Thorns of Hate

Dear Mom and Dad,

I hope with all my heart you’re doing okay. I’m sorry I’ve been quiet for so long. Finally, since I’ve been good, he let me write to you. You can guess it—I’ve been kidnapped. I can’t tell you more, sorry. Don’t worry, I’m fine now—and honestly, I’m even happy with this new life.

The first few weeks, I couldn’t swallow this new life. My captor, with his endless sex hunger, forced me to drain him several times a day. Every time, he’d take me for hours before he was done, and the pain tore up my private parts. I tried to fight back, but he had everything to break me: punches, taser, starvation.

One day, I dared to rebel by refusing to drink his cum off the floor, even after his torture. I regretted it fast. He tied me to a chair in a dark room for a whole day. Electrodes hooked my nipples and vagina to a machine set to zap me hard every five minutes. A plastic tarp wrapped me tight, no way to rip it off, while the heat turned the room into a furnace. In that hell, I screamed for help at first, begged for mercy with all I had. After an hour, seeing it was pointless, I stopped wasting my breath. The shocks wouldn’t let me rest. My mouth dry, dying of thirst, I fought to breathe.

That night, I heard the door creak, and I’d never felt such relief. I cried hot tears. My torturer turned into my savior in a snap. He won—after that, I followed all his rules and wants without a second thought.Around him, I had to stick to strict rules:

Rule 1: I don’t speak unless he told me to or asking me direct questions.
Rule 2: I’m his property, and I call him Master—or Daddy, depending on his mood.
Rule 3: Walking is forbidden, I must crawl on all fours unless he says otherwise.
Rule 4: No hands without his permission—I do everything with my mouth.
Rule 5: I can’t ask for anything without bringing him something from the box—glass for water, bone for food, mic for a special request, showerhead for the toilet, ball to play, and so on.

I wore a harness all the time that locked my arms and legs, making my hands and feet useless. So, I could only move on all fours, ass up, dragging myself on my elbows and knees—a tough position I’ll never get used to.

That’s how I became Roxy, the bitch—a name carved on the collar I wear nonstop. To finish my look, I had to keep an anal plug I couldn’t take out myself, with a dog tail hanging behind, and a headband with droopy ears screwed onto my head.

Now, I sleep in a tiny kennel stuck next to Master’s bed. It’s so small I have to curl up on my side. For meals, I’ve got a double bowl—one side water, the other a tasteless mush packed with nutrients, something astronauts use, I guess. 

On days he’s in a good mood, Master rewards me with one or two sausages he tosses on the floor.Regular toilets are a faded memory. A litter box sits in the living room by the TV, where I can pee whenever I want. But for the big stuff, it’s trickier. I have to dig in the box for a rubber turd and bring it to Master. Only then does he bother to pull out my plug and let me go to the yard. Outside, he walks me near the trees and watches me empty out. After, he takes me to the bathroom and cleans me out carefully with an enema bulb.

During the week, my daily routine never changed. Rain or snow, my schedule stayed the same: 

7:00 AM: I wake up.

7:30 AM: The walk.

8:00 AM: The wash.

9:00 AM: Breakfast.

10:00 – 10:45 AM: Workout, different each day—ball game, treadmill, Sensory Trial course, rope climb.

11:30 AM–1:00 PM: Bondage session.

1:00 – 3:00 PM: Lunch break.

3:00 – 4:00 PM: Walk.

4:00 – 7:00 PM: Free time.

7:00 – 8:00 PM: Dinner.

8:00 – 10:00 PM: Sex training.

With a schedule that packed, after a month, I turned into a deepthroat pro. My favorite position for it is the yoga bow pose. Lying on my stomach, I grab my ankles with my hands, bending my body into a tight arch. Master fucks my mouth then, moving my head back and forth—sometimes rough, sometimes slow to make me work my breath. When he sees me struggle to hold it, in his big kindness, he cuffs my wrists to my ankles to spare me the effort. That position also lets another guy lie on me and take me from behind at the same time, doubling up my feelings.

Now, my ass and pussy can take objects of all sizes, from tiny to huge. Ever heard of DADV? It’s double anal and double vaginal! Not many people know what it’s like to get fucked by four guys at once—five if you count the mouth. It takes some damn good planning!

