Category: Stories & Captions

[CONTENT NOTE: Unpleasantries abound. Proceed accordingly.]

So, it’s our anniversary; be honest, baby, what do you see in our future?

I want to feed on your youth and beauty until I’ve devoured or defiled everything about you that could ever be of use.

What? Wait, I don’t– did you just call me beautiful?

More or less.

Thank you, you’re so sweet.

Sweet as habanero. Speaking of which, what are you ordering?

I don’t know, I was thinking–

Don’t. Don’t do that. It makes your face ugly, and I depend on your face to make this relationship work.

But you asked– wait… why my face?

Look down, for fuck’s sake. Nothing there for me to get excited about, right? So everything’s riding on your shoulders.

Stop. You’re so mean to me. Be sweet again.

I’ll be sweet when you can figure out how to be your sister.

Please no. Don’t talk about that, not tonight. You’ll make me really sad.

Talking to you at all makes me sad; thinking about your sister’s pussy is the only thing that makes me feel better.

God, please. I mean, she can’t… is she– fuck, is she that much better than me?

You act like being better than you is some kind of achievement. That bar is pretty damned low.

I think– I think I might be sick. Can I go? Go be sick?

No, of course not. Hold it in. Dinner’s cheaper that way.

But I really need–!

You’ll at least wait until they bring our entrees. Then you can barf your way to a comp’d meal.

Some– sometimes I think you care more about money than you do about me.

Quit lying to yourself. You don’t just think it; you know it.

Is it so wrong, that I want to pretend?

No. But it’s wrong to make me keep reminding you to snap out of it.

I’m sorry.

No, you’re not. If you were really sorry, you’d be dying inside right now. You’d be wanting to crawl under a rock and disappear. You’d feel like an insignificant little piece of garbage for wasting one second of my time on your self-indulgent, bullshit feelings.

Oh.

So is that how it is?

Y-yes.

How is it? Tell me how it is.

I’m– I’m dying. Inside. Like I’m already under a rock. A boulder. I feel– I feel sick and I can’t breathe.

I thought you were sorry.

I am!

If you’re sorry, it’s because you know you’re garbage. Is that what you are?

Yes. I’m– I’m garbage. All I’ve ever been.

Well, garbage doesn’t get sick. Garbage doesn’t need air. Garbage just gets kicked around until it decomposes.

Or… or someone turns it into something new. Right?

Remains to be seen. How’s the breathing?

It’s better. I’m still sick to my stomach.

That’ll happen.

I– I really am sorry.

I know. I don’t feel it yet, but I know.

Okay. I understand. Anyway… thank you for before. For saying I’m pretty.

You’re welcome. And thank you for holding down your sister while I had the best orgasm of my life.

…

Well, fuck. Waiter? We’re gonna need a mop over here.

copyright © 2017 bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls

[CONTENT NOTE: Alarming things aren’t for the easily alarmed. You’ve been warned.]

My neighbor’s front door was ajar when I passed it, so I poked my head in. Seeing no one, I decided to look around, because I’m a creep like that.

Turns out she was in the bedroom, high on god knows what, and bound up in enough duct-tape to keep her where she was. She looked fantastic like that, like most women do, but I tried to ignore it.

Had she been raped? Was this a game that went wrong? Or a game that was just on pause, while someone stepped out for a smoke? I couldn’t tell.

I thought about calling 911, but wasn’t sure if that would be an overreaction. What if I called people there, they saw her like that, and the whole building started talking about it…? Her douchebag boyfriend wasn’t around, but this could easily have been his doing. It seemed unnecessary to humiliate her like that over nothing. So, since she was too out of it to even register the sound of my movements, I decided to check. I pulled her ass apart, and yanked her panties to the side. And yeah, wow… there was a lot of semen. Just a whole lot. Her ass and pussy looked bruised and inflamed, too, like she’d taken a sustained pounding, or maybe more than one.

Without really thinking about it, I gave the rest of her a once-over. I couldn’t be sure without freeing her, but she looked relatively okay. Whatever she was on apparently kept her from struggling with whoever fucked her, and he hadn’t had to rough her up beyond his assault on her holes.

It was right around that point that I noticed my erection. And just that quickly, the Rubicon was in my rear-view. I returned to the front door, locked it, and began to shed my clothes as I once more crept toward the bedroom.

