by Adrian Amos
She turns around and kicks in one of my paintings, putting her massive boot straight through the canvas.
“Stop destroying my art,” I say, as cool and as calm as I can. She wants to make me break, to make me angry, so she can see me as some sort of animal.
“What is the point of this all? You're just going to destroy my paintings. You know I can just paint more, right? I've made enough money off of them that I can survive without the ones you've destroyed. It's supply and demand. I'm not going to starve.”
“Shut up,” the girl to my left says, frustrated that I'm the only one saying anything.
As I keep picking away at them, I can see their hesitation. They didn't think this through, or what to say when I inevitably shut them down.
“Did you think I was going to beg and cry, telling you I admit it and that I'd stop being a monster? If you really thought that, then you are little girls, because nothing you do here is going to stop me from doing what I've always done.”
I laugh, “And knowing you're moral crusaders, I don't think you're going to kill me over this. So again, what was the point of all this?”
The main girl is frustrated, but she takes a few deep breaths to control herself, to regain her thoughts. She sighs, “I have a different idea. Let's spin her around.”
She comes over to me and the three girls lift my chair and spin me toward the other side of the room. It's dark, but I can see a tiny, red light in the distance.
She stoops close to me and talks low into my ear, “You see that right there? That's a camera. That's for our audience. We were going to put on a show, show the world how weak you actually are. You're not some sort of powerful visionary; you're really just a scared woman who's given into her baser desires.”
I shrug, because I don't give a shit what she thinks.
“If we can't destroy your artwork, then we'll destroy you.” She walks around me and brings her hand to my waist. She undoes the belt to my robe, letting it slide open and baring my t-shirt and shorts.
“What are you doing?” I ask, trying to snake myself out of their hands.
“Like I said,” she scoffs, “Destroying you. Maybe you should live out your sick little thoughts and fantasies. See how much damage they can really do.”
The ringleader looks around my studio. She heads over to one my tables and grabs my fabric shears. She comes back, grabs my shirt, and cuts it right down the middle, exposing my breasts to the cold air, to the bible thumpers, and to the audience on the other side of that camera.
“You're a fucking sicko,” I say, my nipples hardening at the thought of my exposure and inability to protect myself. “Can't get your way, so you're going to torture me.”
She grabs a small, horsehair painter's brush from my collection. She runs it down my neck and across my collar bone. The tiny bristles tickle my skin and instantly cause goosebumps.
“I'm not going to torture you,” she says, “But I can see how it might feel that way.”
She sweeps it down my chest and onto my nipple. I bite my lip, stifling an intense moan trying to escape. The bristles poke and tickle, far more furious than any fingers or mouth could possibly produce, and the feeling is so light that I almost want to laugh, if I didn't also want to cry out from the sensitivity.
One of the girls next to me snickers as she watches my discomfort. She steps away, but comes back and presses a second brush against my other nipple. I let out a deep moan, unable to stop it as I can barely catch my breath. My nipples are incredibly hard and are completely engulfed by the entire brush head.
“She's not talking much anymore, is she?” My world is so distorted from the pressure on my body that I can't tell which one said it.
I grit my teeth and continue to moan uncontrollably as they stroke my nipples. I try to resist, but slowly I spread my legs apart in the chair, feeling the pleasure pulse down my body. My pussy clenches and quivers as the sensitivity of my nipples is sent beyond its limits.
“She is a sicko,” one of them says, “Her panties are soaked.”
She said my panties, but it's both my panties and the shorts over them. Soaked. Heavily. I close my legs—feeling the liquids slosh between my thighs—trying to hide my horniness, but as the brushes continue to massage my tits, my legs slowly spread themselves apart again.
The remaining girl—simply a spectator up to this point—pushes my legs back together and wraps her hands around my waistband. Unconsciously, I lift my ass, and she slides my shorts off me. Once again my legs spread wide of their own volition as my shorts are removed, allowing me and everyone else the view of my white, cotton panties, see-through from the amount of juice they've absorbed.
The third girl bends down in front of me with a third brush. Before she places it on my skin, she runs her other hand across my stomach, her fingertips caressing over my belly button. I can tell she wanted to touch me, beyond the torture, skimming my soft skin for her own pleasure. She follows her movements with the brush, trailing down my stomach, passing over my clit and slipping down between my lips, pushing the fabric of my panties into my pussy.
I buck my hips, enjoying the pressure, but the hair of the paintbrush is so fine that it pierces straight through the fabric and grazes my clit. The delicate strands apply a sensation so smooth and tiny that my clit is on fire, engorged from the aching misery.
It's coming. I can't control it. My muscles spasm outside of my control, and as I arch my back, screaming my euphoria to the vaulted ceilings, the girl in red slaps me hard across the face.
It stuns me, forcing me to float back down without having reached my zenith.
“I don't know where you think you're going, slut, but you're not coming.” She pulls me to my feet—my hands still cuffed together behind my back—and brings me over to my prep table. She sweeps her hand across it, knocking my supplies and paints to the ground, creating a cacophony of sound and color.
