuses, and cut ties. It was better that way. Eventually, I moved in with him. No more commutes, no more long periods without my reason and joy.

That, of course, led to more changes and bigger asks of me. He worked on my body, my “capacity”, enhancing both what my ass and my cunt could take. I don’t even remember the day I stopped calling it my pussy. There was a day there when I called it both, depending on my mood, but no more. A small change. Toys, fingers, and larger and larger plugs, enhancing me for him. Making me better. More what he wanted and needed. And that made me feel more complete as well. Until one day, my fist fit in my cunt and later, his would as well. The same for my ass, though that took much longer. But now my holes can be used by him however he wants, cock or fist, both can use me.

Another small change was his sharing of me. First, it was just random cocks fucking my mouth at bars or adult theaters. Then his friend, then his friends. They didn’t get just my mouth, but all my holes, to use as often and as hard as they wanted. It made him happy and thus made me happy.

We escalated, again and again, rough sex, rape play, and CNC. Limits faded away. What once was simple slaps became more. Slaps became backhands, backhands became punches, and like an addict, I needed more and more just to function, to feel. I no longer wanted to be choked, I no longer wanted to be edged along the edge of consciousness. I wanted to feel the black crawl in and fade away, passing out as he pounded me. Just another small change.

I worked out most days, losing weight, getting fit, getting stronger and faster and slimmer. More endurance meant I could take more, which pleased him and thus, pleased me. He’d smile just the right way that made my cunt wet when he remarked on my fitness.

I got more piercings as well, my nipples, first bars, then when healed, rings. It made him so happy and I wanted, I needed, to be better and better for him, it’s what he wanted but he never demanded. I simply gave it to him. Some might have called it a spiral, but I called it small changes, just another one here, another one there. When he wanted more piercings, I got them. A small stud on my nose, a lip ring, my tongue pierced. All made me better for him, all simple changes.

The tattoo came after that, “Daddy’s Girl”, right over my cunt. I started my sleeve then. Around then was when I dropped out of college. I had stopped lying to myself by then that that was what I wanted. Instead, I took care of his home, and his friends, and sometimes, his debts. I worked sometimes in other ways, but it was ok. It was a small change and it made him happy and thus, I was happy as well.

Then I gave him my birth control and he, or one of his friends, got me pregnant. A beautiful girl. 6 months after that, I was pregnant again. I stayed pregnant, raising his children, educating them, raising them, loving them.

And when he started bringing younger girls home, well, I played with them because it made him happy and if he didn’t want me to join in, that was ok too. His friends still needed release and even if they were more violent than before, I could take it. Sometimes it meant I got hurt bad, but it made them happy and thus, I was happy.

I made videos for them. I played with their pets and when they were angry, I let them vent on me. And it made me happy. And when he started hurting me, breaking me, branding me, burning me, and cutting me, I loved it because I knew he loved me and needed me. His darkness had grown along with mine and he knew I would do anything for him and I did. No limits. Concussions, broken noses, and black eyes brought orgasms to me and all his friends, but when he said he wanted to move on, I understood. I just asked him to finish the job before he took in a new girl, half my age. We made love one more time as he used my fucked out holes and when the cord tightened, I came so many times and he did as well. Just one last change. And then, I was still. But he was happy, and thus, so I would have been.

If you enjoy my work, everything I write and do can be found here -

Nighttime in the glow of the laptop - A Badsammie Nonfiction story (M/F, online, masturbation, self abuse, manipulaiton, grooming)

I headed upstairs, leaving the wafting smell of dinner behind. My stomach churned, and anxiety coursed through my body. Not that that was unusual, it was a daily occurrence. The origin of that anxiety was the difference today. More and more lately, I had been swamped with new feelings, urges, and compulsions even. A new sickness, guiltily driving me into a world I had never explored before. I couldn’t have worded it as such at the time. I just knew daily life was strangling me. Drowning me in a molasses of emptiness, failure, and anxiety. That cup was overflowing and I had found a way to empty or at least drain some of it. The men online.

