Trigger Warnings: Rape, Consensual Non-Consent, Manipulation, Abuse, Degradation, Humiliation, Mindfuck, Mild Cuckqueaning, Psychological Mind Games

I'm sitting at the dining table, with a half-empty plastic wine cup; you know, one of those ones that look like glass but it's plastic because, well... Glass is fragile.

Fragile is a good word to use - for many things, I suppose; most notably when it comes to our ego.

So many of us live in fear of facing ourselves in the mirror; so many of us live without ever fully looking ourselves in the eyes.

Everyone else around you looks in your eyes dozens of times a day though, don't they? So what's so scary about allowing ourselves to look inward?

A soft ding goes off, slicing the silence into pieces. I look down.

“I just pulled up.” The text lights up my screen as my eyes feast on each word, my tongue practically out like a dog, ready, anticipating.

I finish the last big gulp of my barely-chilled cheap white wine, and I try my best to take one deep breath before I allow my legs to move.

It's pointless, I know that. My hands and toes are tensing, palms clammy but cold; the signs of my discomfort. I know that a deep breath isn't going to stop any of that. But maybe it could help me just enough that I'm not stumbling out of my door while he sits in his car, watching my every fumble.

I'm up on both feet now. I take a last look at the mirror before I leave, unable to meet my own gaze. The ego is fragile, didn't I say? Especially at this moment.

I pick my purse up from the floor where my feet were just resting a minute ago, and I find myself tightening my grip on my phone as I walk to the door.

The cold air hits my face like an ice bath; uncomfortable, but somehow refreshing.

I take a quick glance at the car in front of me, acknowledge it is him, and then quickly turn back to the door to lock it before heading to the passenger door and opening it for myself to get in.

“Hurry up.”

His voice is a bit different tonight than what I expected. It's hard to get a read on him, although I suppose that's been the nature of our relationship since it began.

I quickly buckle up and keep my eyes looking forward, fearful that if I dare take a peek at his face that it could reveal more than what I bargained for.

I put my purse on the floor in between my legs, and he turns on some soft and sensual R&B, and starts reversing out of the parking spot.

My brain is in the eye of the storm right now - calm, yet cautious; knowing that one moment is all it will take for this car ride to turn into a war zone.

The music is certainly a vibe, but I know not to let my guard down that easily with him.

He takes a breath, and I feel the weight of what he is about to say before it is even uttered.

“Do you think you look pretty tonight?” His voice is serious and somber, but not quite condescending yet.

My eyebrows raise a tad, but nothing too innocuous. My face gets a bit red, feeling the attention in the car shift to me while my brain continues running around in circles.

“I had a look in the mirror before I left.”

This gets a reaction from him. He takes a quick look at me while he's driving, and I can feel his eyes burning into the side of my head.

I look to meet his gaze. He shakes his head almost like a disappointed father, and then glues his eyes back onto the road.

“That's not what I asked, bitch.”

I squirm in my seat, subtle but I know he sees me.

“Y-yes…” is all I can mutter out. I can already feel my heart gaining momentum again, my palms clamming up again.

He lets out a soft but exasperated sigh, as if he's having to lecture a child.

“Look in the mirror again, then.”

I can feel the blood in my cheeks and chest rushing to the surface. It's so hard to know what he's going to say or do next - sometimes he likes to laugh or mock me, but tonight feels like he's being much more serious and cold.

I sit with my thoughts, staring at the road ahead. I don't reach for the passenger seat mirror yet. I just sit and stir. I hate when he does this. It feels like I'm cornered and have no room to breathe.

We stop at a red light. Turning his head towards me completely, he takes his arm and uses it to reach over my head and pulls out the passenger mirror. His hand makes one quick movement and it's in my hair; a fistful within a mere second.

“Look.”

A simple word. He hasn't seen me cry yet, since this is only the third meetup. But I can feel my eyes start welling up, and I have to quickly ground myself before finally meeting my eyes to the mirror.

His hand is still grabbing a fistful of my hair, but the light has turned green and the cars ahead are starting to move forward.

