Ashley's Dungeon

daddy never fucks me in my cunt. he says it’s a filthy hole and he won’t mess his cock up. so he uses my ass instead, he says even that’s cleaner. but he loves to see my cunt packed with cum, and so sometimes he sends me out to dodgy parks and dump yards and tells me not to come home until I’m dripping with the stuff. now katy, he’ll remind me each time, remember to beg them not to use a condom. I nod yes. what do you tell them? I tell them that I have a lethal allergy to latex and to please please please fuck me raw.

Good girl. Now off you go.

when I return, hours later, he checks me for bruises, bends me over to inspect my cunt, used and oozing, and sends me to bed. and sometimes I just have to suck his cock in the morning in exchange for my allowance, to pay for a pill, but this time..

it’s been three weeks. I’m getting nervous. my period is late. I told daddy but he keeps brushing it off, keeps saying let’s wait and see. today I can’t stand it any more. I ask for money for a test, which he gives without much interest, get it, get home, use it. tension in my stomach. standing outside his study.

“daddy?”

“yeah pumpkin?”

“i’m pregnant.”

he looks up from his computer. cruel joy in his voice. “oh sweetheart.. what trouble have you gotten into..”

“I need to go to a clinic, daddy.“ I’m starting to feel uneasy. surely he won’t..

He folds his arms, looks at me sadly. “I’m sorry baby, but we just don’t have enough money at the moment.”

An instant of blind panic. “But daddy I can’t- please, I can’t keep it, what am I gonna do?” My mind raced. I didn’t want to swell up.

He pretends to consider. “Wee-ellll..”

I’m on the verge of tears. I can’t have a baby. University and all my plans, gone. My tits would get huge. I’m almost more worried about the second one, of looking ridiculous, big fat tits dripping milk.

“I have money saved up.. if I could just use some..”

“now katy, you know you’re not responsible enough to access your money on your own. and I really think your savings can be spent on more important things.”

Desperation makes my voice crack. “there’s got to be something I can do.” I wait, squirming, racking my brains, eyes on him. He’s focused on his computer. I know what he wants from me, even as it terrifies me, and I swallow hard before forcing the words out. “will you help me?”

He grins. All teeth. “baby, I thought you’d never ask.”

Led over to the special table, the one with all the eye bolts and leather straps. Stripped indifferently (except for a long lingering caress of my belly) and restrained on my back with my knees bent, cunt on display, obscenely exposed. He lectures, scolds while he finished tying me down and busies himself with a tray behind my line of vision, you get yourself in so much trouble, what kind of girl needs her holes filled like you do, look at the mess you’re in now. Stroking my hair, low soothing voice. Aren’t you glad you’ve got daddy here to help with your silly little problem..

Squirts cold medical lube on his fingers and starts to masturbate me, clinically, detached. The lecture never stops, his teasing has me thrashing against the straps and his words drill deep into my brain. He keeps a finger circling around my clit and fishes around on the tray with the other, retrieves a wire coat hanger. My eyes widen. No. Not that. No, no no no no-

“I know it’s a bit of a cliche, but these are still very effective. Hush now, just a bit of discomfort, I’ve got to get this into your cervix.. stop whining.. there.”

to go on my first sleepover ever ever with the popular kids, those gorgeous clear skinned flat stomached boys and girls who had the facial bone structure of the gods’ children themselves. To get invited out of the blue and accept all nervous, (and oh I was a straight laced teen) and my heart leaping at this chance to win acceptance, despite trace elements of disquiet. Knowing I’d be out of my depth. Going to the house anyway and receiving their gleaming glimmering smiles and their first offer of a drink, which, dazzled, I down in a gulp, ugh, so bitter. The world going dark and dim and sideways as one of the guys slips his hand between my unwilling thighs.

I’m unconscious the whole time, they tell me later. Every time I seemed like stirring they’d pinch my nose and pour whisky or vodka down my throat, stroking the sides of my neck until I choke it down and subside into fitful sleep. Either that or chloroform on a rag over my face, or just a simple pillow. It was fun to watch me struggle that way, they told me, showed me photos of my pleading tortured halfawake stare. But that was rare, for the most part I was a docile floppy dollchild, heartrate down so, so slow, deeply dreaming and unaware.