Little Red and the Rape Fuck

 “It was written I should be loyal to the nightmare of my choice.”

― Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

Most avoid the dirtiest parts of town. Not me. This is my home. I love it. I love it all.

There is a certain energy here. This is the bottom of the food chain, the last stop of the money train. No one has an office. Business is conducted right on the streets.  small change artists, con men hustling for a fast buck, and booze bums begging for cash, desperate for another bottle, just so they can pass out in a dark alley and dream the dreamless sleep only the dead would know.

No one has a bank account. “Strictly cash” reigns supreme. No one belongs to a country club. No one does business on the golf course. There are no penthouse board rooms, no million dollar views. 

Everything is for sale, even love. Just ask those hoochie mamas, hookers, and whores, eager beavers all, who will suck you off inside your car, or take you out behind a dumpster. And if you are willing to drop a few spare green backs, they take you to the nearest hourly rate, and fuck you like you have never been fucked before.

Theirs is almost a religion, a blind worship of a merciless and unforgiving god, the dollar almighty whose only offered salvation is the big buck break, the winning lotto number that takes them away from this whole soiled and sordid scene.

There was once a time when strip shows, adult bookstores, peep shows, and arcades flourished, when these same streets basked in a riot of neon light, and pretty little half naked pole dancers performed for a more moneyed crowd. Cheap perfume permeated filled the night air. These were boom times, of course.

The internet changed all that.  Boom turned to bust. Only a few survived. Clever entrepreneurs doubled down. They got more explicit, paid off the cops. Some got kinky too.

The old Peep Show Palace was one that survived. They renamed the upstairs viewing rooms, “The Theatre of Cruelty.” It became wildly popular. They reinvested and remodeled, tore down the old arcades on the main floor. New viewing windows were installed. They opened a new little peep show which opened directly out to the street.

And that’s where I come in. I am not a whore, not a low level independent contractor. I’m certainly not a venture capitalist. I’m the entertainment. I’m merely the merchandise, a mere commodity of redlight stock and trade. I am a slave.

Call me crazy, but the money never mattered. I came for the feeling I get inside my loins. I wanted strong hands to take me captive, rip my off clothes, and tie me up. I wanted a man who hurt me, made me cry, and even scream… a man who would make me do certain things a young lady would never do.  I didn’t want to be abused, or punished, but still somehow, I felt an inexplicable need to suffer; and for no other reason than for the amusement of others. I needed to feel fear and shame.

Mine is an ancient desire, a primal instinct, a feral need. It’s the same a when a cat plays with a mouse, or a lion plays with bigger game. Women might be different, for some have a deeper need. They love the thrill of being chased, the thrill of the capture too. They want to be dragged by the hair and ravished by a caveman That’s me. I’m not a predator. I am prey.

It’s an instinct that runs deep inside my veins. I don’t want to fuck. I want to be fucked… and fucked hard too. I want each and every fuck to be memorable. I want to name them all.

I was once a normal prim and proper little schoolgirl. I grew up just like you, but certain random events changed all that. I was a fluke of mother nature. I matured early, earlier than the rest. I looked like a woman, but was still a child.

Three older boys grabbed me late one night. They pulled me into an alley, tied me up, gagged me, and raped me. They were rude and crude. They made fun of my body and slapped me around, spit on me too. Each took his turn; and when they were done, they still had enough spunk left to go another round.

And that was when it first happened, when I was changed, and changed for good. I had an orgasm. I had masturbated many times before, but this time my orgasm  was so strong that it overpowered me. I passed out.

Maybe I am broken. I loved the shock of it all. I loved to be defiled. I even loved to be slapped around. Rape turned me on like nothing ever had before. It wasn’t just the sex. It was fear. After it was all over, I suppose I could have gone to the cops, but I felt something else. I felt shame.

Years went by. I might have forgotten the whole sordid scene. Then I was raped again. This time men dragged me into an empty cargo van. They tied me up and blindfolded me. I couldn’t see a thing. They drove off with me in the back and fucked me hard while we were under way. I had no idea where I was. I passed out more than once. I lost track of time.

The van came to a stop somewhere beyond the city limits.  One of my rapists pressed a knife against my neck. I thought he was going to slit my throat and throw my naked remains away, but then he said, “open your mouth.”

I did, of course. What else could I do? He shoved his dick inside my mouth.

“No teeth,” he added. “If you want to live.”

I opened my mouth all the way. Much to my surprise, he shoved his dick into my throat. I coughed and gagged and choked. I tried to turn my head away, but this man had grabbed my head and held it in place. He shoved it in all the way. I couldn’t breathe!

“Your first skull fuck,” he said.

The others laughed. My throat had suddenly become nothing more than just another sex organ. I had been raped before, but never felt so debased, so dehumanized.

