Slave Of Hate

ACT II -  ENDURANCE

Those first 4 weekends or so DoucheBro ran wild with a lifetime of his sadistic, humiliating, racist fantasies, and she just had to endure it. She clung to her dignity and tried to keep her eyes from welling up with tears.

After getting all the blowjobs, anal and tit-wanks that his girlfriend refused him (since he considered it unmanly to go down on her) out of his system, he started to get more imaginative. He had her dress up in a Japanese anime sailor outfit, then gave her a specially imported squirming, curling, articulated tentacle vibrator to ram up her pussy, while she sucked on a hard purple Kraken tentacle dildo. Behind her he set the wall screen to play Hentai on a loop while he played with his own little tentacle till he sprayed across her face. He even made her scream ‘KAWAIII!!” every time she came (she faked those orgasms, naturally) as he settled back and watched his real-life Asian schoolgirl molest herself with tentacles while he flicked through his phone and half paid attention to the Hentai plot. Occasionally he’d tell her to imitate the action on the screen- particularly when the tentacles thrust into both front and back passages- that really stung as the squirming vibe would press against the irregular protruding suckers of the hard plastic dildo stretching out her asshole.

After discovering she hadn’t watched much Anime in her life, he decided it was his duty to educate/mansplain her in ‘Asian culture’. This led to the next weekend when there was the big MangaCon in town. She was naked save for strappy sandals and a simple shift dress that was really just 2 sheets pinned. RFID-controlled magnetic fasteners at the shoulders and sides held the two sheets together. It was bad enough that her naturally perky nipples tented the thin dress, and it’s mid-thigh length made her legs very visible amongst the hordes of anime fans. She found them an interesting mix- a fair proportion of obese white neckbeard man-children in ill-fitting t-shirts, but also plenty of Asian girls with dyed hair and alt-culture representation. Her sense of impending dread lifted a little as she realised that she could easily have fit in here if she’d been a fan. She really liked the imagination that the vividly dressed cosplayers were showing in the Cosplay Competition- even if half of them had bad wigs or over-sized weapons. Her stomach turned when DoucheBro told her that she was cosplaying too- someone called ‘Chika Minazuki’ from an obscure Anime he liked.

“What pose does she do?” Jen asked innocently, having just seen nearby cosplayers all adopt iconic poses for a photograph.

“This one!” he said, pressing a button on his phone..

**click** - the magnets deactivated and her dress fell off her.

Eyes widening instantly, cheeks going straight to scarlet embarrassment she grabbed the front and back sheets as they floated away. Half-crouching, legs-crossing to hide her pussy, one hand pressed the balled up front sheet across her breasts and the other arm wound behind her to pickup the other sheet to cover her ass.

* click * he took a photo of her mortified, embarrassed face as she tried to hide her nudity from the equally astonished and silent crowd.

‘Click’. ‘Click’. ‘Click’. Then a ‘Flash’ from a professional lens. A sea of phone’s came out as the neckbeard fans took picture after picture. If nudity hadn’t been against the rules, she would have won the Cosplay Competition by popular acclamation!

Hot tears of shame running down her face, she fled through the warren of stalls and artist alleys till she found a little privacy to catch her breath and stop weeping. DoucheBro caught up with her and she found the magnet fasteners in her dress working once again and she was able to re-don it. Much as she begged him, he wouldn't let her leave. Instead he made her walk around the whole convention with him. And whenever it was funny for him, he’d press his little button and her clothes would fly off to the gasps, shock and amazement of the local crowd. Her mortifying embarrassment never got old. He did it 5 more times before Security caught up with her and kicked her out of the con with a lifetime ban. Though she was Still weeping from the public humiliation he insisted on road-head from her, her tears soaking into his crotch as he reminisced and proclaimed it the best MangaCon he’d ever been to!

The following weekend was awful in a new way as he found new ways to racially denigrate her. Though she was Chinese-American, he’d dressed her as a Japanese Geisha- including the thick white make up and a fan-shaped hair piece. She had to serve him in a tea-ceremony, kneeling before him and filling it with submissive bows and gentle movements. He had a theory that while geisha’s were supposed to be refined, cultured, elegant companions, they were really little more than just dressed up Asian whores. So after he had drunk his tea, she had a script to recite from memory, straight out of Full Metal Jacket:

“Hey, baby. You got girlfwend Mister?” - her stomach turned at the broken ‘Engerish’ she had to use

“Not just this minute.” - it’s like he knew every line

“Well, baby, me so horny! Me so HORNY! Me love you long time. You party?” -bile rose up inside her

“Yeah, we might party. How much my Gook whore?” -she could see he was revelling in calling a grown woman whore to her face- changing his lines to add an extra insult.

“Fifteen dollah”.

“Your not worth Fifteen dollars, skank”

“Yeah, fifteen dollar. Me love you long time. Me so HORNY!”- It cut her heart in two to pretend to be perky and excited.

“Five dollars is all you are worth you slant-eyed hooker.”

“Me sucky-sucky. Me love you too much. Okay. Ten dollar.”

“What do I get for ten dollars slut?”

“Every t'ing you want.”

“Everything?”