I rolled her on to her stomach, yanked her panties down, and straddled her legs. I paused with my cock hovering at the entrance to her ass, considering for just a moment that raping a rape victim who wasn’t even technically finished with her initial rape was probably not a nice thing to do, even if she didn’t know it was happening.

Then I shrugged, muttered “fuck it,” and pushed inside her. Because like I said: I’m a creep like that.

[CONTENT NOTE: Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.]

Hey, great, you’re awake! I just wanted to have a little chat with you before we get started. That okay? I thought so.

First off, I want you to know that I didn’t grab you off that sidewalk because of how you were dressed. Yes, you look like the cheapest whore in all of Whorelandia in that outfit, and I’m sure any number of impulsive rapists would have snatched you up on that basis alone. But not this time, not with me. So later, after I’ve set you free, don’t let the cops or your family try to tell you that it happened because you were dressed like a slut. That had nothing to do with it!

In fact, the first time I saw you —oh yeah, you don’t know this— a few weeks ago, you were wearing sweats and no makeup. You looked tired, and a little sad, coming out of that clinic. Certainly no one could have accused you of whoring it up and seeking attention. You were quiet and unassuming.

As you walked by and I followed you through the crowded streets back to your empty apartment, I kept thinking, “She’s perfect. Such a lonely little mouse for me to play with.“

I love lonely mice, because no one notices when they’re gone. And they’re great for… experimentation.

Anyway… the point is, the day I decided to rape you, you hadn’t done anything wrong. If anything you were delicate and timid, which is exactly what I wanted. You were trying so hard to be unnoticeable that you stood out from the background. You were like the only three dimensional object in a world full of flat, paper people.

As you can imagine, I was surprised as I observed you over the proceeding days. It was almost stunning, watching you emerge from your place late at night, dressed like… well, like this. I’d find myself leaning against the bar in one of those sticky, pulsating clubs you visit, watching you move from man to man, grinding on them, promising them things with your body. There were a couple times when I thought maybe I had the wrong woman; that’s how different you seemed.

I had almost given up, and was considering letting the whole thing drop. I’m not going through all the time and expense of stalking for just another stupid slut! Every minute wasted on you was taking a minute away from the rest of my life, and I grew a bit angry with you. Not angry-angry, really… I guess I was just disappointed in you. Frustrated.

That’s why I was in your apartment when you came home three nights ago. I was just relieving some tension and saying my own little goodbye to you; you know, coating your silverware, toothpaste, and pillowcase in my semen, replacing your birth control and anti-depressants with sugar pills and MDMA… that sort of thing. And then much to my surprise, the front door opened and you came in.

Your eye was black, your skankwear in tatters, and everything from your hair to your shoes seemed to reek of sex. There was a shiny, uninviting film on your skin, and your hands were trembling. Someone (or several someones) had apparently tired of your act, and set out to teach you a lesson. Their instruction had clearly been intensive.

Kicking off first one half-broken heel and then the other, you stumbled to your couch and collapsed. From my vantage point in the hall closet, I was able to see when the first sobs hit you; the loud retching noises you made as your mind forced you through a replay of the evening. I thought you might actually vomit up some of what they’d made you swallow, but you never did. You just wailed like a wounded animal until you had exhausted yourself and curled into a fetal position.

It was all terribly interesting and educational, but not at all my scene, so I resigned myself to waiting for you to pass out and give me a chance to sneak away. Until I noticed your hands… roaming. With purpose.

You parted your thighs slightly and slipped your left hand between them, cupping your sex. Your right hand had been futilely wiping at your sodden eyes, but now it moved a little lower and inserted your thumb into your mouth. You began to rub and nurse with a surprising, fevered urgency that made the couch creak and tremble. Once again, your animal noises filled the empty room. Your eyes were squeezed shut and your mouth had collapsed into a hard line. Tears were streaming across your cheeks as your face reddened and the veins in your forehead and neck began to show themselves, It looked as if you were under enormous physical stress.

You grunted then, a great, unladylike, guttural sound that I’m sure you would have restrained if you’d known a man were watching. But you didn’t, so I had the opportunity to see you raw and unedited, as your body reclaimed all the hate and pain those bad men had pumped into you.