Another joined in and fucked me from behind. He fucked me hard too. Each thrust pitched my entire body forward and my face into that waiting cock. My breasts swung back and forth so hard they slapped against my chest. But not for long, big hands, big man hands grabbed them and squeezed. They pinched my nipples hard too. Tears streamed from my eyes.

“You’re first spit roast,” someone added: more laughs.

Someone else whipped me with his belt. My entire nervous system must have gone into an overload. I passed out again.

I woke up later in an alley not far from where they had snatched me. Naked and covered with cum, I found what was left my clothes, put them on, and stumbled home. I felt less than human, a cum dump, a piece of garbage. This time I had felt fear like never before. It turned me on. It was a new joy in being alive.

I took to dreaming about rape and the glorious feeling of being totally spent. I began to fantasize about it.  I had something of a light bulb moment. I coined my own two-word phrase: rape fuck. I wanted another, and very bad.

I went to a tattoo shop and had them print two words on my torso: HATE ME.

I began to walk the streets at night just to feel that fear again. It never failed to turn me on. Not long after I met a man in a bar. The others called him Hannibal the Animal. He pushed me into the john and fucked there. My big rape fuck dream came true. I became his slave.

That brings me here to the Peep Show Palace. This is our first time. We perform downstairs in the new section that opens onto the street. Anyone can stop and drop coins.

The action here is non stop. Timing is everything even backstage. As soon as one show is over, another begins.

“Places, please, Slave Red. Places.” A woman's voice announced over the backstage speaker.

It was the casual voice of the stage manager, a near monotone.  How ironic! Here in the dark, the word “slave” is commonplace. "Slave" is business as usual, nothing at all out of the ordinary.

This is my first performance, my coming out party.  I always wanted this, but my fear returns. I take a deep breath. It doesn’t help at all. Butterflies flutter deep down inside my stomach.

“Boom chakka chakka boom chakka boom.”

A steady downbeat of dance music fills the stale night air. It’s all new music, but the rhythms haven’t changed. They are as old as burlesque, maybe even older, as old as the days of slave girls who danced before ivory traders along the African coast.

A little bell rings. Coins fall. A woman screams. Whoever is performing must be putting on a real show. The music plays to a crescendo and suddenly stops. The voice, the same insouciant voice, breaks the short-lived silence. The words announce the peep show acts performing upstairs.

I’ve grown weak in the knees. My nearly naked body betrays me too. I begin to tremble and squirm like a work stuck on a fisherman’s hook. I want to turn away. If only I could run.

But I can’t. I’m perched on top of a pair of impossibly high black patent leather mule shoes with six-inch heels. Worse yet I’m wearing ankle cuffs and a very short hobble chain. Even standing is precarious. Hannibal is right behind me. He grabs my arms, pins them behind my back, and holds me up.

My “costume,” if one could call it that, is all black: sheer thigh high nylons kept up by the tiniest strap garter belt, a pair of tiny panties almost equally as transparent, a satin under wired black half cup pushup bra which covers only the bottom half of my breasts, shamelessly showing off my nipples. My hard and heavy breathing makes my cleavage look like liquid under skin. I bounce, bobble, or ripple with every little move.

Hannibal pinches my nipples. I let out a squeal, but no one would know. The noise on the other side of the curtain had become deafening, a new crescendo. I hear another scream.

“Makes them hard,” Hannibal speaks directly into my ear. He pinches me a second time and grabs my ass.

His finger finds its way past the panty and then up into my sex. I stand up on tip toes. I try to wiggle away. The finger stays right with me, penetrating me, frictioning me, and fucking me. I turn beet red in the semi-darkness and closed my eyes in shame and humiliation.

“Oh,” I moan in protest, shaking my head from side to side. Tears well up in my eyes.

“Makes you wet,” Hannibal adds.

My breasts begin to jiggle from the fucking. Against my will, I begin to moisten up. My panties turn wet and transparent, clinging gently to my sex. A new sense of shame comes over me. Everyone will know I am aroused. I tilt my head back further, this time not as a matter of pride, but total surrender.

What could I do? I am no longer a woman, just fertile female fuck flesh, a half-naked victim of sadistic male depravity, a fleeting figure in a window who will be toyed and painfully tortured for nothing more than a moment's entertainment. Yes, a slave and nothing more.

“Show time for Slave Red, Show time!”

The curtains open in the dark. Hannibal pushes me into the cramped little viewing room. The lights come up. They are blinding. The voice says something I don’t really notice. Music plays. Hannibal pushes himself hard against my ass and pretends to do the old in and out.

Coins drop. The little bell rings. And there I am: semi aroused, totally humiliated for the entire world to see. I hang my head in shame. Drool slides out of my mouth, all over my bouncing boobs.

It’s show time at the Peep Show Palace. It’s a new kind of rape fuck for me. I wanted all this to happen. My life will never be the same.