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In a manner of speaking, we were friends. Just the kind of friends that indulge in a whole lot of word-foreplay without ever actually taking it to bed.
The kind of friends that openly admitted their attraction to one another and displayed their filth so as to reel each other closer and closer by the day.
The kind of friends that could point to the dirt where each other’s skeletons lay buried while explaining why the dirt itself was worthy of more attention.
I was just unsure if we would ever actually do anything about it.

So when he asked me to take a walk with him that evening I thought nothing of it. I put on my running shoes, shorts and a loose gray T-shirt and met him outside my building at dusk. Neither one of us ever really liked walking in parks so we let our feet pick a direction for us and walked into the labyrinth of narrow alleys of the city. He talked about his thankless job that he had finally decided to quit; just like he had decided the same thing the week before. I talked about my fiancé’s family and the pressures to bear children.

We laughed.

Somehow we ended up in a part of town neither one of us had ever been in before. On one side there was something of a cross between a park and a forest; on the other there was a boarded up gas station with what looked like an old abandoned bus parked on the side.
We shared a passion (or a pathology) for all things abandoned. It didn’t take words for us to tell each other that we should walk towards it.
I climbed in first and he followed right behind me. It was dark so he turned on the flashlight in his phone and we began to look around.
Foliage and inches of dust had taken over most of the seating area.

“Come sit next to me,” he said plopping down on a small area of available seating halfway down the bus as the dust few into the air and made me cough. I sat down next to him; our thighs touching slightly. He turned the flashlight off, and then there was darkness.
We sat, side-by-side, talking suggestively like we always did at some point in our time together.
“You know,” he said with a sudden onset of excessive force, “Someday I’m going to rape you.”
My throat turned dry as i turned towards him.
“What?” I asked slightly horrified yet unable to resist the power of that magic word, “Why would you say that? You know my..history, you jerk.”
I tried to laugh it off and turn the conversation in another direction but he wasn’t having it.
“Oh I know *something* happened,” his tone acquiring a serious quality, “But what was it? You never tell me, little girl.”
“Why must we speak of these things?” I asked, extremely grateful for the darkness, “It’s done. It’s over. Why must we talk about it?”
“Why can’t we?” he asked in a loud, firm whisper, “We’re friends. So tell me… Who was he?”

I looked in his direction; long and hard yet seeing nothing at all. My mouth started talking without waiting for my consent.
“My mother’s cousin…” I told him looking down into my lap as my cunt started to twitch at his mention, “He lived with us for a while when I was..a young girl.”
“And what did he do to you, this man who still makes you gulp?” He asked moving his mouth close enough to my ear that I could *feel* his words.
“He cornered me in my bedroom one day when no one was home,” I said my breathing slowly giving me away, “and told me he’d show”
“Do you ever think of him, girl?” He asked his tone growing more menacing.
“I do,” I confessed slowly as a tear began to form at the corner of my eye, “I think of him..sometimes.”

“And what do you do when this man comes creeping into you mind and decorates your thoughts?”
I let out an audible moan and a slight sniff before I offered a response, “I touch myself. And cry. Sometimes both at the same time.”
“Touch yourself then,” he said his voice more forceful than I’d ever heard it before, “Put your hand inside your shorts and tell me each thought that crosses your mind.”
“But….” I started to protest.
“Do it.” He said with finality, “Do it, little whore.”

I took a deep breath and realized there was no way I wasn’t going to comply. I arched my back, slid my hand inside my panties and gasped at the wet mess I had already made. I squirmed against my hand and heard him snigger into my ear.
“Tell me what you think of when you touch yourself to him,” his breath lighting every pore in my body, “What does it do to you?”
With my fingers playing with my cunt, my tongue loosened instantly.
“It turns me on,” I said in breathless whispers, “To remember him skulking around my empty house telling me he could do whatever he wanted and I couldn’t stop him if I tried.”
“Was your cunt still bald then, little girl?” He asked his own arousal barely masked by his dulcet tone.
“Yes it was,” I said, tears streaming down my face, “He’d grab the headboard and thrust into me with such force..while I cried silently.”
“Tell me every filthy detail,” he demanded, “Did he split you open with his cock? Was your little hole warm and inviting once he began his assault?”
“It bled almost every time,” I said playing with the wetness between my fingers, “I’d look at him all innocent and pleading while he’d look away and call me whore.”
“Touch your throbbing clit,” he commanded, “Slow but very hard. Like it deserves to be punished.”
I started to squirm and whimper.
“He’d tell me my hole was so little,” I continued telling him, “That he’d be gentle if I wasn’t such a slut.”
“Sit still you whore and move only your hand,” he said fiercely, “Punish your clit harder and tell me so much more.”

“Once he made me thank him for fucking me so hard,” I said the tears drenching my shirt as I squeezed my little clit harder, “I didn’t even fight him, I just did what I was told.”
“That’s because you’re a filthy whore,” he scoffed, “Thanking the man who befouled you. Keep hurting your little clit girl, or you’ll never ever learn.”
“Sometimes I think..I wish I had cum on his filthy cock,” I admitted, “His dirty breath in my mouth and his face wet with my tears.”
“Shove your fingers up that little cunt,” he demanded, “Can you feel him pummeling your hole? You want to cum all over his cock, you dirty slut?”
“God I’m so fucking wet…” I sobbed to him as I moaned.
“Stretch that little hole out,” he said, “That’s exactly what he felt when he was up there. Do you think he could help raping your perfect little cunt?”
“Goodness…” I whispered moving my fingers deeper.
“How can any man help himself?” He asked, “Especially when you’re so wet like that..only whores get that wet.”
“How I hate him I cannot tell you..” I screamed, “But god how I wish it were him hurting my little hole..”
“Because you’re such a dirty whore,” he accused, “Now fuck that hole deeper and feel it spasm just like he did. You love it don’t you, you bitch?”
“I hate it,” I said through gritted teeth and loud, audacious moans, “But I love much more.”
“Clench your hole tighter to stop him from entering just like you did before,” he instructed, “then fuck that whore cunt harder just like it deserves.”
“I need to cum,” I begged between breathes and helpless moans; my eyes closed and my hand moving furiously, “Please, please let me cum.”
“Then think of his dirty cock raping you,” he said with nonchalance, “And cum you filthy fucking whore.”

He laughed as I screamed and sobbed and thrashed against the dirty seat of that bus. He laughed harder as I pulled out my drenched fingers out of my throbbing hole.
“In your mouth, little slut,” he scoffed, “You clean your own damn mess.”

It took me a little while to regain my composure. I cried and shook for a little while before falling silent into a distant world.
He turned the flashlight on once more and looked at my red face.
“You didn’t touch me…” I observed softly.
“I know,” he replied smiling.
“…but it feels like you raped me,” I said looking away from his face.
“I know,” he said guiding my face towards his with a light trace of his finger, “and I’d do it over and over and over again.”
I looked at him for a while; sad but fierce, and then turned my face toward nothingness.
He was silent; I had disappeared. He clicked the flash light off once more.
“Then there was darkness,” I said sarcastically, “Once more.”
“And that’s not a bad thing,” he laughed, “You perfect little whore.”


About ancilla9876

I'm a young, female, Indian submissive and masochist. I am many other things, of course. But this blog mostly deals with the contents of my lede sentence.

One response to “Proxy.

  1. Very touching piece of writing Ancilla. I feel so compassionate towards you and feel the pain through which you might have gone.

    But i also admire the sensitivity you have. Continue writing such beautiful pieces.

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