His eyes turn back to the road, foot is back on the gas, and his hand releases my hair softly. The stark difference between the way he gently let go but forcefully held on made my head turn to mush. He doesn't even know, or care.

“Surely you could do a better job at making yourself look half-decent, don't you think?”

My face was beet red at this point. I'm stuck in a car with him, and there's nothing I can do that's going to make him let up. He's out for blood tonight.

Maybe he took our conversations last time a bit too seriously…

“Close your legs, whore.”

I looked down at my thighs. I squeezed them together, and tried my best to make myself smaller in my seat.

“If you weren't such a fat cunt, maybe you wouldn't have to spread your legs out like a man.”

At this point, I'm tugging at my skirt, picking at it. I can't even say anything, I feel like I'm in survival mode, trying to weigh my options between fight or flight.

“I'm sorry…” My voice trails off, but I know he heard me.

“You will be.”

We turn onto another street and within a minute or two, we pull into his driveway.

“Get out.”

I quickly unbuckle, gather my purse from the floor and my phone, and get out of the car.

He's fumbling with his keys as he's walking towards the door. I follow behind with hesitation.

I see him walk in and he leaves the door hanging open for me. I step in and close the door, and put my purse right by the entrance on the floor.

He's pacing… this is the first time I'm seeing him in the light. His outfit is nothing fancy… rather, almost too casual. He is in the kitchen getting himself a glass of bourbon on the rocks, while I observe him from afar.

This space… this feeling… it feels so scary but almost… natural. The anticipation, anxiety, and self-doubt creep in while he pours from the bottle. I'm just now noticing a stain or two on his grey shirt he's wearing, and his red basketball shorts make me cringe; he knows they are my least favorite articles of clothing on a man. Of course he knows that…

For a minute I find myself lost in thought. But it's quickly interrupted by another one of his slick insults.

“That skirt makes you look fatter than you already are. Take it off.”

I fight every urge in my body to run away. I'm standing there in the middle of his house, eyes glued to the floor and swaying back and forth. I can feel myself starting to shut down.

I hear him take a long sip from his glass. The glass then hits the counter as he puts it down, and his footsteps are coming closer to me.

He's right at my face now, but I can't bear to lift my gaze.

He takes his one hand and softly lifts up my chin. For a second, I could have sworn I saw a glimmer in his eye… a twinkle. I felt his hand smack right against my left cheek.

“Make me repeat myself again and I'll make sure you never want to come back here.”

I believed him.

I quickly started lowering my skirt, allowing it to drop from my legs to the floor. I stood there for a few minutes in agonizing silence while he went back to the kitchen, sipping on his bourbon.

Without even looking at me, he sighed as if he's just taken a long hot shower.

“This means nothing to me, you know.”

His words fill the emptiness in the air.

“You mean nothing to me. You will always be worthless to me.”

I allowed that one to sink in a little. His words were knives, but these ones were a bit duller; I knew this trick in the book.

He must have caught my slight shift, because he immediately went to follow that up with, “...and you will come back to me anyways, each time. Because you're a fat cunt who knows she cannot find better.”

I feel my body tense again. I feel the heat in my cheeks coming back as they had just started cooling down.

I start feeling myself wanting to fight. It's working.

“I could find better.” It wasn't a statement… not even a scent of truth in it. But I refused to feel defeated so quickly.

“Oh?” He chuckles a bit this time; an odd distinction from the serious tone he had been building up the entire car ride.

He finishes the last sip of his glass, and stands over me, looking down at me as I look meekly up at him.

“Go. Find. Better. Then.” The last word he spit to emphasize his point, which stuck right to my glasses.

I tried my best not to blink and just take it, trying to challenge him; or rather, taunting him. Maybe a little rebellion in the face of humiliation never hurt anyone, right?

He didn't really seem to notice, though. Or maybe he just didn't care.

I stood there looking at him while he stared at his spit on my glasses, skirt off with a blouse on and heels.

This moment felt like he was letting it linger so long just to torture me, knowing that if I went to wipe the spit off my glasses, he would absolutely rip me a new one. But also knowing that if I just continue to stand and do nothing, he's going to do something about it.