She uncuffs me, but only to remove my robe and tattered shirt. She throws me over the table and I reach for the sides, grabbing on as my flat stomach and tits slap against the wood. She grabs my soaked panties and pulls them off of me, leaving me nude and bent over for the camera.
As I lie across the table, I'm unable to move. Not from restraint, but from exhaustion, my heart racing and nipples almost pulsating. But I still feel them grab my legs and spread them, then slap handcuffs on both and lock them to the legs of the table.
I can no longer close my legs, even if I wanted to.
“This is about punishment,” she says, “A life lesson to do what's right.”
She grabs my palette of paints—a thick, wooden, oval board with a hole for a handle—and sidles up behind me.
She rubs her hand over my bare ass, gripping and cupping my cheeks. I feel the other girls do the same, rubbing their hands up and down the inside of my thighs. So many hands on me excites me, and I lift my ass towards them so they can get a better feel of it. Even if they weren't lesbians, I know a vulnerable, bare ass—especially one as smooth and round as mine—is something you can't pass up touching, and they want to get their fill of it before she starts.
“Move,” she says, and the other girls shift away from me as red plaid gets into position.
Then she swings.
The heavy board connects with the flesh of my ass, bouncing me up the table. The sting is harsh and unforgiving. I feel—and hear—the paints on the board splash all over me, coloring me with my day's work.
She swings again.
More paint, more pain.
She goes on, swinging with ferocity as she punishes my ass. It all builds up, each consecutive strike rebounding off my red flesh, compounding the pain, but also heightening the pleasure of my debasement, of my weakness, and of my sin.
The girls laugh at the combination of my moans and yelps, and the other girls get a few cracks in with their hands in between paddles.
They just don't get that the sin is the best part.
My paintings are my fantasies and my
desires. I paint what I love, and even though I've been afraid to willingly subject myself to my own conceit, I'm now in love with being forced to fulfill them.
I know they'll never put me in real danger, since it defeats their obsession with morality, so the only fear in me is of the unknown and what I can't control. They'll never understand that I want this. I want the freedom to have my pleasures fulfilled without the societal guilt of asking for them. It's not fair that you can want something for yourself but be pressured into remorse for trying to achieve it.
“Your paintings are actually somewhat inspiring,” red plaid laughs.
“Bitch,” I say, “I know they are, and even as you admit it, you really don't know. After this, you'll go back to your plain life having thought you did something good. But I bet when you're back in that classroom, back in your dorm room, you'll be thinking about this night, thinking with your fingers, touching yourself, wanting to relive this violation, because it'll be the only thing exciting that's ever happened to you. Probably ever will.”
“Oh! You think so?” she shouts, angry at the truth. She looks over at my picture of the stockade and then notices something on the ground. “Let's see how much you really love this filth.”
She picks it up, and I realize it's Vaseline, which I experiment with for Vaseline resistance artwork.
I swallow, knowing what she needs it for.
She spreads my ass cheeks and motions for the other girls to hold them open. She applies a glob of Vaseline to her hand, coating it in the jelly. Red plaid then inserts a finger into my ass. I oomph, the sudden impact and tightness jarring.
“Damn, Jessie, what are you doing?” green plaid worries.
“Shut the fuck up,” she says, then whispers away from the camera, “Don't use my goddamn name.”
She glides her finger in and out as if rooting around for something. Then she inserts a second finger, and the tightness become acute. Having taking a dick in the ass before, I know I need to relax, to let the fingers do what they want without resistance. But she isn't working with care, thrusting in with a misplaced fury, one she should keep for herself knowing that she's enjoying this.
Then a third finger, which is far more than I've ever taken before. The stretch feels unmanageable, and I lay my face down and focus on not screaming out. She moves her fingers slower this time, probably knowing that she'll cause too much pain or damage if she does it too fast. She takes care to gradually push her fingers up to the hilt, and as she does, the pain begins to lessen as my muscles give way, and everything starts to again have a tinge of pleasure.
As she continues to ass-fuck me, I make an effort to grip the table less, to lay my palms flat on the top, to let my whole body relax, because I know the sensation is only going to become more intense from here on out. I need to start prepping myself early for it.
I've never taken more than two—well, three now—fingers at a time.
I'm scared.
But the great thing is I don't have any control over it. I'm going to face that fear and finally try something I've always fantasized about.
I know she's going to try and stick that fist in there.
When she finally gets to poking her pinky inside, I'm relaxed enough that I barely notice it, as it adds a miniscule amount of width. But now she can't push as far in as she wants to.
But it'll happen soon.
“Jesus, I've never seen that before,” one of the girls says.
Another chimes in, “Watch your language.”
I'm starting to think they're not the best at what they do.
She pushes her thumb in—all 5 fingers now—up to the first knuckle, and I swear it feels like I'm getting double penetrated. She slowly works me over, spreading my ass open, opening and closing her hand like a sock puppet. I moan, because even though it's getting wider, I'm not feeling anywhere near the pain I was before.
Now it's just the pleasure of the stretch.
