Slave Of Hate

Slave of Hate

By Voyeur

Jan 2021

Based on a writing prompt from Kala: https://kala.bdsmlr.com/post/316478802

(Content warning- most of my other writing is  BDSM erotica in which everyone consents to get what they want.  This tale isn’t like that- it’s about racism, blackmail, non-consensual humiliation and degradation but ultimately it’s a revenge story with some castration fantasies. Less sexy, more vicious)

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ACT I-  BEGINNINGS

Jen Yin stared ahead as impassively as she could manage, glad that the mortifying shame and embarrassment she felt was not reflected on her beautiful face. She had her pride and her hatred nursing those burning feelings to get through being paraded as a bare-breasted slave before a room of lascivious men. She could feel DoucheBro’s leering eyes on her naked flesh and even though he held the end of the leash attached to her slave collar, she made particularly sure to never acknowledge his existence if possible. She despised DoucheBro so much that she refused to even think his name- so horrifically despicable was he to her.

He did have a name. She’d even known him 6 years ago back at Harvard. She’d been a smart, feisty, feminist go-getter- the first in her family to go to college. He was a rich, spoilt, self-aggrandising frat boy with a bad case of yellow fever who’d asked her out on a date. She made the mistake of giving him a chance and accepted. It was possibly the worst date she’d ever been on – he was casually racist, complimenting her on her English and asking how long since she’d arrived from China. She’d verbally slapped him down, telling him that her parents had emigrated and naturalised here before he’d been a gleam in a cracker’s eye and she’d been born and raised in Fresno. When he mocked the waitress for slow service and shorted her tip she’d defended the woman and made the mistake of mentioning that her family owned a restaurant- but how could she have known he’d squirrel away that titbit? The date had gotten worse from there- she’d worn a shoulderless top, so he‘d asked if the tattoos “meant anything in her culture”- though they were nothing more than her favourite flowers from a rebellious phase of her youth. He’d insisted that he couldn’t possibly be racist- since he liked rap music, anime and Asian women and called her an exotic flower. He’d insisted on walking her back to the dorm, despite her trying to escape him after the restaurant. He’d gotten huggy and kissy at the door, so she’d slapped him physically then, yelling loudly that his breath stunk and he was the most repulsive guy she’d ever met. Some white sorority girls were nearby so he’d fled in red-faced shame to their mocking laughter and jibes. She’d forgotten about him then- turning that awful date into nothing but a warning anecdote, but apparently that devastating blow to his pride had cut deep and festered.

They’d next crossed paths 5 years later. She’d graduated with honours, interned with some VC companies and finally joined a new pharma start-up. She’d spotted DoucheBro going out for a long lunch with her immediate boss- another over-privileged frat-bro. He’d seen her then and a feral smile crossed his face as he whispered to his bro confederate. She’d heard about him by then- he’d trailed a path of toxic, selfish, douchey behaviour across the news headlines. He’d done something clever and probably criminal in derivatives trading and made an early fortune. Then he’d bought a niche pharmaceutical company that specialised in drugs for rare diseases- with the patents they owned preventing competition he’d raised all the prices 6000% in the certain knowledge that his captive market of patients would pay or die. From the profits of that sociopathic act he’d won the auction for the world's only recording of an exclusive one-copy-ever released rap album- apparently he’d listened to it once, then thrown the record from his penthouse balcony so no one else could ever hear it. He really was DoucheBro.

Then the pandemic hit and 6 months ago somehow her laptop and phone got hacked. A bunch of nudes taken from her rebellious youth got sent around social media and work contacts. She was let go from her job- her smirking boss smart enough to give no actionable reason to protest other than to mutter she had brought disrepute on the company and it was an ‘at will’ state. How he’d come to be driving a new Ferrari several months before bonus time was never explained. Getting a new job was strangely difficult – no one local took her meetings and recruiters hinted that she’d been black listed. With her career in tatters and unable to afford the expensive rent she’d moved back home and helped out with the family restaurant. Her father had gotten terribly sick a few years before- the doctors said it was a rare condition, and after being declined for insurance coverage and with medication and treatment bills through the roof, her once proudly independent parents had needed to burn through their savings, credit cards and then remortgage the restaurant and house to the hilt. Then pandemic closures wiped out 80% of their trade and they couldn’t pay the mortgage and fell into arrears. She worked all hours with her mother, pivoting to delivery and take-away, but it simply wasn’t enough. She’d fall asleep to the sound of her mother weeping quietly and her father’s endless coughing each night.