Your orgasm burned away your consciousness, and within a few minutes, you were finally out. I emerged from my hiding place, gave you a peck on the forehead on my way out the door, and smiled. We understand one another, you and I. It was so very clear in that moment.

I hummed a little tune as I dissolved into the city outside your home, my own mind wandering back to that day on the street, and the feeling that swept over me as you moved past me.

You’re just so beautifully, wonderfully broken, a fragile, jaded shell around a molten core. Of course it’s hard to see that when you’re in your makeup and slutty outfits; you wear them like whore’s armor, a defense against the monsters who hunt you in the night. But first impressions seldom lie, and I thank you for reminding me of that.

So when people ask you how this could have happened to you, what you might have done to deserve it? Just tell them “I did nothing at all.“ When an acquaintance accidentally says something that triggers the memories we’re about to make together, feel free to lambast and lecture him for his insensitivity. If I’m somehow captured and put on trial, I want you to stand tall in that courtroom and tell everyone assembled that you are a victim and a survivor, a blameless, strong, and independent woman. I want you to positively sparkle in their eyes.

Don’t worry, we’ll keep the truth about you just between us. It’ll be our secret.

copyright © 2014 bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls

[CONTENT NOTE: Here be dragons. More explicit than a lot of my stuff, which will either make you think “yay!” or “yikes!”]

The room smelled like a toilet in a third-world brothel, and didn’t look much better. The only illumination came from a few bare, flickering lightbulbs dangling from an overhead network of haphazardly strung electrical wires, dimly revealing a cramped, stuffy space that seemed less a carefully crafted rape dungeon than the unfinished weekend remodeling project of an unmotivated suburban dad.

Of course, that’s how most rape dungeons eventually turn out. Everyone wants a classy, thoughtfully architected, carefully appointed place in which to nurture a woman’s nightmares; the dream, I suppose, is something like a panic room that keeps all the panic on the inside. Who doesn’t aim for a perfectly disguised secret entrance, a faultless security system, and the absolute knowledge that you own a soundproofed little corner of hell? But alas, even the most industrious of aspiring serial offenders too often have issues with commitment and impulse control; it’s practically in the job description. So the average fuck-lair inevitably winds up a shoddily-constructed, poorly-ventilated cross between a rat’s nest and a blanket fort. Pathetic, really.

But effective. Definitely effective. A woman never feels more like a woman than when she’s walled up within the failed ambitions of a vicious, violent man.

Or men, in this case; three of them, naked, giggling, and grunting as they knelt around the bedraggled husk of a twitching female body. They were high on… something, and intent on fucking or defiling every inch of her as she gurgled and gasped her way through what appeared to be a losing struggle for sanity and survival. It was obvious they’d been at her for days; most of her body was bruised to one degree or another, angry welts and cuts covered her tits and ass, and her face was a swollen, sodden mess. She was unrecognizable.

Well, to anyone except Bob. He stood in the doorway, surveyed the scene, and smiled slightly; not all the spit, piss, and cum in the world could ever hide her from him.

He cleared his throat. The humid little room fell silent, and three heads turned to him in unison, like nervous scavengers distracted from their feast.

“Gentlemen, could I interrupt? Would that be possible?” Bob smiled broadly and stepped inside, slouching a bit to accommodate the low ceiling. “I’m sorry, fellas, but I’m just dying to ask the –heh– lady a couple questions, and I’m afraid she’s not going to be in any shape to answer if you keep at her much longer. If you’ll give me a few minutes with her, well… I’d really appreciate it.”

A trio of mute, irritated stares served as the sole response, much as he’d expected. They’d been on the stuff –and on her– for so long now that anything not related to destroying a cunt was a challenge for their fried little pervert-brains to process.

“If you guys could help me out, I’d be really grateful,” he continued. “Grateful enough, in fact, to direct you to my sister-in-law, a younger, prettier version of that used-up mess you’ve been chewing on.”

The rape-jackals’ irritation began to melt into frustrated curiosity. Stupid little monsters, he thought.

“My sister-in-law, who is quietly, cluelessly waiting for you right now, upstairs, in your living room.” Bob stepped to one side and grandly gestured toward the doorway and narrow staircase just beyond it. “She thinks we’re here to buy weed, so she’ll never see you coming. Have at her!”

