Page 30 of Fallen Daughters

Her tiny naked frame lay crumpled on the floor, still pressed up against the wall, yet she didn’t shake. I wanted her to fucking shake. I wanted to see that she felt something. I wanted to see that her soul wasn’t fucking dead. Where was her goddamn fear? I would kill her just to hear her cry. If I didn’t do something, I would break her neck just so I could see a small glimpse of fear.

With the overpowering need to regain some semblance of power, I unzipped my pants. She broke her stare to look at my cock, with the first real signs of fear present as I pulled it out. I liked it. I liked seeing the terror surface in the depths of the dark blue eyes that stared helplessly up at me. I was a sick bastard. I knew this.

Feeling all the fury of my life bubble inside. Feeling all my hate. Feeling all the dark fucking evil that consumed all of who I was, I allowed the piss to leave my body in a rush as I growled. The liquid splashed down on her exposed body, covering her in my waste. The golden stream flowed out as I felt all my built up angst flow out with it. Hate exited me and rained down upon her. Hurt exploded from deep inside of my gut and showered against her creamy-white flesh, tainting her purity with my pollution.

Yet, she was beautiful. So insanely beautiful. The wetness coated her flesh, dripped from her hard nipples, and dampened the tiny little curls on her pubis. My cock hardened, but I maintained my control. And as I continued to pee on her, humiliate her, shame her, splashing the reality onto her soul, shocking her with the darkness of her situation, I watched as her eyes overflowed with tears, and she finally cried. My beauty finally gave me what I needed. She showed me that she was indeed vulnerable. She was indeed alive.

She was afraid.

The big droplets of her misery cascaded down her face as the last of my piss fell down on her.

I had finally won a battle.

She had shown her fear.

And I finally felt as if a thick, black, sinister evil had left my body.



Why? Why did this man hate me so? What was I doing to make him so angry? I was doing everything he asked. I was submitting. I was being his fucking slave! What more did this asshole want?

I couldn’t help it anymore. I could no longer be brave and fight against the tears. Misery was too strong. It wasn’t the abuse. It wasn’t the humiliation. It was the way he looked down upon me. Such hatred. And yet, I could see so much pain. He was in as much pain as I, and I didn’t know why.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said in an almost lifeless voice. Each syllable came out like the staccato of rapid gunfire.

He bent down and lifted my limp and soiled body. He didn’t seem to mind that my filth… his filth… was getting all over him as well. I wrapped my arms around his neck and allowed him to carry me to the bathroom in his cradled embrace. I didn’t say anything. Nor did he. I just cried.

He placed me into the shower and turned on the water. Although the water shot out of the showerhead at a bitter cold temperature, Loic quickly adjusted the temperature until it was delightfully warm. So very warm. The water washed away my tears, and washed away the terror and pain—yet a pleasure in the most taboo of ways—that had just occurred.

He discarded his dirty clothes and stepped into the shower himself. He was naked. And except for all the exposed cocks in the auditorium, this was the first man I truly had ever seen completely nude. I had had men try to take what they wanted in the past, but they never took the time to remove much more than their pants, and luckily I had been able to fight them all off. But there was no point in fighting this man off. He was my trainer. And unless I wanted to be shoved off the cliff, this was my destiny.

I stepped to the side a bit so we could both share the streaming water. Maybe I should have moved fully out of the way, but I just couldn’t. This was the first warm and pleasant shower that I could clearly remember having in my life. I had to relish the small pleasures if I was to ever survive this nightmare of life.

“Hand me that bottle,” he said, pointing to a clear plastic container.

I did so, and he squeezed it into his palm and then reached for my hair and began to massage it into my scalp.