For the last two weeks since he had started on her, John had been paying regular visits to see how Mallory was doing. The cat had grown increasingly desperate, making increasingly dire and humiliating promises of what she could do if he were to let her cum but, so far, she hadn’t offered to do the one thing he needed and give up where she was hiding those she had rescued and protected.
The original method he had started with, the blowjobs, the teasing and denial, it was effective… but it was only the start. The truth was that he needed this bitch to broken. They were short of slaves… and recapturing a collection of already-trained merchandise, not to mention a pair of… special… prizes, was just what John needed… and so when she finally begun to crack and offered to say where one of the people she rescued was if he let her cum John knew he was getting somewhere.
He was going to let her cum, alright.
Getting everyone out of her this way would be slow, though… he needed to open the floodgates. Break her. Not a pathetic, half-assed breaking, either. He didn’t need her kneeling before him like a good girl as she looked at the ground and waited to be punished… even posers could get that. He didn’t even need her desperate and defeated and willing to do anything. He needed her to be willing to give up everything she valued, her very identity… to have her mind completely overwhelmed and burnt out until there was little left of the hero who had been there and she was hollow inside. To push her so far that she couldn’t even think anymore… that her mind was vacant and empty and helpless, so far gone that she would take any suggestion, any order, say anything because it was the only thing that made her feel alive at all any more. Dead eyes, empty shell, the light is on but no one is home… that kind of hollow, hopeless slut.
Mallory had come to him strong, confident, and defiant. The woman had passed in common society as a cosplay champion for years to hide in plain sight, garnering millions of fans on social media as she worked in the background as a heroine and anti-slave vigilante. That was a tough woman. There had been a light blazing in her eyes that refused to die, not even after days of being teased and controlled, her sexuality owned, her throat brutally raped. She wouldn’t give up what she had done with those she saved like this… she would barely even scream, desperate never to give them the satisfaction.
That was why, after the end of the first week when she had offered him the first of the slaves, John had upgraded her to her current torment.
Mallory sat in a gynocologist’s chair, a constant, high-pitched whine escaping from her throat between rapid, hard breaths. The heroine was completely unaware that he was here, of course… the VR headset and noise-canceling headphones left the bound slut clueless as she suffered through the most thorough personal hell he could devise. It had started with letting her rest. John knew many underestimated the importance of rest to breaking a slut. It wasn’t a mercy by any means — it was to let her body fully rest up and recover, to make sure she would be able to feel every passing second of what came next. She was washed, hissing at the men who hosed her down. They even fed her… real food, not even laced with drugs or cum. Something she hadn’t tasted since her capture, and might never taste again, before letting her sleep.
Mallory wasn’t an idiot, of course. She knew that John was up to something, that this was just another manipulation. She knew… but her body didn’t care after a weak of being kept on the edge of orgasm. She barely kept herself from fucking herself as she lay on the bed, trying to stay awake, to defend herself. Eventually, though, exhaustion triumphed… the kitten passed out. After that it was easy to drug her, to keep her asleep while her nightmare was prepared for her.
When she woke up, she was already bound, helpless, unable to move, unable to hear. Her body strapped down tight, so tight that her limbs tingled from the restrained blood. She squirmed and whined but she wasn’t gagged… she could call out all she wanted. No one was going to answer. The chair wasn’t like a normal gynecologist’s chair, of course… most of those didn’t have hundreds of tie down points, but this one did. John and his men had restrained her on her back, her legs spread wide open and totally helpless. Even her tail had been tied into place. She was alone… her only companion the visor she wore, and the voice that spoke through her headphones.