It wasn’t even what I had planned at the start. I hadn’t gone looking for it. Not like that at least. I had known before that masturbation could be a stress reliever. Staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep because my brain wouldn’t turn off. I'd coped by sliding my hand down my pajamas. Feeling my warmth down there, closing my eyes, almost obsessively and clumsily rubbing and touching myself. It was hard though. Sometimes unwanted thoughts intruded of footsteps down the hall. Those times became frustrating because I couldn’t cum which left me even worse than before. More frustrated than ever. Watching porn helped on occasion but none of it really clicked with me. But overheard conversations of older girls had led me online, to find peers to chat with, to play with online. To make the orgasms come easier.

And I found out quickly that my peers were idiots. They were hornier than I was, blindly sending dick pics, saying the stupidest things. They wanted to get off. That was the only thing that mattered. Which was selfish of me I suppose. I wanted the same thing. But the way they went about it, saying “sup?” or “horny?” as if that would even get my attention. I almost quit right then. But my life was forever altered because I stayed on a bit longer and also got messages from those who were not my peers. They were older. Much older.

They didn’t say one-liners, those men. They didn’t go straight for the prize, they talked to me. It honestly felt like they wanted to just chat. Looking back, that was probably manipulation. Very successful manipulation. Leading questions to get me to relax, open up, to guide the conversation subtly. I was mostly blind to it except for the clumsy attempts. So by the time they asked me to do certain things, well, yeah it was icky they were older. Kinda. Maybe. But they saw me. They pressed the right buttons and when I pressed mine, they praised me for it. After that, I was hooked. Hopelessly addicted to them.

I headed into my room and closed the door. I locked it and then got out my pajamas. I didn’t put them on though. They were there only if the door received a knock or was attempted to be opened. I could get dressed quickly and if the door was unlocked without my doing so, any state of undress could be explained by my changing into them. I took off my t-shirt and shorts and tossed them into the hamper. I chewed my lip nervously, adjusted my bra and panties, and glanced in the mirror to ensure I looked as good as possible in them. I didn’t have a chest to speak of, slim as I was. It seemed most of the men I talked to enjoyed that, enjoyed the late bloomers who still looked a certain way. Every time I thought about it too much, I felt wrong, sick. That I would talk to them, encourage them, and even want them was bad. But I couldn’t stop myself.

I walked to the desk and opened up the laptop. I went to a hidden folder inside Windows where I kept my private stuff I didn’t want anyone to find and started up the VPN. I hadn’t even known about them until one of the men had explained how to protect myself online. I had to spend some money, but it was worth it. I couldn’t risk getting caught, either here at home or by being tracked down by one of the men I chatted with. Not that I didn’t find the fantasy exciting. I did. The stories some had sent me, the videos, I felt so bad after but I felt purged as well. But just because the fantasy was intense didn’t mean it was just that, a fantasy.

I hopped into one of the regular chat rooms I frequented and ignored the glut of moronic PMs that bombarded me. Spam, losers, boys, all desperate for a response from me. I had my own desperate needs and none of them would be able to fulfill them. Soon, I got other pings. Names I recognized. It was easy now to pick out the older ones. The way they wrote, the references in their user names. I made sure never to commit to one person. I didn’t trust them nor did I trust myself. I tried to be careful whenever I could think straight. Obsessions either way could lead to trouble, plus I liked the act of discovery. Letting them unpeel my layers, them opening up to me. It was a dance that was safe, I felt. But today was one I’d chatted with before. I smiled, putting in my earbuds. One dangled, my left, unused. That way I could hear anyone approaching easier. I set the sound to mono and then responded.

He was happy to see me again and asked how I was doing. As he typed that out, he sent a link so he could talk and see me. He knew I wouldn’t talk much, if any. Only type, so no one could easily hear me. I chewed my poor lip leaving it chapped to hell as I wiggled in my chair. He asked me if I was antsy and I told him yes as the session started. I saw myself in the upper corner. Scrawny, almost flat-chested. A waif to be blown away by a strong wind. I wasn’t beautiful like the women in the videos most sent me. But I often looked like the girls in some of the others. He told me my bra with yellow daisies on it was pretty. Asked me to stand and turn around. My panties matched, which he told me he appreciated. I sat back down carefully. I always made sure my face was hidden. Later on, that would change. But now, I behaved.

