F.U.C.K.

Season 2 Episode 1 | The Journey

The doors opened, and the morning sun streamed in.

I was blinded, blinking. I felt bodies press in, and I couldn’t hold back the piss. The relief shuddered through me like an orgasm, and I took a deep breath as voices filled the back of the van, one over the top of another like a broken symphony of disgust and dismay. I tried to turn my head, but the stiffness in my neck prevailed. I couldn’t feel my arms. My legs were numb. My jaw ached from the gag, and I wondered how long I could go on before I broke.

Metal creaked. Voices again, all at once, filled my ears like the cocks filled my mouth. Weeks of cock breaking my mouth open until I knelt panting, cum leaking from my chin. Weeks of cocks in my ass. They laughed at me when I couldn’t hold back, soiling myself in the garden. Tears leaking down my cheeks as I pressed my face in the dirt, the sounds of their laughter fading with their steps, knowing they would be back again the next day to have their fill. To fill me up. Again and again until there was nothing left but what they wanted. And what I wanted, I needed, I thought and felt and was — until there was…until there was nothing left.

Of who I was.

The ground passed swiftly underneath me, and I could barely register the ground, the grass, the gravel, the grunts of the young men carrying me, their shoes a blur like the ride.

How long was I back there? The smell was different here — the air in the back of the van dank and disgusting, and I knew that was — I did that. How long? How far did we go? Tears and memories all dashed against the rubber floor of the cage as I knelt there drooling in darkness. The sun had been setting when they’d strapped me into that cage, and it was rising now. But was it only the night? A night of driving? What was a night of captivity compared to weeks as a free-use cunt?

And yet, when they stopped in front of a metal pole, I knew that this wasn’t done. One hundred days. I glanced up at the solid steel pole, felt the top of the cage release, the metal breathe, and I knew my summer of service had barely begun.

Hands again — I closed my eyes, welcoming the warmth of their touch — grabbed my body. Ankles and wrists, hands at my waist, and one set of hands cradling my head. They lifted, and I hung in their grip like a doll, lifeless yet breathing, my eyes gulping in great breaths of the wooden beams, stacks of hay, the dirt floor underfoot and the slab of concrete they placed me on. Hands lifted and pulled, and I couldn’t have met them with the slightest resistance if my life had depended on it. Clips snapped into place, a tug on my collar, and I was fixed to the pole, arms and legs held fast, kneeling in the easy morning light streaming through a barn window.

“Wash it,” came a voice I recognized. And then a face to match — the young, black woman, standing before me in jeans and a black tank. Boots climbed her calves and ended at her knees. A bright belt buckle at her waist was the only adornment. Her face was soft, her eyes nothing so kind, and she opened her phone and turned away just as someone stepped in front of me with a rag and bucket and began to wash my face. My body was next. Methodical, not sensual. Not like Daddy, his eyes kind, his hands warm where the cold hose found me. His fingers trailing across my skin like he owned every inch. And didn’t he? But here, the boys that washed me — like the ones who fucked me day in and day out on the farm — took as much time washing me as they would a dog, not once finding my eyes, their rags and mitts as full of suds as their eyes were empty of tenderness.

The hose washed over me, and I shrieked, shuddering, my nipples hardening to aching nubs. The cold water splashed over my head and I sputtered, gasping yet trying to swallow what water I could around the metal ring that forced my tongue to the bottom of my mouth. I coughed and heaved, then moaned when the blast of water hit my clit. Laughter rang out, then subsided abruptly as the hose target shifted, and then shut off, and I knelt there dripping and needy and desperate for the hose on my clit again as the young woman snapped her phone shut and stared down at me.

“Welcome to your new home, cunt. New home, new rules,” she said, a smirk on her beautiful face. She stepped closer, towering over me in her boots, taking a beat to let me take the whole of her in, and hope — just then, a brief hope that she would press my face to her crotch and let me show her how much I wanted to please.

She squatted. Face to face, her eyes locked on mine, her lips plump and full. She was remarkable, as beautiful as I’d seen anyone at university, prettier even than Amy. She reached out, her fingers running over the stubble on my head, where years of growth were wiped away in a few minutes with a set of electric shears by a man I’d longed to please. Each shaving day had brought with it a flush of need, the easy, slow rhythm of his stroke, the vibration on my head like a lover’s touch. How I wanted to be shaved each day by him, to show him my devotion, but here was someone new, her eyes taking me in as I leaned into her touch, felt the rush of need between my legs, a dribble of drool trickle down my chin.