Her torment was layered. First up, of course, she was getting her holes obliterated. The time for teasing was over. Instead, John had hooked up two massive dildos with the strongest vibration he had to a pummeling fuckmachine, aiming them at Mallory’s cunt and asshole. Occasionally they dispensed lube… sometimes cooling, sometimes heating, sometimes just aphrodisiac-containing. Like the last ones, though, they didn’t follow any kind of pattern she could get used to. How fast or slow they raped her, which kind of lube, how powerful the vibrations were, every bump and twist… all of it was as random as he could make it. The machine could hammer her hard as a horse for an hour before it slowed to a crawl, just barely sliding an inch into her while buzzing weakly… or maybe it could be moving in and out with all the deliberate slowness and precision of a tease, but be vibrating hard enough to shake the ceiling down. Mallory would never know what they were going to next… and they never stopped.
For some girls, that would have been plenty… but not for this heroine, so John had taken it further again. Bits of her fur had been shaved off, allowing room for electrodes to be attached to the kitten. Electrical pads now rested on her inner and outer thighs, on the tops, bottoms, and sides of her tits, in her armpits, and on the soles of her exposed feet. Alligator clamps on her nipples and clit had joined them as well, of course. Like the dildos, they were random, shocking the heroine at random intervals and strengths, random locations even as her holes were hollowed out. Nothing she could prepare for or get used to… physical abuse isn’t complete if it doesn’t psychologically fuck the fallen heroine over too, and the constant anticipation and dread and confusion of what was next was doubtless fucking with her pretty head.
John watched her, checking his tablet which monitored her status and her vitals both… all of them high but within the range he was willing to risk. All of that wasn’t even that exceptional. Sure, it probably didn’t feel that way to Mallory after 5 days in the chair being pounded and shocked and raped and hurt, but it wasn’t enough… he didn’t just want her pliable. He would ruin merchandise by going further… but this woman wasn’t really merchandise. She was a means to an end, and if he needed to destroy everything that Mallory was he was going to get what he wanted. The physical torture was just foreplay… the real torment was for her mind, and the anticipation was just the opening salvo in her nightmare.
The headphones she wore isolated her from the world, making sure she could hear nothing but what was played on them. These were good headphones, too… real high quality, top dollar machinery. What was playing, though, was sheer art – it was high quality recordings of sex and pain. Every noise that she had made over the last two weeks was in there, his people adding new ones all the time, but that wasn’t all. The cries and screams of those she had tried to save after they were caught, or those she saved before they had been, mixed in with random porn. All of it random, both in content and volume… from a whisper she needed to strain to hear to an echoing blast that rattled her tiny whore brain in her skull. Screams. Moans. Whimpers. Panting. Groaning. Swearing and cursing and protesting alongside high pitched squeals that girls always made when they were completely being destroyed… and all of it alongside the moans and cries of broken, orgasmic slaves. The symphony of violated girls and satisfied girls echoed in her ears, chipping away at both her sanity and resolve as it worked to prevent both sleep and zoning out.
That was nothing compared to the video set on her head, thought. Her eyes physically couldn’t close… surrounding her no matter where she moved her head were the images they wanted to show her… high definition, captured in such absurd detail that only a cat’s eyes would notice. Porn of the same girls, Mallory included, played over and over… video shot from every angle, documenting every way a girl could be ruined by lustful men. Every sick and depraved rape they could add in… and his trainers throughout the mansion were making new ones every hour to splice in. That would have been good by itself, but John was going for the extreme, so just like the audio the clips of abuse and misery would randomly cut away to clips of willing, enjoying women… some of them used roughly and consensually, others used tenderly and gently, held and cuddles and comforted. Last, but certainly not least, were the clips of her in her old life. Videos from conventions. Short videos pruned from her twitter and facebook accounts. Mallory going about her ordinary life, a life where she never could have imagined being trapped in this infernal basement and tormented to within an inch of a heart attack. When those were on, the only non-random event he had programmed in would happen… everything would go to the max. Punishing her for seeing, for even thinking, about herself as a real person. As an experiment, he had played clips of of her normal life a few times without the max torment, and by now she screamed just as loudly the whole time. The normality had fucked up her head perfectly when presented alongside the misery of what happened to slaves here.