Being treated like a dog so much, I think I’m losing my mind. My thoughts get messy, I don’t know who I am anymore, all I think about is sex and pleasing Master. Sometimes, I even forget how to talk—my words fade, replaced by barks that just slip out. What if that’s my real self deep down? Honestly, I don’t care, as long as I can mess with my sex toys, I’m good.

Every weekend, Master’s friends came to play with me, and I spent the whole day keeping them happy, often till late at night. Their wild ideas dragged me into all kinds of games. Like in "Guess Who," I stand in the middle of a circle, blindfolded. I crawl toward someone, suck them off, then guess who it is. If I get it wrong, I get a penalty—smacks, weights clamped on my lips or nipples, extra stuff shoved up my ass. But if I nail it, some pat my head nicely, others give me a hot kiss or make me cum with a vibrator.

The last game I played was called “Milky Shot.” They pumped a liter of ice-cold milk up my ass, then plugged it with a tennis ball. Once I was full, my belly swelled up huge, bulging like I was a few months pregnant. The player had to make me shoot the ball into a basket. Set on a cart like a rolling cannon, I was on my knees, ass up in a prayer pose, while he moved my body to aim right. Each player got three tries, and the game lasted three rounds. No need to say, after that, I was totally wiped out.

Sometimes, another slave came with a guest, and they set up competition games for fun. The challenges were deepthroat breath-holding contests, tug-of-war—rope in the mouth on all fours—and obstacle races with all the usual restraints. At the end of each round, the winner got a break, while the loser took a punishment. In the last match, Lisa lost three times straight and got hooked to a car battery. For twenty minutes, I heard her squeal like a pig, her screams mixing with the guests’ taunts and laughs.

Most of these guys love rough sex—slaps, choking, spankings nonstop. They get off on strangling me while they pound me from behind, as I fight to break free from their grip. Some go harder, yanking my head back by the hair, folding my body like paper. The worst was when a giant I thought was hot lifted me by the neck, slamming me against the wall while he fucked me raw. My feet dangled off the ground, every second felt like forever. I thought it was over, so I came one last time. But before I blacked out, he filled me with his hot load, then threw me on the couch like a cheap rag doll.

Some of Master’s friends, African black bulls, are real beasts—they ram their massive cocks down my throat. With training, I can take it all, but when they speed up too much, I end up spitting and puking everywhere. They still cheer me on, never slowing their wild thrusts. Breathing turns into a rare treat: out of air, my face goes bright red, my eyes tear up on their own, and my nose runs like a faucet. Sometimes, they switch it up—pressing me against them, throat stuffed with their meat, they make me dance on my knees: forward, back, left, right. Thanks to them, I’ve learned to hold my breath crazy long, like a pro swimmer.

At the end, some shoot straight down my throat, others on my face, in my eyes, or on my forehead. Some blast it on the floor and drag me by the hair to lick it up. The “nice” ones mix their cum with food—banana, cookie, or pizza chunk—then make me eat it. For vaginal or anal loads, some scoop it out of me and feed it to me with a teaspoon, like it’s yogurt.

After those exhausting days, I’m relieved to crawl into my kennel, soaking up every second of hard-earned rest. But the weirdest thing? When I think back on all I’ve been through, I get hot right away, and my heart pounds fast and loud.

In my free time, the only thing I’m allowed to do is touch myself. There’s a screen in my kennel blasting porn nonstop, and a whole stash of sex toys right there—some are badass high-tech gear. My favorite’s the Womanizer 2.5: it buzzes in my ass and sucks my clit at the same time, my loyal fuck buddy. But here’s the catch—the more I use it, the less it hits, and I keep needing more and more to feel it.

I’m writing this letter to say goodbye. The Hannah you knew is gone. After tasting pleasures this wild, there’s no going back. Regular sex barely does anything for me now. I’ve turned into Roxy, the dirty bitch—a nasty slut desperately starving for cocks. Now, I’m all in as their sick toy, something Master and his guests use however they want in their darkest games.

Dear Mom and Dad,
Attached is a photo where I give you my best smile. Take care of yourselves. 

I love you.

Roxy. Attachment: (Photo of Roxy, blonde with blue eyes, naked, lying on her stomach, gripping her ankles to arch her body. Her face, wrecked by tears mixed with runny makeup, gets twisted by a masked guy yanking her mouth into a creepy, forced grin.)