The Art of Submission
By Helotage
Chapter 6: Going Too Far
This was crazy, Mollie thought to herself as she stared at her work computer. Since Sunday, she had completely submitted herself to the whims of a magic rock. If she told someone, she would be locked up. Maybe she should be. After all, even if she was not imagining the whole thing. Wait. She was imagining the whole thing. None of it was real outside of her own mind. The things that were happening to her were generated by her own mind, and she was submitting to them, willingly.
Yes, Mollie thought, I am crazy.
But then, as always happened when she contemplated the sculpture and her waking dreams, a flood of arousal overwhelmed her. At first, it was just a little titillation, but it quickly grew to full-on desire and wanton lust. She needed what that fucking rock offered. My god, last night she had her mouth raped in the most brutal and disgusting way. If that happened in real life, she would have the police looking for the guy or would go after him herself. She knew that the next time she touched that rock, two more men would still be there to degrade and rape her. And yet.
Mollie had never been one to let her fantasies get the better of her. She had fantasies, of course. Wild fantasies. But she knew better than to do anything about them or to indulge them.
That evening, Thursday, she burst through the door of her apartment. She was naked by the time she got to the collar. She paused in front of the full-length mirror inside her open closet door and admired what she saw. Pretty, sexy, and utterly submissive. She got her phone, propped it up in an ideal location, and used the timer to take photo after photo of her body. She assumed poses that she never would have thought of in the past, and displayed her wantonness and her submissiveness. She bound her own hands and feet with stockings and looked as much as she could the part of the willing sex slave. It was easy, she realized. She knew exactly what it was to be a willing sex slave—maybe not in real life but certainly in the waking dreams the sculpture generated. Certainly she did not need to touch the sculpture every night, did not need to experience the waking dream.
But, actually, she did need it. A willing sex slave.
After she had her fill of photos including some of her masturbating with her hand and with her trusty vibrator, she wondered what to do with them. She wanted people to see them, to see her. The photos were amazing. She wanted to be exposed, to be used. She could send them to her boyfriend, but that might scare him off. They were pretty intense and not in keeping with the Mollie he knew. They were the Mollie that she now knew she always had inside her. The real, essential Mollie. Willing sex slave.
With that acknowledgement, she knelt before the sculpture. She had a good idea of what awaited her as she stretched her hands forward. She recited a short incantation that just occurred to her: “I submit as a willing sex slave.”
She was still bent over and shackled to the padded horse. Her mouth ached from the giant ring that held it open. She wondered how long she had been bound there. Someone entered the room behind her. He stepped in front of her, speaking in French, which she did not understand. It was the other fat man, the not-so-fat one. His penis was already out and erect, but he shoved it in her mouth just the same. It was not as big as the other fat man’s and not nearly as filthy. Nonetheless, she gagged, and he laughed, withdrawing his cock. She could still taste the first man’s come and filth. He then walked behind her and shoved violently into her vagina. She had never been used so briskly and so abruptly. Other guys she fucked, even the selfish ones, made sure she was ready. She reminded herself that this was different. This was rape. The man began to pound her brutally, and Mollie yelled out in pain and shame as best she could with the giant ring in her mouth.
It was not long before the man just stopped. He walked around the room seeming to look for something. When the paddle swatted her ass, she knew he found it. He swatted and swatted her already abused ass and then gave a few hard whacks on her upper back, which was difficult given how she was arched backward by her head. He then entered her again even more violently and pumped harder than before if that is possible. His pounding gave her no physical pleasure, but she found in his abuse the most satisfying experience. Soon he gave a moan of satiation and a valedictory swat on the ass with his hand before he departed laughing.
Previously, once the session ended, Mollie would suddenly find herself kneeling in supplication before the sculpture. This time she was left with a few moments to contemplate her situation. She felt owned. By whom? Who had possessed her soul and will and mind so easily? It had only been a few days since she walked in that store, and now she was transformed. Something or someone controlled her mind, and she did not know what or who or how or why. All she had was the sculpture.
She lifted her hands from the white marble with a sigh. The world of her waking dreams was more real and, perversely, becoming more appealing than the real world. It was where she found herself and became her full self.
She sat back on her heals, naked and exposed before the sculpture. It was more than a mere idol. It had a godlike quality itself. It enlightened her. She started crying and then sobbing. It was such a relief. She had found true happiness.
My god, happiness in being brutalized. That’s wrong, she thought. Everything in her upbringing, in her past, rejected the objectification she was enduring. But, now she knew the truth of her nature and embraced it. She existed to be used and owned.