A Helping Hand

I made the arrangements quickly, before Candi could have time to process things and come up with a way to gently let me down without breaking my heart and being cut off forever. Less than a week after my confession of love, my blonde pet moved out of the hotel. I helped her put all of her possessions into self storage; most of it was clothes, and the rest almost entirely items of sentimental value, like a framed picture of her siblings, a letter signed by most of her hometown wishing her the best at Princeton, her old karate trophies. I’d lied that I was looking into downgrading to a smaller home very soon, and worried that some of these precious memories might end up lost in the move. As for the clothes, she wasn’t thrilled to learn I expected her to continue being naked at all times, but reluctantly agreed that there was no point bringing her clothes with her if she wasn’t going to be wearing them.

As we drove back to our home that day, I casually tossed the storage key out the window when she wasn’t looking. Maybe some lucky soul found it and ransacked the place, or maybe everything is still rotting in there to this day. I don’t know and couldn’t care less.

I even got Candi to agree to transfer her bank account over to me. After all, I was going to be the one paying all the bills from now on, and as I gently reminded her, she did still owe me for that tuition money. I claimed that I would also be adding her to my own account as a joint owner, so that she would have funds in case of emergency, but I kept conveniently forgetting to handle the paperwork for that, and after a few timid reminders that I ignored, she dropped the subject.

Now that she officially had nowhere else to go, and I no longer needed to pretend I was spending nine or ten hours a day at work, I could begin really fucking with Candi. I could have tried demanding new rules, but it was so much more fun to make her suggest them for me. We would spend long hours every day on the couch - well, me on the couch, her on her knees with her head turned so she could watch and suck at the same time - going through my extensive collection of BDSM videos. Whenever we came across something that would horrify my pet, but not drive her away completely, I would gush about how incredible I found it.

For example, the first time we watched a sub guzzle her master’s piss, Candi looked like she was close to retching. I pretended not to notice her reaction and went on about how sexy that was, and how amazingly lucky her master was to have found someone willing to do that for him. “That right there?” I said, jabbing a finger at the screen. “Now that is true love.” I don’t think Candi agreed, but she was in far too deep now. One word from me and she’d be out on the street, literally naked and penniless. So while I prepared for bed that night, she knocked on the bathroom door to shyly ask if I’d already used the toilet. As a matter of fact, I’d been holding my bladder nearly all day, and every last drop went down my fucktoy’s throat.

I also took the opportunity to add anal to her repertoire. I’d already been training her backdoor with the occasional dildo or butt plug, but she reacted so negatively to this one at first that I worried I’d made a mistake and ruined the entire project. “I don’t think I could ever…I find it really disgusting, sir,” she told me when I espoused how much I loved anal sex. “And even the smaller toys you use with me are always so painful. It’s not even about y-, I mean, I don’t think I’d ever want to do that with anyone, sir. Isn’t it, um, isn’t it enough to be able to fuck a slut’s twat?” Improving her vocabulary had been an early priority.

“Pounding a girl’s twat is wonderful,” I assured her, perhaps the most honest I’d ever been, “but no one goes out and eats the same thing for every meal. Well, I suppose you do, but that’s a special case.” Her face went red at the reminder of her continued cum-eating habit. “A girl’s shithole is just as wonderful as her twat, in its own way. And once both are available, it adds a million new options for fucking.” I patted her head as if I’d just realized what she was uncomfortable about. “Not that I mind having to hold back with you. If you’re not comfortable with anal, sweetie, you never ever have to try it, I promise.”

Two days later, she was crawling slow laps around the basement playroom in arm and leg binders that forced her to balance on her knees and elbows, juice dripping down her legs courtesy of the vibrator attached to her clit. I was behind her with a switch, happy to use it on her bobbing ass every time she halted. “S-seventy seven, sir, thank you…… seventy eight, sir, thank you…”

“That’s ten laps done,” I announced, pleased. “Which means someone just earned herself an orgasm. Should I turn up the vibrator while you suck me off, or would you prefer a fresh creampie for your cunt?”

Her voice shook as she answered, and not just from the exhaustion or stimulation. “I… I… w-would sir like to, to use my ass?”

“I would be delighted,” I replied, “but is that what you want?”

Candi tried and failed to inject some confidence in her tone. “Y-yes sir, I, um, I want to cum with your cock in, in my sh-shithole, please.”

I was happy to oblige, mostly. I tore into those guts and left them basted in jizz, but poor Candi had been right about the pain. Despite my best efforts, gosh, I just couldn’t find a consistent rhythm that could get her over the finish line, and finally had to settle for leaving her frustrated and squirming while bloody cum froth leaked from her anus.