My god, what was I?

“Cunt, that is your name, isn’t it? Or is it Dumb Cunt?”

I blinked and nodded, letting the shame of it settle over me, fuel me. The words sent a shiver down my spine, and I squirmed in my bonds despite myself. If only…my god…if only she would touch my clit and tell me who I was…

“I’ve seen a dumb cunt or two in my days here. But I’ve been looking for something special because I have a need. A hole to fill, as it were,” she said, smiling, and I couldn’t help but whimper at the implication. “Danny told me about this little bitch he had. He’d tamed her. Shaved her. Whipped her. Trained her to be the fuckhole for a dozen young men and women who worked the farm for class credits, and she’d taken to it like none other. He told me he had something special, the dumbest of dumb cunts, one who gave herself away to be a living, breathing cumdump for his farm, and when I stopped by and asked to see this creature, who did he bring forth? But you.”

I shuddered, hearing her words echo the stories I’d read, the ones I’d rubbed my clit to for weeks, for months, the ones I’d shown to Amy, letting her tease and torture me while I read them out loud between ragged breaths and my own desperate pleas to cum.

“I need something more than a useless cumdump though. Any slut can offer her holes. Are you an average slut? Is that all you are?”

I stared at her, the battle in me raging — how much I wanted her to touch me, to pull on my nipples, to tease my clit, to finger me and drive me to my next screaming orgasm, and I could see — when her lips twisted up into a smile that I would learn to fear and to crave — that she could see that battle going on as much as I could feel it.

“No, not an average slut. Not a dumb cunt even, but leave it to a boy to miss out on the potential in one beautiful woman.” She paused, trailing her fingers down over my jaw, my neck, over my breast and my belly, trailing down until it hovered a desperate whisper away from my clit. “But can you prove to me what you can be? What you can become?”

I shuddered as her fingers shifted, grazing my clit, but I held back. Not an average slut. Not a living, breathing cumdump. Not here. For her. Instead, I could be whatever she wanted. Couldn’t I? Isn’t that what I was proving to myself? That I could — I’d thought about it for days after signing the papers. That I could what? Become something else? Evolve into something new? Let my past go and just be? Let it all go and simply exist on someone else’s terms? Let their terms become mine? Could I truly let myself be someone else’s dream? Their fantasy? Their ideal? No matter how harsh? How painful? How depraved or degrading?

And what would I learn about myself on the other end? If there was someone on the other end. Or would I become lost and never find my way again? Myself. What if there was no me left that I recognized? Yes, what was total surrender if not courage? Or maybe it was simply foolishness, and I didn’t know myself or the world or the people in it like I thought I did.

“Can you?”

Yes. I nodded. I could. I could prove it.

“Then, prepare yourself, Cunt, because everything is about to change.” And suddenly her face softened, her voice dropping to little more than a whisper as she looked past me to the young men still waiting. “She’ll do. Get her ready.”

Then she stood and turned, pulling her phone out and walking away as the shapes behind me moved in.

Author’s Notes: I’m not going to lie — I’m writing this on the fly. By the seat of my pants. The River is very much planned out, and I’m taking great care to deliver that story. The PUGH Society is getting the ace treatment from me. I’m taking great care on Ashes to Dust, which you will see soon. But FUCK? I know what the story is, but episode to episode, I’m just going to let it rip.

Why? Because it’s fun to write like this.

Writing is a challenge I’ve accepted hundreds of times. Can I write that? That’s the question I ask. And it’s all find and good to take on a story and plan it out, give yourself to it, and give it your devotion, but sometimes I story just asks you to ‘let it rip and see what happens,’ and frankly, those are some of the best stories.

F.U.C.K. is going to be one of those stories. I’ve been drinking rum for hours, and I promised myself, then made a promise on Substack to a guy who leaves the most wonderful comments about my stories, that I would write the next episode tonight.

And there it is. Dark. Dirty. Depraved. And yet, I haven’t even gotten to the dark, dirty or depraved yet because I reached a spot and decided that at 1671 words, I had arrived at a good stopping point. What is about to happen to our main character? Oh, you’ll see. It’s going to get more and more difficult for her as things progress. But what’s she in it for anyway? We’re getting a glimpse of that now. And if you think about it for even a moment, you can probably imagine how that’s going to go for her.

Stay tuned. There’s so much left to write — 3+ seasons, in fact.

And oh, if you’ve only just started this series, here’s your shortcut to the very first episode: