Every day I clock in and work 9-5 calling girls sluts online. All the words on this blog (whether captions or text) are mine, hit me up if you want to talk about any of them.
Discord: TestJump
You met this girl at a gay bar. She was amazing: beautiful, confident, sexy, with an infectiously intense energy. There was something off about the way she always seemed to be looking just past you, and the way she flinched away whenever you tried to touch her. Still, some people are just weird. You'd spent the whole next day kicking yourself for not getting her insta, her number, anything. But then you remembered something she'd mentioned.
An underground lesbian punk bank, 'the Dyke Breakers', would be performing next weekend in one of the warehouses on the abandoned industrial lot outside the city. You remembered how insistently she'd told you about it, it had been the only time she'd made proper eye contact all night, as if she'd been willing you to ask for an invite. You'd had plans...but now that it was your only chance to find that girl again, you rescheduled and made your way to the lot.
Security on the door was heavy, four huge, tattooed skinhead looking types, but they grinned when they saw you - the skinny girl with the dyed hair and the tattoos obviously belonged. Something about their size made the grins which you were sure they meant as inviting come across lecherous, dangerous. Still, you went inside.
It had only taken moments for you to realise how fucked you were. There was music blaring over speakers, sure, but it wasn't live and was incredibly hateful. The men outnumbered the women ten to one, huddled around them in writhing groups of brutality. The music was undercut by the dull thuds of fists against flesh, the warbling screams of terror and ecstasy, the ragged sobbing of girls driven past their limits.
When you thought back on that night, the only word that could fully describe it was hell. You saw almost nothing of the other girls, but knew the lesbian you'd met at the bar had to be there. That cowed, distracted look in her eyes was identical to the one you saw in your own in the mirror when you got home. The look of a broken dyke.
Hands had grabbed you before you'd had the chance to run, shredding your top, tearing your jeans, forcing your jaws to part. Rancid beer had washed down the pills they'd deposited on your tongue, and the world was spinning before the first blow sank into your stomach. The drugs enhanced every sensation, shredding your defences against the physical and mental torment. All you could remember in the coming days were flashes.
You'd squirted on the cock of the second man who'd raped you - squirted for the first time in your life - and he'd dunked your head repeatedly into a whole bucket of beer in 'revenge' while a crowd laughed and jeered around you. You'd been forced to recite litanies of the most depraved misogyny and homophobia while cumming repeatedly on a furiously buzzing wand.
You'd sobbed as they forced you to suck cock, clipping more and more brutally tight clothespins to your tits, ribs and belly till you got it right, then ripped them all off to produce a cacophony of wailing screams once ‘enough’ loads had been deposited on your face. With an enormous fist lodged up your ass and rearranging your guts, they’d beaten you repeatedly round the head, making your ears ring and blood leak from your split lips and broken nose.
It was the worst night of your life. Hours of brutal rape and torture. In every flash, the feeling of being sure that this would go on forever, that you'd never escape this torture, rose in your mind like the bitter taste of bile. You didn't know how you'd survived.
And yet here you are, driving to that warehouse again. You'd come here every week till they stopped letting you in because you weren't fuckable enough anymore. You'd bring every girl you ever dated for the rest of your life here once the urge to see her ground down into nothing became too much to resist. Some sick part of your brain was addicted to that feeling of complete maddening despair. You were still a dyke, but now you were broken.
Reblogged
Sent!
This blog contains adult content. In order to view it freely, please log in or register
and confirm you are 18 years or older
You met this girl at a gay bar. She was amazing: beautiful, confident, sexy, with an infectiously intense energy. There was something off about the way she always seemed to be looking just past you, and the way she flinched away whenever you tried to touch her. Still, some people are just weird. You'd spent the whole next day kicking yourself for not getting her insta, her number, anything. But then you remembered something she'd mentioned.
An underground lesbian punk bank, 'the Dyke Breakers', would be performing next weekend in one of the warehouses on the abandoned industrial lot outside the city. You remembered how insistently she'd told you about it, it had been the only time she'd made proper eye contact all night, as if she'd been willing you to ask for an invite. You'd had plans...but now that it was your only chance to find that girl again, you rescheduled and made your way to the lot.
Security on the door was heavy, four huge, tattooed skinhead looking types, but they grinned when they saw you - the skinny girl with the dyed hair and the tattoos obviously belonged. Something about their size made the grins which you were sure they meant as inviting come across lecherous, dangerous. Still, you went inside.
It had only taken moments for you to realise how fucked you were. There was music blaring over speakers, sure, but it wasn't live and was incredibly hateful. The men outnumbered the women ten to one, huddled around them in writhing groups of brutality. The music was undercut by the dull thuds of fists against flesh, the warbling screams of terror and ecstasy, the ragged sobbing of girls driven past their limits.
When you thought back on that night, the only word that could fully describe it was hell. You saw almost nothing of the other girls, but knew the lesbian you'd met at the bar had to be there. That cowed, distracted look in her eyes was identical to the one you saw in your own in the mirror when you got home. The look of a broken dyke.
Hands had grabbed you before you'd had the chance to run, shredding your top, tearing your jeans, forcing your jaws to part. Rancid beer had washed down the pills they'd deposited on your tongue, and the world was spinning before the first blow sank into your stomach. The drugs enhanced every sensation, shredding your defences against the physical and mental torment. All you could remember in the coming days were flashes.
You'd squirted on the cock of the second man who'd raped you - squirted for the first time in your life - and he'd dunked your head repeatedly into a whole bucket of beer in 'revenge' while a crowd laughed and jeered around you. You'd been forced to recite litanies of the most depraved misogyny and homophobia while cumming repeatedly on a furiously buzzing wand.
You'd sobbed as they forced you to suck cock, clipping more and more brutally tight clothespins to your tits, ribs and belly till you got it right, then ripped them all off to produce a cacophony of wailing screams once ‘enough’ loads had been deposited on your face. With an enormous fist lodged up your ass and rearranging your guts, they’d beaten you repeatedly round the head, making your ears ring and blood leak from your split lips and broken nose.
It was the worst night of your life. Hours of brutal rape and torture. In every flash, the feeling of being sure that this would go on forever, that you'd never escape this torture, rose in your mind like the bitter taste of bile. You didn't know how you'd survived.
And yet here you are, driving to that warehouse again. You'd come here every week till they stopped letting you in because you weren't fuckable enough anymore. You'd bring every girl you ever dated for the rest of your life here once the urge to see her ground down into nothing became too much to resist. Some sick part of your brain was addicted to that feeling of complete maddening despair. You were still a dyke, but now you were broken.