He asked me if I wanted to relieve myself of my clothing but I wasn’t quite ready yet. The ones who knew what they were doing, knew when to push and when to hold. He held. He made sure I knew he remembered talking to me. Details I had given him freely, nothing that he had possibly inferred. Those made me skittish, anxious as fuck, when I let some detail loose that they picked up on. Some pounced on it, clearly either knowledgeable or googling the information I gave them. Those I usually bolted from, blocked. Maybe he didn’t, but if he did, he didn’t let me know it. It always relaxed me to have them remember details. I got annoyed and hurt if they didn’t. One validated, one implied at best I was just forgettable. Even though my goal wasn’t to find a singular man to play with, it hurt when they struggled to recall me.

This guy tho, he remembered. He asked me if I had read the story he’d sent me. It was one from Asstr, a young girl getting raped, used, and taken from her life forever. I nodded meekly. I’d come guiltily to it at least twice. It was my current obsession, stories where a young girl disappeared. Sometimes in the stories they died, but that didn’t kill my orgasms. Sometimes they were lost forever, but I always found that spot that made me shudder. Every time, part of me wanted the same for me. I would be free then. Dead, taken, lost, in any of those situations, the pressures on me would be gone. I found a sick comfort in that. He asked me to remove my panties and show him. It wasn’t an ask though. It was a demand. I was getting better at understanding the difference; the tone of voice. Some would try to bark and yell, but those were almost comical. Many though, just a slight change in inflection, and despite it being a request, technically, it was really an order. I nodded.

I stood up, the beanpole that I was, and slid them down. He remarked on my hairless crotch. Not that I naturally had much hair there anyway, but I had learned fast they all wanted girls hairless. Especially the scrawny ones in pigtails. He told me I could sit but to part my legs. Again, I nodded. He didn’t even ask for me to angle the camera down or give him a better view. It was enough to see the command was followed.

“Three fingers, in your mouth, slobber on them, please. Then touch yourself. Touch yourself and tell me what you wanted most in the story.” He said it in a polite, almost fatherly tone. As if he wasn’t asking me to masturbate on camera and degrade myself for him. Some part of me wanted him to be able to pat my head. Twice my age but it felt closer to three times when he talked like that. He spoke almost with a tone that made me feel stupid, but he was so encouraging that I didn’t care. He was making time for me and I wanted to pay him back for the feelings he had given me already before and would tonight.

I slid my middle three fingers into my mouth. He couldn’t see it, except for my arm. I made sure my head was well out of view. Many liked me to gag myself but he didn’t ask that. When I started to move my fingers out of my mouth, he stopped me.

“Wait, I want you to drool a bit, leave your tongue out. I trust you, just let slobber go down your chin. Now, be a good cunny and lift up your bra for Daddy. Don’t take it off, just pull it over your pretty little buds all exposed like that, ok?”

He shifted his tone like he did the last time we chatted. Firm, to firm Daddy that rewarded good behavior. I knew I wasn’t unique, I wasn’t the first girl to go online and find someone who gave them the attention they craved, no matter how they got it. I didn’t care if he’d used that tone or orders on others. I just wanted what he had to give me. So I tugged up my bra until it was sitting above my nipples, then I reached down to my spread legs, enjoying the small shiver I got when the warm wet on my fingertips brushed my lips below. I leaned forward as well, just a bit, letting drool collect on my tongue, sliding downward as it fought surface tension. It was a struggle, that fight, until gravity won as it always had. A long strand of spit broke free, dripping on my small chest and belly. And then, dopamine.

“Beautiful my little cunny, so beautiful. Such a good little slut. Daddy is proud of you. Smear it on your chest as you touch yourself and tell me what you liked in that story.” I could hear his breathing, it was speeding up. I could just faintly hear him touching himself. I typed, wishing I could talk freely.

“It was that no one noticed her, cared about her,” I wrote slowly, one-handed, as my wet fingers trailed along my rapidly slickening slit. “Everyone just ignored her. She was a ghost. But he didn’t miss her. He saw her. Saw how alone she was. How he took advantage of that, made her disappear.” As I wrote, my fingers kept teasing, spreading my legs wider as I heard him softly mutter something about me being a bad little girl.

“Mmm, yes. You liked that she was taken? Is that what you want pet? Deep down? To be found? Don’t FUCKING lie now, I’m not going to get you. I don’t want to go to jail. I just want to hear it,” he said. His tone grew intense, startling me when he said “fucking”, the savage intensity of it coming out of nowhere.