“I’m sure we’ll have more success next time,” I consoled her. “If there is a next time, I mean. Don’t forget the clean-up.”

Candi moved on autopilot to begin tongue washing my cock, then gagged when the taste hit her. “That, ugh, what the hell is…” she sputtered, and then her eyes went wide as she remembered where I’d just been and realized what the new taste was. “Oh god, that’s my…” She retched hard, and then threw up all over the floor.

I was nothing but sympathetic, of course, washing my junk off in the bathroom sink and mopping up the vomit without a word of complaint. But a few days later, when she risked trying anal sex again, she was once more denied her own pleasure and given the consolation prize of a messy dick fresh from her guts. She made it through this time, despite a bit more retching, and soon both buttfucking and ass-to-mouth were a regular part of our sessions. I even rewarded her with some anal orgasms from time to time after all, mostly because of how utterly ashamed she always looked afterward.

I don’t know which of the many techniques and positions she was learning she hated more, but I can tell you what she hated the most about living with me: the real playroom. Or maybe it would be better to call it her actual home in my house.

I’d eased her into the concept as best I could. I pointed out that since we’d combined bank accounts and she was now being paid by living here, charging her financial penalties as deterrents for breaking the rules no longer made sense. I explained that since her sex work was being used to earn her living conditions, then naturally poor sex work should result in poorer living conditions.

As usual, I pretended to be reluctant to actually put this into action, and let Candi talk me into going along with it. Between the frequent drug use and the aggressive breathplay, I think I’d knocked at least thirty points off of her IQ by then, and she didn’t really consider how much power she was handing over to me. Even when I showed her the dog cage that she might sometimes have to sleep in, and pointed out that I could - and would - lock it to keep her in there all night, she didn’t seem anywhere near as worried as she would have a few months ago. I think by that point, she’d already committed to trusting herself with me, and any attempts to question my sincerity or goodwill would call into question all of her recent life choices. Easier to just assume that I would never really take advantage of her, no matter how easy she was making it.

Stupid slut.

If my “normal” playroom was designed to induce a mix of pain and pleasure, the real one was for pain and more pain. Candi screamed like I was killing her the first time I crushed her tits in the table vise and fucked her up the ass. The first time she discovered what it was like to hang upside down from the ceiling while being lashed from all sides with a bullwhip, she broke down sobbing and begged to know what she’d done to anger me.

Naturally, her behavior in both incidents broke a number of rules, and necessitated more sessions in the playroom. The concept was simple: as long as she was in the “negative”, a nebulous concept up to my own discretion now that we weren’t talking about specific monetary amounts, she would remain in the playroom until she broke even. She would sleep there, eat there, piss and shit in a bucket there, and she wouldn’t be allowed to leave until she’d paid off her debt, which always meant at least one session with the equipment down there. I kept her tortures varied, and rarely went rough enough to cause permanent damage, but she never once made it back upstairs without being reduced to a whimpering ball of agony first.

Even when she wasn’t being actively tortured, I made life in the playroom miserable for Candi. If I wasn’t in there, the temperature was burning hot or freezing cold, the lighting painfully bright or pitch black. I’d pick a wall or a piece of furniture, and then leave her stretched and clamped and bound to it for hours, body straining and muscles cramping. And at night, the loudspeakers would blast random earsplitting noises every few minutes, preventing her from getting any meaningful sleep while huddled inside her cramped cage. My goal, and I’d like to think I was successful, was to make every stay as traumatizing as possible.

In the beginning, her visits down there were extremely rare, more of a boogeyman to keep her in line than anything else. Whenever she chafed at one of her many rules, or expressed reluctance with any of the degrading and painful sex acts that filled her time, the mere hint of a visit would bring her in line. On more than one occasion, my blue eyed pet actually pissed herself in terror when I told her she’d left me no choice but to take her downstairs.

Despite her best efforts, poor innocent Candi found herself condemned to the playroom more and more often as the months went by. As she grew dumber and more exhausted and more malnourished by the day, it was only too easy to find mistakes. She would fuck me and suck me and give me fantastic orgasms until my balls were completely drained, and then have a full blown panic attack when she learned that a handful of inconsequential errors meant it was time to return to the basement. You would not believe the sorts of filthy, obscene things she would promise in exchange for being allowed to stay upstairs. Sometimes I even took her up on them, but eventually, she always ended up back where she belonged.