Stuck in this space between fight or flight again, refusing to admit defeat despite his attempts at intimidation.

“Do you think I could be pretty?” It sounded like a squeak coming out. The question was out of left field, so much so that I don't even know what response I was hoping for. My brain was feeling defensive and was seeking validation.

He looks at me, seriously for a moment with his eyes locked on mine. And then his eyes start to wander to my chest, and then my stomach, and down my thighs. And then back up.

Finally, he speaks.

“No.”

I'm looking at him as he says that two-letter word, and I can feel my eyes get wet again.

I think this time he notices, because he quickly pushes me against the wall, presses down on my shoulders until I'm forced to kneel, and shoves his cock against the fabric of his clothes against my mouth.

“Ugly cunt. Useless cunt. Disgusting cunt.”

He's pushing his cock and the fabric around it into my face. I can smell the sweat from his balls and the musk. He didn't shower for me, not that I necessarily expected anything less. He knows I'm sensitive to smells and bodily fluids - he knows what he is doing.

I'm trying my best to breathe through it, trying not to focus on the smell or the sweat. He takes his cock from my face and walks away, leaving me kneeling by the wall with a face that now is tainted with his smell.

I start watching him as he takes off his basketball shorts.

“You like these, don't you?” He comes close to me again, crouching and putting his shorts to my face, rubbing them over my mouth and in my nose.

“Smell that scent, bitch. I want you to remember my sweaty balls for the rest of the week.”

I can feel myself squirming on the floor as he rubs the shorts all over my face, forcing a bit of the fabric in my mouth and then up my nose, and then shoving them fully in my mouth.

I felt him get up from the crouching position and walk away from me again. My eyes tried to steady and focus on where he was going. I heard the familiar ting of glass hit the counter and then the bottle pouring, but my thoughts were too distracted to allow me to decipher what he was doing.

He walks over to me slowly, watching me as I carefully observe his next moves. He takes the shorts out of my mouth, and drool drips onto my chest. Bringing the glass to my lips, he simply says one word, “Drink.”

I hesitate, and I'm not even sure why. He firmly presses his left hand around my throat, and with the other hand holding the glass, he starts getting ready to pour the whole shot down my throat in one gulp. Instead, though, I end up finding the alcohol somehow dripping down my face and hair.

“You deserve to be treated this way. You know it deep down. That's why you keep coming back; it's good getting what you truly deserve, isn't it?”

I'm still kneeling while I feel the bourbon start burning my eyes. His words hit me, though. It's true; I came back again, despite the last time when I confronted him about his incessant need to push my boundaries. He refused to do anything about it, though; didn't apologize, but instead blamed me for him pushing them in the first place.

“If you weren't such a fucking nasty whore, maybe I'd respect you enough not to rape you.” I remember that moment on the bed with him. I begged him to call me pretty and stop hurting me, that I couldn't take it anymore… “You're the fattest fuckhole I've had the displeasure of meeting.” All while his cock rammed into my loose cunt, making me squirm and writhe. “Your cunt is loose and hollow. No wonder men only fuck your mouth or ass.”

I feel a sharp slap on my right cheek and I'm swiftly put back into reality.

“Get up before I grab your hair and force you up.”

I do as I'm told, albeit slow and clumsily. “Take off the rest of your clothes. Whores don't get to hide their fat.”

I'm on autopilot now. I'm taking off my blouse, and then unhooking my bra.

I feel his hand reach for my wrists, and he quickly pulls on it and pins my wrists to the floor, him now on top of me as we lay on the cold tiles.

His hands find themselves on my waist, and I feel him tugging and pulling at my fat.

“Fat whores like you should be starved and fed cum until they get a body like a real whore.”

He's now at my tits, pulling and twisting my nipples as my body squirms on the floor beneath him.

“Please… stop…” I can feel my nipples already sore, I can feel my cunt drip every time he says something that cuts into my self-worth.

His voice is like a low whisper. “This is all you are - a worthless, useless, fat whore… the sooner you accept it, the less this will hurt for you.”

He wastes no time and has me on all fours on the floor.

“A four-legged fat cunt. How pathetic and disgusting.”