I nodded on cam, then realized he couldn’t see what I did. I typed “kinda” and sent. I then realized that it wasn’t enough. I typed more. “It’s just, it would fix everything. I know it would be bad. What he did with her, the things he did to break her down, I know that’s bad…” I sat there, looking at the words, unable to write what I needed to, anxiously rubbing faster, breathing harder.

“You want the choice taken away. You said that the rape stories some guy sent to you just clicked. It made sense. How did you put it? The nice Daddies made you feel loved but the mean ones made you feel needed. Do you want to feel needed? Seen? Or do you want to feel loved?” he asked. It came out almost like a taunt. I typed back quickly, getting my keys wet with my left hand.

“I want to be needed. Needed so bad they can’t stop themselves.” When I hit enter, I could see him smile. I was shaking now. It was always like this. A fucking roller coaster that I couldn’t control. My hands would tremble. My heart would begin to race as my breathing grew ragged. And I never could control it. At first, sure, like a slow ratcheting up the track. But once it peaked, it didn’t matter. My brains didn’t matter. My control didn’t matter. A dam would break and I just needed them. Their approval. I needed to cum. Afterward, I might cry. Often I did. But in that singular moment, I just wanted them to want me so much that I would disappear and never have to think again. And then that firm voice, not mean, just Firm Daddy, came through the earbuds.

“Slap yourself, your face. As hard as you can make yourself. Slap your thighs, your chest, your soft cunny. Now, don’t think, just do it. Now,” he said. Each time his voice grew more stern. Still, I hesitated. “Well, if you’re going to waste the time I’m giving you, I’ll just find…”

He never got to finish the sentence. I couldn’t be rejected. Not at that moment. Maybe a few minutes ago, but not now. So I did what he said. I started slapping myself. My face. My chest, my legs, my cunny as he called it. Again and again, I was shaking, almost crying, but it felt good. He praised me, telling me I was beautiful, such a good girl. All of his focus was on me and for once I felt like I fucking mattered. I wasn’t going to let him take that away from me. Had I half a brain cell at the moment, I would have known that he was manipulating me. The end result would have been the same. And then I did start crying. I hunched over, probably showing a bit of my face, trying to hold it in. But the pain and shock of it all had let loose a torrent of emotions that I couldn’t control.

“Shhh...shh…. It’s ok. It’s ok. You’re a good baby girl. You know that. You did real good. Now wipe your nose, sit up straight so the bad man doesn’t see your face, ok?” I did as he asked, trembling still, sniffling.

“That’s good, now, start touching yourself again, slowly. Tell me what you thought of the girl when she broke. Was she weak? Did you hate her for it?”

I rubbed myself in soft circular motions as I typed one-handed slowly. “I wish she was me. I want to quit like she did. I don’t hate her. She isn’t real. I hate myself.”

“Shhh… don’t hate yourself cunny. Daddy loves girls like you ok? And I’m not sure what kind of quitting you’re talking about, but don’t. Not like that. But it’d be so easy to let a guy take you, make you disappear. That’s what scares you isn’t it cunny? That one day you’ll be gone. But one lucky guy, he’ll have you for the rest of your life. Maybe it’ll be long, probably be short, but he’ll have you, completely.” he said, almost whispering it to me. I was rubbing myself faster and faster, grunting now, nodding, at least my chin on the screen.

“That’s what I thought. Wanted so bad they’ll take you away. Take away your choices, take away your problems, and even take away you, one way or another. Did you cum when he finally killed her?”

I started crying again, but rubbed harder, two fingers inside myself.

“Finger your ass as well with your other hand. Just nod, did you?” I nodded yes.

“It’s ok. Keep fingering, harder. Harder cunny, it’s ok. Just imagine their hands around your neck. Squeezing tighter and tighter. They want you so much they can’t help themselves. You’ll never be more wanted, more needed, than you are right now. Just tighter, tighter…”

As I started to cum, he could see me convulse. When I did, he slammed his hand on the table and yelled “Snap, crushed, still.” I twitched and cried and he told me it was ok. That I was beautiful. That I was such a good girl. That he wished he could hug and kiss me. I wished he could too. If he had knocked on the door and said he was going to give me what the girl in the story got, I would have left with him. I shuddered, trying not to sob loudly, when he said shit and that he had to go. After he logged out, I did the same. I tasted my fingers as I headed to my shower, turning it on and crying. When the water finally started to cool I cleaned myself, exhausted from the orgasm and the tears.