No one moved. Bob sighed, steadied himself, and again pointed patiently but emphatically at the door.

“Go! Now! Go fuck it!”

Having finally heard something they could understand through a haze of bath-salts and ED pills, the rapists clambered to their feet; as if at the opening of a gate, they charged forward, up the stairs, and into the house above, leaving Bob alone with his object of interest. Moments later, they heard a surprised squeal, followed by a series of enthusiastic yelps and a maniacal cackling that could only be described as “appreciative”.

Bob leaned into the stairwell and shouted up at them.

“Yes, absolutely, you’re welcome! Great to be working with you guys! We’ll catch up later, ‘kay?”

Amid the crashing of glassware and overturning of furniture above them, a woman could be heard trying to scream, but the sound was cut off almost instantly. It was difficult to be certain, but as the noises transitioned toward the low, guttural, and rhythmic, it seemed as if they had the little cunt well down the path to destruction. Satisfied, Bob smiled again, and turned back to what remained of his wife.

“Hey there, baby. I thought they’d never leave!”

The was-a-woman remained still and silent as Bob approached. Her blood-red eyes tracked his movements through strands of matted hair as he carefully navigated over and around the numerous puddles and stains that told the tale of her travail.

“Well, hell. Look at you!” he said, squatting next to her in one of the few spots that her body had yet to contaminate. “What’s happened to you now, hm? Got yourself into quite a mess, haven’t you? I was just coming by to drop off Julie–”

“Ng!” grunted the fuck-thing, her mind seemingly stirred from its disassociative stay-cation by the sound of a familiar name. She was still at arm’s-length from reality, but that was good enough for Bob. He only needed her close enough to touch.

“What? Oh, yeah, that’s her up there. Heh. With them.” Bob smiled pleasantly. “Yeah, they are– I guess I don’t have to tell you this, but they’re gonna fuck up her world. Shame to miss it, really… but y’know, sometimes sacrifices have to be made.“

Mrs. Bob seemed to make an effort to scowl through the mottled, swollen mask of pain that had replaced her face, but didn’t have the energy for more than a slow, intense blink. Satisfied, Bob continued.

“The point is that I was on my way out of town, I knew you were down here getting worked over, and I just had to pop in and see how you’re doing,” he said, admiring her new owners’ handiwork. For a trio of intoxicated sex weasels, they clearly had skills.

“You’re looking great, by the way!” Bob held up his phone and snapped a photo; the viscous layer of genetic material that coated every surface of her body glistened as the flash went off. “I mean, I can honestly say, as someone who has always been disappointed in how you look, this new thing you’ve got going on really works for me. Everything about it just screams you–”

He was interrupted by a mournful, sustained howl of hopelessness, emanating from upstairs. The sort of cry one might hear from a wounded animal that’s too exhausted to fight, and too afraid to surrender. Or a young woman who has just realized that her bowels will never function properly again.

“And speaking of screams, there she goes! Jesus, listen to her…!” As Bob marveled at the sound, it began to fragment and sputter; it seemed that her lungs were struggling in vain to give full voice to her outraged nerves. Bob rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Pft. This again,” he said with an exaggerated weariness, before standing and returning to the basement door. Once again, he shouted into the stairwell.

“BREATHE IN THROUGH YOUR NOSE AND OUT THROUGH YOUR MOUTH, JULIE! LIKE I SHOWED YOU, IDIOT!”

Bob looked back at the twitching, drooling spectacle of suffering that he had once promised to love, honor, and cherish.

“Sorry for that, but she forgets to breathe sometimes when you shove stuff in her ass,” he offered casually. “She has, uh– heh, she’s been having a rough weekend. Not as bad as yours, obviously, but– but bad.”

They listened quietly as the sounds of struggle briefly intensified, and then collapsed into muffled, choked sobs.

“Hm. And just like that, she’s quiet again; they must have put a bag over her head! Ha! That’s fantastic, just fantastic.” Confident that they would face no further interruptions, Bob returned his full attention to the quasi-conscious abuse-sponge with whom he shared a mortgage. “Did you know your little sister is afraid of the dark? I had no idea, until she spent all night whimpering about it, locked inside our bedroom closet.”

As he approached, he held one hand aloft and tapped each dangling lightbulb he passed, making them sway gently and blanket the room in an ever-shifting pattern of colliding shadows.