Over time, living down there became the rule rather than the exception. Any sane person would have loathed me for that, but for my brainless fucktoy, it only motivated her to give me better and better service. She accepted the blatant lie that it was her own poor performance sending her down there, and that she had only herself to blame. By the time we’d been living together for two years, being allowed upstairs at all was a rare and fleeting privilege earned by being a good girl, and she was lucky to find a single night in a month where she slept outside of her dog cage.

By this point, I have to hope the old Candi, the one who still had a working brain, would have realized the truth of her situation. She was being kept locked up in an old man’s basement, tortured and raped daily, a trained animal starved and beaten and forced to service him in a variety of cruel and disgusting ways. She was a sex slave, pure and simple.

But the new and improved Candi didn’t see it that way. She COULD tell me no (she would never dare to anymore). She COULD walk out the front door (she’d be a naked girl without money, prospects, or allies). She COULD stop this arrangement any time (she was a hopeless drug addict and I was her only supplier). Everything was entirely consensual, except for the part where she hated it all and was powerless to do anything. I was her dear friend, protector, and lover, except for the part where everything about my physical appearance disgusted her and I delighted in causing her humiliation, misery, and pain.

But it’s okay if she was neither capable nor willing to understand the depths to which her life had sunk. Because I certainly did, and I was enjoying every second of it.

*

Our time together passed smoothly and pleasantly, months giving way to years.

I enjoy having goals, so in addition to all the abuse and conditioning, I made it a long term project to destroy what little was left of that genius of hers. I could claim I did this for practical purposes - the dumber Candi became, the less likely she was to disobey me or disbelieve the lies I told her - but it was mostly just for my own satisfaction. We never appreciate beauty more than when it is being defiled and lost.

So when she deepthroated me, it was normal for her to pass out multiple times before I was ready to fill her stomach with more of her favorite condiment. If I was fucking her cunt or ass instead, my hand would return again and again to her throat, choking her out while she struggled to please me. And every time, I made sure to go just a bit too long. Twenty seconds, thirty… never long enough to risk killing her, but enough to ensure that she was losing something every time.

There was no obvious impact after any one session, but month to month you could see the difference. The way she’d forget words more and more often, the increasingly common unfocused look in her eyes. If I said something unusual to her, more than just a familiar command, there would be a growing delay to process what I’d said.

The first time I knocked her up was also the last time Candi displayed any real anger or resistance. She even demanded to see the fake paperwork for my fake vasectomy again after I claimed ignorance for how this could have happened. She wanted to abort the thing, for a slew of excellent reasons. I wanted to keep it, for just two selfish ones: pregnancy would be a miserable experience for her, and it would make her tits even fatter.

Guess which one of us got our way?

I’m not sure there’s anything in the world more adorable than a naked, pregnant sex slave huddled up in a dog cage that was already cramped before her belly started swelling. She’d whimper and mewl every time I came downstairs to play with her, trying to persuade me to treat her more gently without actually saying anything that might get her in trouble. But if she wanted to spend any time aboveground, she knew that laziness and poor performance wouldn’t get her there, so no matter how desperately she whined, soon enough that swollen baby belly would be jiggling as she worked as hard as ever.

I’ve never bothered naming any of the brats that have popped out of her. Most of the time she miscarries eventually thanks to exhaustion and poor nutrition, but sometimes the little buggers are persistent. She’s had three? Four? Don’t remember, don’t care. I leave them somewhere they’ll be found and then forget all about them.

I have fond memories of my return home after the first time. Candi was still asleep on the filthy cot where she’d given birth, the bedding drenched with fluids. I’d bound her hands behind her for the entire procedure, offering some flimsy bullshit about not wanting her to hurt herself. I’d given her no painkillers for the delivery, but she’d had the next best thing: my hard cock down her throat. “We” had agreed that the familiar activity would help her relax and take her mind off the pain. From the way she screamed around my shaft when the brat crowned, I don’t think it helped her much, but it felt FANTASTIC on my end.

Anyway, she started to rouse when I rolled her over, but she didn’t really wake until my cock found her asshole. “We’ll stitch that pussy up in a few days, make sure it stays tight as ever, sweetie,” I chirped in her ear as she trembled beneath my eager thrusts. “But for now, we’ll give your babymaker a break and enjoy your shithole instead.”