I got in bed, half telling myself I had to stop. That I already needed to get up early to finish my schoolwork. But I knew it was a lie. I knew tomorrow night, I’d repeat it, with him or another man. I couldn’t stop now, even had I wanted to. And I didn’t. Nighttime in the glow of the laptop, I felt alive. I would never give that up.

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Broken In - Revised, part 3 of 3 of the Spiral saga (mental breakdown, peed on, manipulation, manhandled, physical abuse, bestiality, blackmail)

The following week came and went, just like the first time. I sat, naked in my bed, trembling and crying, holding my phone, waiting for him. I didn’t know if I’d call the police or part my legs or both. The power he had over me was intoxicating, a vicious drug I couldn’t quit. I had cum as I believed I was being strangled to death. How can that happen and me not be damaged or wrong? There had to be something fucked up inside me, broken or ruined. So I waited, hour by hour, and finally cried myself to sleep, a dark ring around my neck, fading.

Much like last time, however, when I woke, I realized while he hadn’t raped me, he had come and visited. No mail this time, which would have been a relief. No. This time I knew he had come because in my fridge was a cup of yellow piss with a note on it. It simply read, “This is the only thing you deserve to drink”. I poured it out and sobbed because he had been inside my house. Again. I hadn’t even heard him; he’d snuck in, just to taunt me. I knew how dangerous he was. I had lost my new job because of him. I wasn’t about to show up there with a bloodied nose and swollen bruise around my neck, barely able to speak above a whisper.

So I had stayed home, the victim. And now he was violating not just me, but my very own home. It didn’t stop there, however. Indeed, it got far worse. One morning there was cum splattered on my bathroom mirror. A pile of shit on the kitchen floor. Pee in my bedroom trash can. My panties wadded up and used as toilet paper. Each day I woke or came home to a fresh violation that said this place, and by extension me, belonged to him.

Waking up led to panic attacks as I searched my home. Returning from shopping, very much the same. My chest pounded under the oppressive weight of what was coming next. I nearly collapsed when I found all my birth control pills opened and tossed in the toilet. Two days later it was my Klonopin and Zoloft that were gone. That day I couldn’t even leave the bed. I just shut down, didn’t eat, and literally pissed myself. I couldn’t function, couldn’t breathe, I literally couldn’t BE.

Thankfully that day passed but I barely functioned after that, minimal cleaning, upkeep, nothing mattered. I had given up. It couldn’t get worse. I was wrong, but I didn’t know that yet. I didn’t realize I still had more to lose. I got drunk one night and woke, soaked in piss. Some of it might have been from me, but I think it was all his. My hair reeked, my t-shirt reeked, he’d defiled me. I barely even cried.

And then, that’s when he moved in.

It was that simple, one day, I’m piss soaked and barely functioning, the next, I’m coming home with beer and frozen dinners and the house is clean. Sparkling even. It had a sharp, and probably needed, chemical smell to it, but it looked like a home and not a hovel that a broken cunt was living in. I just dropped everything as I entered, stunned, when I found him there, sipping some coffee. I cried and he came over and stroked my face, not even saying a word. He pulled me to the shower and stripped me. I honestly expected another violent bathroom rape. But there wasn’t one. Instead, he took me in the shower and washed me, my body, and my hair. Despite touching me all over, he never groped or pawed at me. Finally, clean, he pulled me out and helped me into a beautiful gown. I felt beautiful in it, and so confused.

I had no idea what was going on, but he sat me down and cooked dinner, never speaking. Neither of us did. I honestly think I was in shock. I felt clean and cared for the first time in three weeks since he’d been fucking with things in my house. I just watched him, my stomach churning at the delicious smells. I felt human again. That was my mistake.

When he finished the meal, he fixed two plates and poured wine at both settings. I couldn't begin to describe the emotions I had rushing over me, I both wanted to flinch and lean into him. My eyes were literally watering as he took my hand and stood me up and kissed me deeply on my mouth. It was never, ever, a question of whether I’d give into that kiss. I melted instantly and it was perhaps the longest, deepest, and most intimate kiss of my life. He then stepped behind me, put his hands on my shoulders, and tore my dress in half, letting it drop to the floor. I was dumbfounded, as he hurled me against the wall and I slid down it to the floor. I whimpered and sobbed as he kicked my stomach once, then dragged me over by the table again, shoving me on all fours.