She makes one long push to the second knuckles, and I let out a long moan, wrapped up in ecstasy. All I want is more, further in. This primate feeling of wanting everything in my ass, stretched as far as possible. I want to be fucked. I want to give in and surrender.
“Push more,” I beg.
She doesn't respond, except to squeeze her hand together and push her fingers all the way in. She fucks me in and out, ramming me with her hand. It's still slow and cautious, but the only way to describe 5 fingers in your ass is with the word 'ramming'. Nothing compares to the force used to drive you open.
“Oh God,” I moan, holding my breath, letting the vice split me and own me.
And then it happens.
She slowly pushes in, as slow as possible, until her final knuckles slide in, and the beak she's formed has passed clear into me. She curls her fingers and forms a fist.
My ass is now gripping onto her wrist.
I've never felt so full in my life. I'm carrying something inside me that my body cannot replicate.
“Fuck, you got your whole hand in there.”
“I know. It feels really tight,” the trapped girl says, spinning and shifting her fist.
I grunt, squirming a little as I adjust to the pressure.
“Now she's not going anywhere. You plan on changing your mind now?” she asks.
“Not one goddamn bit,” I grunt out.
She begins to pump in and pull toward her, drawing my anus out as it keeps her hand from escaping. She alternates this with opening and closing her fist, enlarging my cavity with her outstretched hand.
I can feel the passion in her movements as she fucks around inside me. All I can think about is how she's playing me like a puppet. I've never felt so controlled in my life. Being labeled the free spirit as I am, control over me is something no one has ever attained.
But now, wherever her fist moves, I move. I can't resist at all. I just have to follow what she does, sliding back as she pulls, sliding forward as she pushes. I have no control, I have no autonomy.
And this lack of will makes my pussy gush. This type of wetness has never existed before.
I want her hate, her passion, her will to make me do what she wants.
“You ready to admit your sin? Your moral ugliness?” she asks, smug in her dominance.
“Yeah, I admit it. And I love it.,” I say, with a confidence a girl of her age couldn't comprehend. “Just fuck me, you stupid bitch.”
Because I'm not afraid to admit what I am.
And as she bludgeons me with her club arm, I let the pleasure consume me, dominate me, control me, and enact my hunger for fulfillment.
I twitch, and rapidly my body starts to convulse. I scream out, laughing, “I'm coming now! I hope your camera catches it.”
“Oh no, gross,” she says. She stops moving her fist, but it's too late. My body has already taken over, letting loose all the pent up energy I'd been building. The waves spread through me and both my pussy and my ass grab onto whatever they can get a hold of.
I feel her try to pull out and escape my climax, but she can't leave. Not yet.
What a stupid girl!
As I orgasm, my ass clenches, holding her fist in to feel my pleasure shake and vibrate through her body. Trapped inside me, she's now forced to feel the sin she has created. If anything, instead of her pulling out, my body is pulling her further in.
As the waves dissipate, I cave in, my body dropping heavily on the table, content and absorbed in the release of everything holding me back.
The girls neither move nor say anything. Nothing went as planned, and the defeat in their carriage is palpable, even from my weakened state.
But I can gloat about that later.
Right now, all I can think about is red plaid regaining her composure.
Because when she does, I'm going to get another nice wave of pleasure as she slowly and meticulously pulls her hand out my ass.
* * *
I paint in a frenzy, a bloodlust for perfecting desire.
Blues and greens and red
s, printed on the restless, flowing skirts. The passion in their eyes, an obsession with morality, but a corruption to the wicked. This painting is a masterpiece, representing everything I've ever wanted to tell in my art.
That we are all our basest desires, and that even in moments of moral clarity, we fall back into our animal instincts.
I've seen the video. I've watched them torment me. The brushes dancing over me, the spanking I received, the paint splattered all over me, the word 'slut' drawn across my back.
I've masturbated to it countless times, feeling release every time I watch them use my body as a toy. Every time I can see the moment in their eyes when the passion of their mission turns to the passion of lust, and every time I can see in my own the passion of fear turn to the passion of subjugation.
Far from breaking me, the video gives me the release I need to experience again the pleasure that made me beg, that made me dissolve into my basest desires, feeling the world pass through me as I became one with my lust.
They thought it would send me scurrying into some hole, afraid to show my face, knowing the world saw me collapse into a puddle of orgasm and puppetry.
But what those little girls don't know is that they created art, the same depraved, sinful art they decried was destroying morality.
So I step back and examine my life's work, splayed on the canvas before me. An empowered woman brought to her knees, tied to a chair, and sexually tortured by innocent little girls corrupted by their own obsession with morality.
It is the cycle. As I reach my peak, this new group comes to their own and experiences their own world.
I never reported them. Why would I? I merely took credit for their video and passed it off as my own artwork, a need to experience the latent desires of humanity.
I'm hailed a deviant and a genius, as is par for the course.
And now my paintings and fantasies can encompass a more intimate sensation, one I know is based in reality, etched in experience.
And what are they going to do about it?
My hope is that they come back and teach me another lesson.