All of this would probably drive her mad. John wouldn’t regret that, but he didn’t want her catatonic… he wanted her hollow and suggestible, shattered but able to appreciate what was done to her… so it was the last part that was going to achieve that. The real focus of the whole torment that everything else was window dressing for. On the bottom of each scene that she watched, there would be a sentence, seeming to float before her eyes. A sentence… and a number.
The numbers had started at 999, although they weren’t there by now of course… as useless of a slut as Mallory was, she hadn’t wasted more than a little of her time. It had only taken her about three hours to start playing ball, guided by the instructions that periodically played on her headset. Each sentence was degrading, sexist, miserable, and humiliating. Each of them was something that the heroine Mallory would have never said out loud. Some of them were short and simple in their effectiveness. “Mallory is a slut.” “Mallory is a whore.” Some of them were a bit more complicated. “Mallory is unworthy of being called a hero.” “Every woman Mallory saved deserves to be raped.” A few were much more involved. “Mallory is a pathetic, worthless rapeslut jizzmop bitch who deserves to suffer forever and be sold to the worst sadist my master can find.”
There were twelve in all… and the beauty was that she was only going to get out of here by making all those numbers read zero. Some of them were just for John to have fun. Others were just to be degrading. Others were aimed at her insecurity, things that with his help she was going to convince herself were true. Regardless of what the lines were, the only way to make the number go down was to say the words out loud.
“MALLORY IS A SLUT!” – 999
“MALLORY IS A SLUT!” – 998
“MALLORY IS A SLUT!” – 997
So on and so forth. Each time she said the line, the audio would be picked up by the computer — hopefully — and the counter would go down by one. The amount of time each one was one screen, and the order, was random, like everything else, and she needed to say them all a thousand times to get out. Simple enough… but of course, if it were that simple, she’d have been out of here days ago.
If she didn’t say it loud enough, the machine probably wouldn’t pick it up… before long she was practically screaming them when she could to make sure the audio was picked up. What if she was in the middle of saying a particularly long sentence and the machine made her cum or the electric shock choked her words off halfway through? Not a chance that would count… she had to start over from the beginning, and John had no doubt the idea that her own whorish orgasms were keeping her here wasn’t lost on the heroine. If she couldn’t pronounce the words right before she was too busy gasping and panting, or clenching her teeth through the billion forced orgasm, unable to speak? No progress.
There way no other way out than to get the counters to zero. If Mallory did end up passing out it did her no good… there was no progress made while she blacked out, and the machines didn’t stop. She didn’t need to be stopped to drink or eat, the IV feed saw to that. There was nothing to do but watch the counters slowly, too slowly for her crumbling mind, get smaller bit by bit.
John didn’t usually go this far… but this was what the situation called for.
The numbers were almost zero now… she’d be out soon. That was why John was here… he was going to be the first person she saw when she came out of the machine. He just had overestimated her by coming down when he saw she only had a dozen left. Her voice was so weak, and her orgasms so continuous, that it took her an hour to get out the final three phrases.
“MALLORY IS A PATHETIC, WORTHLESS RAPESLUT JIZZMOP BITCH WHO DESERVES TO SUFFER FOREVER AND BE SOLD TO THE WORST SADIST MY MASTER CAN FIND!” — 000
Everything stopped as Mallory experienced what might be the last orgasm she would ever get to have, shuddering to a finale.
John stepped forward and pulled the visor from her fluttering, bloodshot eyes. Dead eyes. Hopeless eyes. Maybe there was still something with resistance in there somewhere… but it wasn’t showing right now, that was for sure. This woman, this fallen heroine before him, would have gotten down on her hands and knees and drank from a urinal like a water bowl while a dog raped her from beyond, just because that still sounded like genuine mercy compared to being put back in the chair a second time.
John slapped her, waiting for her crying eyes to focus on him. “I’m going to ask you once,” he said softly. “Then if you don’t answer you’re going back in the chair for another round.” He leaned forward, voice intense. “Where. Are. You. Hiding. Them?”
And Mallory, heroine vigilante, told him everything.
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