He spits on my back, and then walks to the front of me and sternly gives me a simple command. “Lift your chin.” I do as I'm told slowly, lifting my chin up so I can look up at him from the floor.

He lands another spit ball right on my nose, and then forcibly shoves my face into the ground until my nose is sniffing the dirty floor.

“I haven't cleaned the floor in months. Maybe you can be useful to me…”

I don't have time to catch what he means as I am immediately met with a good kick to my outer thigh. I tip over on the floor as I hadn't been focusing on balancing myself, and he kicks me again for falling over.

“Get up, bitch. Time for you to make your mouth useful for something that isn't talking like a blabbering, nauseating cunt.”

He takes his boxers off and I get back up on my knees from being knocked down. He looks at me for a split second before pushing me down with my back to the floor. My wrists are in his grip and he maneuvers himself to sit right on top of my face.

“I want you to really smell and taste my cock and balls and sweat. I want you to remember me sitting on your face with my cock hitting your cheeks, nose, and lips and I want you to remember how this feels.”

My heart is pounding and I'm squirming on the floor beneath him, trying to breathe while he pushes his weight and balls into my face more.

“Remember that no man will want to use you like anything but a warm mouth and a face to put their balls.”

He smacks his dick against my eyelids and forces his cock between my lips.

“Open wide, slut.”

My mouth instinctively opens without more prompting.

He pushes his cock into my mouth, letting it lay in my mouth limp for a second.

“See this? You're so fat and deformed my dick can't even get hard in your mouth.” He makes sure to punish me with every word, pushing his cock down my mouth without a care in the world about how this position is making me feel. The mixture of his words and actions are creating a concoction of brain chemicals so strong that it's hard to know what's real and what's just in my head anymore.

“Using your mouth as a warm hole for my cock is barely useful.” I can feel the air and energy shift, and he is reaching his hands out to his phone next to him on the cool floor.

He's sitting on my face, letting his cock just lay limp in my mouth. I keep my mouth open, drool starting to drip out. My eyes lock up to his for just a millisecond, and he's unlocking his phone and typing and gently letting the pressure off of my wrists for the first time since we started this.

Thoughts are swirling and I feel the blood rushing back to my numb hands. I'm taking this small break to catch my breath before the next wave comes, while he is just so comfortable sitting here on my face, typing away on his phone as if his cock in my mouth is just the most natural place it belongs.

He finally seems satisfied, and looks down to me for the first time in a minute or two.

“Maybe this will help.”

He touches the screen on his phone and it starts playing a video. It's a woman, much prettier, skinnier… a model, porn star, whoever she is, I couldn't hold a candle to her and he knows that.

I can hear her moans and her slurps and her lips smacking as he starts pumping his dick into my mouth slowly, rhythmically. He's not looking at me at all, he's looking directly at her… not even her, just pixel versions of her from curated scenes filmed years ago in some sad, rough part of a New York underground porn studio.

His cock was growing, though. And continuing to use my mouth as a fleshlight with no feelings.

He abruptly takes his cock out of my mouth, and it causes me some whiplash while I had just gotten adjusted to the rhythm.

He locks eyes with me, very intentionally this time. I look at him with drool, spit, slobber, and his ball sweat all over my face.

“Just two seconds it takes to look at you for my cock to go limp again, you repugnant cow.”

I can feel my fight or flight responses numbing. I can feel myself resigning to his words, despite how much I want to fight it. I can feel myself melt into the floor as he forces his limp cock down my throat again.

The woman on his phone is clearly making him pleased, as I start hearing his moans become louder and heavier. I can feel his body weight on me still, but it now feels more like a weighted blanket that I need to feel comfort, rather than a stranger on top of me with his cock down my throat. His dick is growing in my mouth while he watches and listens to the woman on the video.

“Real women are like this one right here.” He shoves the phone screen into my face, making sure I watch as the woman in the video laps up a man's cock, her full lips and skinny waist on full display with her boobs obviously costing more than my car alone to anyone with an understanding of gravity.