So it was unusual when she got an official letter asking her to represent her parents’ interests to the mortgage holder who was considering foreclosing. Things made a lot more sense when she walked into the hotel meeting room and found a smirking DoucheBro across the table. She never discovered exactly how much of her personal and family misfortune he’d orchestrated with his ill-gotten wealth, but it was clear he’d been obsessing over her for years. The deal was simple- he’d bought the home and business mortgages and much of her personal and family’s credit card debt. If she didn’t play ball, then they’d lose everything they’d worked for, saved for and sacrificed for (including probably her father’s life) and be forced into bankruptcy and homelessness.

Or she could play ball. The mortgage foreclosure would be suspended and her father would even get a cheap supply of medication. What did DoucheBro want? Only her sexual servitude every second weekend till the mortgage was paid off. He could do whatever he wanted to her. She would be his Asian sex slave. His ‘China doll’ to play with and break if he wanted. She couldn’t say no to anything, or the deal was off. There would be nothing in writing- she just had to obey and pray he didn’t renegotiate. She thought long and hard about her options, but without evidence, leverage or money, there was only the single, deeply reluctant answer he had left for her.

That first weekend she learned 3 things. Firstly he was only insisting on her slavery every second weekend because naturally DoucheBro was cheating on his equally wealthy but more respected girlfriend whose charitable Habitat for Humanity schedule took her away each fortnight. Secondly that his dick was long, thin and floppy- too big to truly be a needle dick, she instead she mentally named it Noodle Dick. She suspected his interest in pharma companies probably came about from erectile dysfunction and his need for an unending supply of Cialis and Viagra which he scarfed like candy.

The third and final thing she learned was that only cold revenge could let her endure this nightmare of degradation. Somewhere in that weekend of debauched abuse – after he’d raped her a few times (since consent under duress is still rape), dry-buggered her till she screamed in tears, ‘marked her as my property’ by cumming over her face and hair and forcing her to let it drip-dry, slapping her tits black and blue then demanding an aching tit-fuck from his ‘Gook whore’ (inaccuracy in his slurs was yet another ‘charming’ aspect of his racism) until he’d finally had her blow him without a spreader gag for the first time.

She’d knelt between his legs, his dirty noodle dick poking her tonsils, the taste and smell alone making her gag. His hands carelessly pulling her hair, holding her down tight for minutes at a time till she choked and thrashed. He seemed fascinated by how long she could go without breathing and what sounds he could elicit from her throat.

To survive this oral rape she disassociated from her body and began to imagine, hate, and wonder. She despised him with a fury she’d never felt before. He was raping her and she couldn’t refuse him. He’d hurt her, dehumanised her, violated her every way he could. She longed to hurt him back. She wondered if she could chomp down on that boneless noodle and bite off his dick?! She had a strong jaw, healthy teeth and with a sharp, sudden movement she could probably sever it off. But she grew queasy at the thought of that gush of blood filling her mouth and the mess of gristle she’d have to spit out. And what if she hesitated? Or her slicing bite didn’t kill or incapacitate him? He’d bash her face in- probably beat her to death in an enraged fury if he could. And then what would come after? A trial where any male judge or juror would hear the charge, wince, cross their legs protectively and believe her guilty. She’d be the new Lorena Bobbitt and the shame and notoriety would kill her family and ruin her life. But still… if anyone deserved castration it was DoucheBro. The sounds he’d make, the look of agony on his surprised face would delight her for eternity. Wouldn't it feel good? Like justice? Didn’t he deserve it for this weekend of hell? And all the many weekends ahead? Better to nip it in the bud now…it was a tempting thought and her jaw tensed as she considered it. But as she weighed it up in her mind (and somewhere far away, his cock kept sawing in and out of her throat) she realised that biting off his cock would not save her family. If he died, then the mortgage debt would be processed by the estate, they’d foreclose to make their money back and her family would still lose everything. If he lived, then he’d undoubtedly ruin her family anyway. No… she had to be smarter. She had to endure and learn his weaknesses, pay as much attention to his affairs as he had spent on hers until she could see a way to save her family and revenge herself. Castrating him with her teeth would have to be Plan B (B for Bobbit) if all else failed.

Something in her thoughts must have shown on her face. Through his groin she felt him gulp and she looked up to see worry writ large across his face, suddenly conscious of the tremendous vulnerability of oral sex with someone who hates you. He quickly pulled his cock back out of her mouth, and it bobbed nervously, painting her saliva across her nose and cheek. His eyes bored down at her, trying to decipher her motivation. She lowered her eyes submissively and bobbed for his cock, using her pillowy lips so he could feel no trace of teeth. He finally relaxed then, enjoying her surrender and eventually came, splooging his bitter semen across his tongue. She made sure to swallow all that vile liquid, then opened her mouth to prove her status. She still hated him and would destroy him, but he’d never believe her if she capitulated or pretended to love her blackmailer. Better instead to appear reluctant but cowed, compliant but not enthusiastic. He could believe that, and that would be his downfall. 

(Continued in Act 2- Endurance)