It took Candi several seconds to process my words, but she groaned unhappily once their meaning penetrated. “Please… sir…” she panted weakly. “So tired… hurts… please stop…”

I reached around her to grab two handfuls of warm, soft titmeat for leverage. They were heavy with milk, and I was looking forward to having some proper fun with them later. “Giving birth is no excuse for a bad attitude,” I chided gently while I put my full weight into pounding her asshole. “I was planning to let you relax upstairs with me for the next few days while you recovered, but if you’re going to be like this…”

Candi shuddered and began fucking me back. She was too exhausted to do much, but it was the thought that counted. “Sorry sir…” she begged. “I’ll be good… promise… please enjoy my shitter… nice and tight for you…”

Between her quiet sobs and clenching guts, it didn’t take me long to finish. On the very last thrust, I readjusted and plunged into her bloody gaping cunt instead. There was no friction to be found there, but it was worth it to feel her shudder as I spat my thick load directly into her womb. “Never too soon to start trying for the next one,” I told her cheerfully.

“Thank you… for your semen…” she mumbled weakly. “I love you… sir…”

I rolled her back over so I could sit on her sensitive tits while she licked her cunt and asshole off me. “There’s my good girl,” I encouraged while her tired tongue lapped at the bloody mess painting my shaft. “Once you’re done, I’ll give you a warm piss drink and then help you get back downstairs.”

Candi blinked at me, confused. “Buh… but you… you said…”

“Said what?” I asked innocently.

“Said… upstairs…”

“I said you could rest upstairs?” She nodded. “When?”

“Just… just now…”

“I said that I’ve been holding back lately so I don’t hurt the baby.” A lie in more ways than one. “And that now we could relax and spend the next few days downstairs making up for lost time. Remember?”

The soft, slow gears in her head turned, and I watched Candi accept that she’d been mistaken. I knew best, after all. “Oh…” she said dully.

“I’ll have to punish you after this for lying,” I told her.

“Mmm hmm,” she agreed sadly, and redoubled her cleaning efforts.

When I whipped her tits in the playroom soon after, lashing them so hard that they began dribbling milk, I doubt it hurt anywhere near as much as giving birth had, but I did my best to make her scream just as loudly. And the hollow look in her eyes as she crawled around and licked up the milk stains afterward… c’est magnifique.

That might have been the worst day in Candi’s life, but it’s difficult to say. It’s certainly up there, but it’s got some strong contenders. There was the time I introduced her to canine sex, which involved her dislocating her jaw around one mutt’s knot while another dilated her asshole so severely it didn’t close for days. The time we celebrated one of her birthdays by spending the first half of the day torturing her clit in various ways, and the second half with her smiling into a camera while she tried to masturbate with that swollen, ragged, infected little nub. Or maybe the time I bought a tattoo machine so I could cover her from head to toe in crude, disgusting artwork that ensured no one could ever look at her and see a normal human being.

There are many possibilities, all wonderful memories to cherish. I could go on and on forever, but just know that I dedicated my time to making her one of the most miserable people in the world, and she dedicated hers to making me one of the happiest. I think we both succeeded.

I finally said goodbye to Candi a little more than six years after we first met. It was a lazy morning in bed; for me, anyway. My pet had just finished a very enthusiastic throatfucking session, and was still kneeling between my legs, my limp cock draped across her cheek as she gently tongued my asshole. I hadn’t asked her to do that, but she knew I’d be sending her back to the basement once I got up, and was desperate to buy herself a few more seconds aboveground.

Mentally speaking, there wasn’t much of Candi left inside my pretty blonde ass eater. At this point, I’d peg her intelligence as closer to an actual dog than to the brilliant Princeton co-ed who’d tried her hand at stripping. I’ve spoken fondly about the physical damage responsible for her decline, but let’s take a moment to respect the invaluable contributions made by simple lack of mental stimulation. There was nothing in the playroom to stave off boredom except her own suffering, and even when aboveground, she hadn’t been allowed to do things like crack open a book or turn on the television for years. I was the only person she could interact with, and I’d stopped bothering with proper conversations a long time ago. When I talked to her, it was only to give orders or critiques; when she talked to me, it was never for any reason but to degrade herself.

Trapped in such a sterile and isolated environment, Candi’s mind had effectively atrophied, all that intelligence, charm, and wit sloughing off like dead skin. A couple weeks ago, on the sixth anniversary of our first meeting, I’d performed a little experiment to get a bead on her mental state. I surprised her that day by bringing her up from the basement and presenting her with some clothes - replicas of the same outfit she’d worn to the club - then sat her down at the kitchen table and asked a few probing questions about her plans for the future. Did she have any thoughts about returning to college someday, did she want to try reconnecting with her family, that sort of thing. Like she was actually my girlfriend and not my fuckpet.