Then my dinner was dropped before me. A dog dish. A dog dish full of dog food. I looked at him and asked him if I had to, begging him. He said I would always have a choice as he pulled out that black cord once again. He smiled then and I cried, cried, and leaned over and ate dog food for the first time in my life. He sat next to me, eating the delicious dinner, as I ate dog food. I should have fought, struggled, at least then maybe it would come to an end, even if a violent one. Instead, I ate like a stupid bitch. His hand would wander to my nipples or probe my holes, and I just took it. Eventually, after too much time, we both finished our meals.

“Sammie, my wonderful useless Sammie, I want you to know how much it means to me that you let me move in,” he said mockingly. “I even got us a pet, to celebrate!”

With that, he excitedly left the room. I should have run, I should have done anything. But I knew all my choices were lies. I just leaned forward, head on the floor as I had another panic attack, the pressure smashing and crushing me to the floor. I barely noticed when he returned, with a huge dog, a Mastiff I’d later learn. I just knew the dog looked bigger than me. It was well trained as it just sat when he snapped his fingers, then he pulled out of the cabinet a camera and tripod, then aimed it at the floor. I started to scream then, realizing just what he intended. I begged, pleaded, freaked out, and got dizzy. He just kicked me to the floor a few times and resumed work, until he was ready. Then I was positioned and he made a strange whistle and then, I think I had a psychotic break as I was mounted and with his guiding hand, impaled by the massive beast.

I thought I had known shame, that I had known abuse, but there was likely some torturous level of hell for people like me, that cum, repeatedly, as they are raped by a huge dog. I had never felt anything like it in my life. It wasn’t that the dog was bigger, though he was. It was the pace, the intensity that he fucked me with. It was like being fucked on fast forward, as the dog's paws clawed and scratched my back, shaking me as he rutted in me like I was a common bitch. I didn’t know then that people could have sex with animals or how it would feel. Tears exploded from my face as I was violently dog raped, as my tormentor filmed it all. I lost control during my first orgasm and I remembered nothing after, until the knot. I’ve seen the video since of that broken bitch on the screen cumming. God, I hated her so much.

But I went away as I was owned by a simple beast, a beast that was better than me, worth more than me, and when I felt the knot, I didn’t know what it was but God, it hurt. He started laughing when that brought me back to reality. My desperate attempts to pull me off of the dog's cock amused him. The dog had pulled in the opposite direction but we were still locked as he came up and raped my throat, gagging me, making me cough up dog food and swallow it again in a desperate bid to breathe. He didn’t care, and honestly, if I had been able to think, I wouldn’t have either. I was just on automatic until that cum spurted down my throat, filling my gut. I slumped to the floor, only my hips pulled up until several minutes later the knot pulled free. He took pictures and I just laid there, a dog fucker. I had cum. That much I knew and I knew that was wrong. I was a dog fucker.

He pulled my head up in my lap, stroked my hair, and kissed my cheek. Then he opened my mouth and spit in it, as he fingered my gaped and cum filled cunt, and smeared the dog cum all over my lips. He then leaned over me, whispering in my ear.

“I told you before, you always have a choice. I can post that video to 4chan, motherless, and Tumblr. No info, but popular sites. Maybe no one will ever recognize you. Maybe they’ll recognize you the next time you step out. But I’ll make sure the internet knows that you’re a bitch that’s been bred by a dog. Maybe even the cops will find out. How would you like that? Being arrested for bestiality? How would you like that?”

I sobbed as he spat in my eye, still softly stroking my cheek.

“Your other choice is on the table there. It’s much simpler. You hold up the card, you read the words, and I put it out. Not on the open internet, but on the dark web. On message boards that no decent person will ever look at. It’s not hard. You just say your name and your address, and ask them to come, whenever they want, to do whatever they want. And they will. Maybe I’ll keep things sane and under control. Maybe I’ll encourage their worst instincts. Who knows? So, Sammie the dog fucker, what do you choose?” he asked.

In the end, it was no choice at all. I sat up on the floor, naked, cold, with spit and cum and sweat on my face.

“My name is Sammie, and I live at……”

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