“Real women make my cock hard.” He points to his dick in my mouth as it slowly starts going limp again. “And ugly, useless whores like you make my cock flaccid the second I have to remind myself I'm fucking your face and not her’s.” He again points the phone into my eyesight, and I see a glimpse of her in his phone.

I feel a tear drop down onto my cheek, and I catch a smirk from on the right side of his mouth and lips, curling just enough to show me he knows exactly what he's doing, and he knows it's working.

I keep my mouth open, but close my eyes and resign myself to the feeling of his cock thrusting in and out of my mouth and throat, feeling the words ring and repeat in my ears as tears start flowing from my eyes without my permission.

He's pushing his cock harder and harder into my face and throat, making it a point for me to acknowledge he has no care in the world for my comfort or even if I can breathe; as long as his cock is satiated and happy.

I finally feel his body start vibrating from the orgasm as the woman on the phone is now getting fucked in her cunt.

“Disgusting…reprehensible leech of a woman like you…could never understand what a real woman's cunt feels like.” Each pause is a hard thrust from his cock, deeper each time. I'm squirming for a breath by this point underneath him, and he does what any man would do to a slut like me… he holds my nose to keep me from breathing at all, and then pulls his cock out of my throat as his warm, sticky cum shoots over my face, my glasses, my hair, my mouth… even some dripping down my cheek to my ear.

He finally lets go of my nose and I breathe a breath of air like I have never before; as if I had been drowning underneath him. Tears are now mixed with cum and snot and slobber. My mind feels numb. Thoughts don't exist here. What is the point of thinking when you are supposed to be sucking and opening wide for a man’s cock.

I'm in a daze. The rest of the night was a blur to me. I remember the phone being put away, and I remember him standing up over me and looking down at me, splayed out on the floor like a used cum rag.

I don't remember how long it was until I realized he had left me on the floor in his kitchen on the cold tile, with the lights off. I must have fallen asleep or something.

I get myself up from the floor and search for my phone. I find it in my purse near the entrance, where I had left it. I checked the time - 1:30 a.m.

I was about to leave quietly once my skirt and blouse were tucked back in, when it dawned on me that I still have a face covered in dried up cum and spit. I start walking towards the bathroom, my heels clicking a bit behind me against the silence that seems to be stifling the air.

I see a light turn on from the bedroom, and immediately stop myself in my tracks. He comes out, naked, looking at me with a look of annoyance.

“Planning on leaving?” He sounds disinterested, like someone interrupted an important meeting he was in.

“Yes…” In contrast, I sounded utterly defeated…

He points to the door.

I look at him, eyes pleading.

He stares at me for a minute, and I have a sliver of hope that just maybe he's thinking about giving me mercy tonight.

“Look at yourself in the mirror on your way out, useless cum rag of a cunt.” And those were the words he spoke as he turned his body the opposite direction, heading back to his bedroom.

My heart is in my mouth. I feel like I need to crawl out of my skin. I feel… like a failure.

“... And next time, don't bother showing up here if you're going to sleep after I use you. You're dirt on my shoe that should be gone the minute I stop putting my dick in you. I would hate for you to think you'd ever be more than that.” His voice trailed off as he entered his bedroom and shut the door.

The tears started again, unexpectedly this time. My jaw was aching, my body sore, and my mind completely broken.

I took another deep breath - the same kind I took before I left my apartment - and picked up my purse and turned towards the door. The mirror was to the right of the door, just taunting me.

I knew that if I didn't look, he would break me harder next time.

So… I looked.

The ego is fragile, didn't I say?

My hands eventually reached the doorknob, and twisted. My head hung low, my dignity and sense of self completely broken; I took my first step out into the cold air again.

It'll be a long way home, either way I choose. Walking forces me to face the cold and also risk somebody seeing me on the street, though it is late…

And getting a lift is going to be another anxiety-induced fight or flight, especially if that lift ends up being a male driver in the front seat…

He knew that, though. He knew exactly what he was doing. And the tingling sensations in my brain, the goosebumps I feel as I recount and remember… and the obvious wetness that's been between my legs all night; it all culminates into the simple truth: I knew it, too. And I still made the decision to come back. Again… and again… and I know I'll do it again, too, as long as he will use me for.