“Every t'ing. Me buku good. Suckee, fuckee, smoke cigarette in the pussy, I give you everyt’ing you want. Boom-Boom long time. Everyt’ing!” - she almost vomited at that line.

“5 Dollars, but I won't be long. I’ll skip the foreplay”

“Ok, 5 dollah”

Then he rolled up a 5 dollar bill, reached his hand up the slit of her geisha dress and pressed it into her pussy. He did skip the foreplay- face-fucking her untilgagging tears of asphyxiation carved runnels down the white pancake that masked her face. He spun her around, pulled up her silk kimono and banged her hard from behind, driving the rolled up $5 deeper into her, the sounds of slapping flesh filling the room, his breath hot on the nape of her neck. His hand reached round and fingers dug into her soft breast, twisting and kneading it painfully.

“Say it again!” he ordered.

“Me so horny!” she gasped. He thrust hard, tearing into her dry pussy

“AH! .. Me So Horny!” -another agonising thrust. Fingers digging into tit-meat.

“AHHH …. Love you… long time” she gasped through the pain

“Say it you worthless Five Dollar Gook slut” - he was rutting faster now, getting closer to ejaculation

“Boom-boom…. Ah!…. Number One Fuckee!” she screamed as his noodle cock drove the wadded bill right up her deepest channel, then flooded it with his spunk.

He staggered back, spent and messy from transferred make-up. She was just a mess, lungs heaving like bellows, leaking at both ends, white face turned into a Heath Ledger Joker-nightmare, some trace blood turning the sperm pink as it trickled from between her thighs. When she gingerly and painfully inserted her longest fingers to pull the soaked $5 bill from her raw and scratched pussy, she never felt more like a cheap whore. He’d made her feel that way- a worthless sex object for a white man to slake his lust upon.

But she wasn’t. She reminded herself that she was being blackmailed. She was doing this to save her family and her fathers life. He was the worthless piece of shit here. And she would make him pay. Yes she would.

Whether he sensed part of her underlying defiance or just the embodiment of racist misogyny, he decided to double down on his Asian whore theme the next day. He took her out walking the streets dressed like the Da Nang Hooker from the movie- high heels, side-slit mini-skirt, pink crop top that barely covered her tits and ribs and a white handbag. Some men whistled or catcalled, but no one approached while she was walking alongside a skinny white guy in a suit. After walking long enough for her feet to ache in the heels (and her hips from the sashaying swing he wanted her to do- he was almost Kubrickian in his attention to detail sometimes) they got to a homeless encampment under the bridge. He went ahead and started talking to homeless guys and handing out money.

He came back, a dozen rough-sleeping, unwashed guys in tow. Jen looked around nervously- was he going to pimp her out to all these guys?

“Kneel slut” he said, and despite her trepidation she did, knees bruising on the broken concrete. A couple of guys crowded round and pulled down their pants, palms kneading their cocks. DoucheBro, nostrils wincing at their smell stepped upwind and away and she could just hear his voice from behind the eye-level forest of stinking, sprouting wood.

“See people think Bukkake is just a cum fetish- that’s what porn would have you believe. But if you study the history of it like I have, it was really a punishment. If a woman had done something wrong- cheated on her husband for example, then the whole village would rally together and give her the most humiliating punishment possible. Every man she knew would cum across her face, so she would know that she was just a cheap, worthless whore, just good for catching spooge.”

“You were a cheap whore yesterday. Now you look like one. And this is what Gook hookers get! Hose her down boys!”

And with that a firing squad of spunk shot out at her. Hands a-blur a guy would thrust close and shoot bitter-white slimetrails across her forehead, her nose, her eyes then be replaced by the next one. She sealed her mouth shut rather than taste it, but the acrid, bleachy smell filled her nostrils.  Tears ran from her screwed shut eyes,  salting the sperm mask.  One guy came in her ear, spunk overflowing from it, and making her feel like she needed to pop it. Sperm clagged up her dark hair, and ran down her cheeks like the rivulets of white make-up the day before. That terrible, dark feeling of humiliation and worthlessness filled her again- how had a successful young graduate become nothing more than a cum catcher for winos? But that was victim thinking and she would not be a victim for long! It was easier to suppress those victim thoughts and  replace them with burning anger!  Eyes glued shut, ritually humiliated, alone against the unfair, toxic patriarchy she would make DoucheBro pay!

He made her walk home without cleaning up, 5 steps behind him. They could both see the looks of surprise and disgust when they got close enough to see and smell what translucent liquid coated her face and chest. Some men still catcalled, but it was the aghast judgement of other woman that struck her most- blaming her for an assumed exhibitionist kink. One was kind though and offered her some wet wipes, but Jen could only shake her head and trudge on, her rage balled up to a cold simmer.

Once home he had her shower thoroughly (he wasn’t a fan of other people’s bodily fluids) and then marked his territory again, reclaiming her as his exclusive property by going around the world on her- pussy, ass, mouth. As she sucked his shitty cock, she was tempted to resort to Plan B and just bite down. But already he was letting his guard around her, leaving her in rooms alone, even sleeping without a locked door between them.  She had planted a keylogger on his laptop and  would soon have access to his cloud. Her opportunity would come soon.

(Continued in Act 3- Action)