I’ve seen Candi more relaxed in literal torture sessions. She’d needed help getting dressed and kept picking at her clothes, clearly uncomfortable to be wearing them. She looked unhappy about sitting at the kitchen table as well, fidgeting like she was doing something wrong. Using the furniture while aboveground had been off limits for years, after all.

And the questions… she responded to all of my queries with a blank, confused look, as though I was quizzing her about obscure mathematical theorems or speaking in a foreign language. A couple times she opened her mouth as of trying to find the words to speak, and then just shuddered and gave up. The most coherent thing she managed to say was “whatever you want, sir”.

Eventually I offered to take her out of the house to celebrate our anniversary, treat her to dinner and a movie, maybe a long walk around Lake Carnegie to enjoy the weather. She looked at me like I was suggesting she tear her own arms off. When I asked if she’d rather take off those clothes, crawl under the table, and celebrate by deepthroating me while I smacked her tits around, she wore an expression of genuine gratitude as she stripped.

I knew then that my time with Candi was nearly at an end. Don’t get me wrong, she was still an amazing fucktoy, better than ever at worshipping my cock. If my interest in her was purely physical, I could’ve continued happily punishing her fat tits and jizzing in her tight fuckholes for years and years.

But once there was no longer enough of her soul left to fuck… what’s the point?

As I laid in bed that morning, enjoying the soft tickle of her tongue inside my rectum, I let out a long, wet fart, then pushed. I gave Candi no warning, and she’d never done anything like this before, but she meekly opened wide and allowed me to use her mouth as a toilet. When my bowel movement had passed, she quietly swallowed, then resumed tonguing me as if nothing had happened. No anger, no complaint, not the slightest reaction over what I’d just made her do.

I sighed. “Sorry Candi, I think I’m officially bored of you.”

I’d already started making arrangements after our anniversary, and it only took a couple hours to make some calls and get her squared away. It would’ve been quicker and easier to just toss her out the front door and leave her to die in a gutter somewhere, but I suppose I’m not COMPLETELY heartless. My blonde pet had given me six incredible years, and in return I’d destroyed everything and everyone she ever cared about, herself included, so it was the least I could do.

Oh right, I haven’t told you about her parents yet. They never reached out to Candi again, and I never shared any updates with her, but I’d still kept tabs on them, just in case. A few years ago, Dad finally got the cancer diagnosis they’d been dreading, and reacted by putting a bullet in his brain. Mom was still unemployed at the time, thanks in no small part to their family being shunned by locals after rumors spread about their drug dealing daughter who’d betrayed the entire town’s trust. She wasn’t left with many options for feeding her three remaining children, so pretty soon, Candi was no longer the only whore in the family.

Recalling how taken my contractors had seemed to be with her, I’d let them know about the woman’s career change. A few days later, they thanked me with a photo of a beautiful blonde MILF trussed up and triple stuffed. I never saw Momma Candi again, and neither did her kids, but I’m sure she’s keeping busy.

Candi’s siblings ended up in foster care, separated and swallowed up by the system. I lost track of the two youngest, but the oldest turned twenty this year. Gorgeous girl, just like her mother and sister, smart as a whip too, but struggling to get by without anyone to rely on. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how to get in touch with her, see if I can convince her to let me lend a helping hand. Be a shame to let that dog cage downstairs stay empty for too long.

But before starting a new project, I had to say goodbye to my old one. Candi cried when I told her I was breaking up with her, but even she realized she had little to offer anymore outside of being a living sex toy. “I’m taking you to someone who’s going to take good care of you,” I told her gently. “He makes lots of videos - you’ve seen a few of them - and you’re going to be his next star. He has a big house with lots of dogs that you’re going to become very good friends with, and a playroom even larger than mine. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

She sniffed. “Yes, sir,” she whimpered. I couldn’t tell if she even understood what I was saying, but she knew the proper response.

“I’ve filled him in on all your rules and dietary restrictions. He’s already bought a flogger that’s going to be exclusively for beating your soft tits, and he’s sure you’re going to love living on dog cum. And don’t worry, he has plenty of your anxiety meds. You’re going to have to prove what a good girl you can be before he lets you have any, but I know that won’t be a problem.”

As she knelt in the passenger seat, ready to spend the drive giving road head for the final time, she looked up at me, her baby blues wet and shimmering. “S-sir?” she asked.

“What is it, Candi?”

“Th-thank you…” she said sincerely. “For… for everything…”

I smiled down at her. “It was my pleasure, sweetie. Really.”