“She didn’t cry much during all the fucking and what-not, but I shut her in there with your shoe collection, and she instantly turned on the waterworks.” Bob leaned against the wall nearest her. “People are funny… I guess sometimes, they just need a chance to see it coming.”

The wretched creature at his feet sagged, clearly exhausted. Whatever feeble biochemical rush had animated her upon his arrival was rapidly forsaking her, but he wasn’t quite finished, and thus gave her a solid kick. When his boot made painful contact with her shoulder, she rocked back, opened her eyes wide, and fought to raise her face to his. She’d learned over the last few days to focus on giving men what they want, a lesson Bob had honestly hoped she could learn some other way.

He noticed for the first time that the weasels had written things on her body in what he could only assume was lipstick. Her thighs, cunt, stomach, and back were adorned with childlike, smeared, and grammatically alarming phrases suggesting which of her holes should be used (all of them), what should be put in them (pretty much everything), and to whom this courtesy should be extended (pretty much everyone). Across her wounded and battered tits, they had simply scrawled “FUCK PIG”.

“Gotta tell you, I find it interesting that they went straight to ‘pig’ with you,” Bob said. “As infuriating, frustrating, and underwhelming as you’ve been as both a wife and a woman, I saw you more like a dog; your empty-eyed admiration was nice, you were fun to pet, and loyal when treated well.

“I did treat you well… right, Becky? I mean, you asked for something, and no matter how stupid, pointless, or wasteful, I tried to give it to you. You know I did. That’s why I trusted you; I knew you’d be a good bitch for me.”

Bob shook his head.

“And trust is why I kept you around for so long. I mean, let’s get real… your drop-off from nineteen to twenty-five has been, what’s the word–? Precipitous. Yeah, fucking precipitous. But the way I see it, you don’t get rid of a puppy just because it grows up to be fat and stupid. That’s your fat, stupid dog, buddy! You stick with that useless mutt through good times and bad, because it’s your job. Because that’s what a man owes his animal.

“Until, of course, the day comes when you have to send her to live on a farm upstate.” Bob’s grin returned. “Oh, fun fact? This place is neither a farm, nor upstate. Wouldn’t it have been cool if it had worked out the other way? I know, right? Heh.”

His laughter trailed off, as laughter often does when it exists only to be heard. Despite all he knew, and all he’d done because of what he knew, Bob couldn’t help feeling wistful. Finality was never something he’d controlled; more often than not, it had hunted him down and wrested away everything he longed to keep. Feeling it in his grasp for the first time was a sobering, almost religious experience.

But the airlines wait for no man, even one grappling with the awesome power of fate. He drew as deep a breath as he dared and clapped his hands in resolution, startling the room’s fleshy centerpiece.

“Welp, I need to get out of here and catch a plane!” he announced. “Selling these guys a set of sisters has been super-lucrative, and I plan to be relaxing on a tropical beach while you and fucking Julie start your own adventures. You are finally going to make me happy, and for the first time, I’m feeling really good about our relationship.”

He returned one last time to the doorway, hesitated, and glanced back.

“But just between you and me, cupcake… did it really have to be your pussy little yoga instructor? Was that a choice you just had to make? There wasn’t anyone else in this entire city that you could have fucked…?” His question trailed off, as questions often do when they’re asked after it’s far too late. “I mean, if you were going to disrespect me and the sanctity of our sham of a marriage, the least you could do is fuck someone better looking than me! Someone more successful, someone with a better family name. Anything that would have shown me you weren’t just a stupid whore who thinks with her cunt. That you still had values… or at least value.”

An unfamiliar feeling bloomed within Bob, and he paused to consider it. It felt a little like regret, only without the sense of responsibility. It felt a bit like sadness, without actually caring. It felt like mourning, before the body’s even in the ground.

Oh, he thought. Pity. It’s pity.

“If you’d shown me anything, I would have let it go. I swear to you, I would have looked the other way. I might have slapped you around a little, yeah, but it would have blown over. Things didn’t need to go this way.

“I’m sorry you were such a goddamned fool.”

He walked up the stairs into his bright tomorrow, and left her to her eternal, squalid today. As he went, he bid her the fondest farewell he could muster.

“Bye, pig.”

copyright © 2015-2017 bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls