The Adult Story Hub

She was just a high school dropout. Sixteen and a life of adventures in front of her. As it often turns out, the first real adventure almost destroyed her. She was just white trash, looking to charm and cheat and fuck her way through this existence. She was fucked, alright.

The newspapers were full of the story for a couple of days. The headlines were screaming in disharmonic unison for a while, excited black exclamations trying to outdo each other with condensed stories of terror and depravity. For a couple of days I felt like every headline, every news announcement, every hyperlink on every website was taken out of a pulp porn novel. Of course, it had to do with complicated racial and social structure and relationships of this society.

Put bluntly, Rachel (as her name was) was white, fairhaired and pretty damn attractive. The difference between her photos of "before" and "after" that media generously recycled for our comparing pleasure was telling. "Before" was showing a blonde smiling for the camera, sixteen and carefree, invulnerable and immortal, nasty and irresistible, she was a natural flirt, one would say. A natural slut, if you want. Oink. "After" was a sorry mess of skin and bones with bags below her eyes and a gaze in her eyes suggesting that eight weeks of imprisonment and exploitation made her grow older than she ever imagined she would.

Media were alternately raining tears over her unfortunate fate and righteous rage over the fact that the society we live in allows such perverts to breed. Media were calling for mobilisation against evil ones that walk among us, unnoticed, concealed by their everyday appearance and good manners. It was a bit of a scandal, really, Rachel was not just held prisoner and repeatedly raped by some unnamed bunch of scumbags, truck drivers and unemployed blacks, she was rented, borrowed and generally made available for certain amounts of time to some of the respectable members of our community.

Businessmen, even the odd politician were also part of the picture. Some heads rolled, some resignations were made. It seems we're all one big family when it comes to gangbanging: racial, class and cultural boundaries erased in a storm of face slaps, insults, fistfucks, cigarettes extinguished on skin, anal bleeding, nipples almost ripped from flesh, swollen, purple lips...

Thousands of Mexican and Venezuelan and Chinese girls and women who suffered similar fates never got into the news the way Rachel did. It was funny, talking to some Hispanic people at some party, I was amused at how shocked they were with this story and how eagerly they demanded the justice to be done.

They were trying so hard to blend into the white, suburban, middle-class picture that it was absurd. I was a bit drunk as usual and I didn't mind telling them that they were a sorry bunch of hypocrites and that they got brainwashed by the media designed by The Man, lost to the fact of how many women of their kind failed to make the news with similar or worse stories. I was called racist by the end of that conversation. Hell...

But I digress. Normally, this story wouldn't have made much of an impact on me, another grim tale from the bowels of uncaring metropolis, they come a dime a dozen these days.

But, you know, normality is not where I hang out these days. You won't usually find me there, no sir.


"You are nothing."

She hurts in relative silence.

"You are nothing waiting to be destroyed."

I usually do not gag Clarissa during our torture sessions. I love to listen to her: I have always been turned on by female moans of pleasure or pain. When I was a kid I was of course confused and unsure whether the difference existed at all. Adulthood generally brings wisdom in this area, yet with Clarissa near me, I am confused again. With her, the difference is blurred. Does it even exist? Hell, I don't know.

Another reason I preferred her not to be gagged is of course because I wanted her mouth to be available at all times. Forcing her to give me oral pleasure not only made her feel degraded and used, it also made me feel big and strong and in charge. Everybody's a winner, right?

But she hurts in relative silence now. I have gagged her as I suspect this is what she wanted. I can still hear her muffled moans and screams of pain/ pleasure/ pain, the fact that they are coming through and around a piece of cloth brutally tied around her head (none of those fancy industry standard mass market ball-gags for me, no thank you, I am DIY at heart) makes it all a bit more interesting really.

"You are a worthless nothing. I am disgusted looking at you wallowing in your filth."

She was forced to drink a lot of fluid this evening. First it was wine and then just water, glass after glass. When she couldn't take any more and tried to refuse, she was punished with breast-whipping and some nipple twisting. I have learned to switch my mind off in a way. I am an epitome of efficiency, a model tormentor. She drank more, she spilled much of it but swallowed the rest. She begged me to stop and eventually I did. Then I fucked her.

She was whipped and fucked hard. Her breasts got tied. I fucked her arse and her mouth, I fucked her swollen, painful breasts. I made her suck me, gently, like a teenage girl in love for the first time, while I hurt her breasts. I fucked her in the arse, pulling her hair back so hard she was screaming in pain. I whipped her arse. I made her suck my cock, swallow it, clean it with her tongue.

"You are despicable. You make me sick, cunt. You dirty bitch. I am going to get a bunch of horny cops to fuck all your holes, to tear your dirty cunt apart, to ram their truncheons down your arse. I think I'll sell you to them, so they can have their own slut to rape as they please. You'd love that wouldn't you? Wouldn't you?"

She moans, she says some words, they are hard to make out, but I know she is telling me she loves me as her only master, I know, despite all the pain and agony I am causing, she is swearing allegiance.

I came twice and my cock is red and hurting, I came all over her face and hair, I made her clean my cock. She didn't come once. I made sure I interrupted her every time I felt she was nearing climax.

As a result, one of the results, she was about to explode. The constant attention her cunt was getting made her equal parts desperate to cum and desperate to pee. She begged me to let her use the toilet. Yeah, like that would happen. I did take her to the bathroom. But just because I didn't want her ruining my carpet. I mean, anyone in my position would do the same, right?

I did take her to the bathroom, I did drag her to the bathroom, tied her wrists to the pipe feeding off the sink, spread her on the floor. I made her do it there, on the floor. She cried and begged and she shivered with humiliation, but it was stronger than her. Finally she cracked and, tears flowing and all, she let her urine on the floor, and I moved closer in to take better photos of a golden stream coming out of her body. She was crying uncontrollably by the time it finished, and it lasted, it lasted a long time. I laughed at her and called her names.

"I bet you'd suck every single one of their truncheons and beg them to ram them into your dirty asshole, wouldn't you, bitch? You'd love to be fucked that way, I know. You'd beg them to force fuck you, three or four at a time, am I right? You'd beg them to feed you with their sperm and to piss all over you, right? I see how much you enjoy bathing in your own piss. You'd beg them to let you fuck their dogs, slut, you'd never get enough, you'd suck and fuck each and every of their german shepherds. You're a bitch, a true bitch and you yearn to be fucked by dogs."

Where do I come up with this stuff? It works, though. It does, she is shivering, but this is a different kind of fever to the ones I know first hand.

Her stockings are torn and tattered, I was rather harsh today. She looks even more attractive that way. High heels, her chains and a big black dildo shoved up her ass. I whip her some more. I spit into her hair and whisper more insults and threats into her ear. I place clamps on her nipples. I light a candle and take the time explaining what I'm going to do with it. I drip hot wax over her breasts, over her belly, thighs, around her cunt. I take the dildo that is buried in her ass and fuck her with it, grinding her clit between my fingers simultaneously. She is about to cum, but not yet.

Not before I take photos of her. I even use some additional light, I want them to look good, not just the usual Internet homemade porn smut. I want every detail of her degradation, of her agony, of her horniness, of her beauty, of her uniqueness to be captured. I have a plan for her. But she doesn't know about it yet.


There's a little tormentor in every one of us. Kids torture bugs and cats and dogs, don't they? There's a little master in every one of us. Who wouldn't want to have a personal slave to use and abuse as one pleases? To torture and punish. To own. Completely, without any reservations.

To protect.

There is a little slave in every one of us. To be owned, to be possessed and fucked, to be helpless, degraded, devoid of will.

To be protected.

There's a little master in every one of us. There's a little boy in every one of us. In me, at least.

Not everyone is able to live up to their own wishes and dreams.

"silver in her gaze gold in her fist red in my eyes

down, don't you dare you are not supposed to be brave

suffocate over and over forever and thankful

please once again I will crawl I promise

I will"

I used to write poems when I was in secondary school. Some of them were influenced by dreams. Some of the dreams were influenced by alcohol and glue and later by cannabis and acid. Those were not great poems by any standard and I did well to pursue my path in visual area rather than literal. But some of those still make me shiver when I read them. I brought some of those all the way across the ocean.

Some of those are smarter that I have become through decades. Some of those are prophecies. I don't believe in prophecies. Which means that part of me, that unconscious part of me back then was perfectly aware of my potentials and needs and wishes. It nailed it all down. It feels uncomfortable to know that a boy tripping on a mixture of lager and acid and THC back in the old dirty East London could understand a 30something graphical designer fucking lost in Illinois more than half a lifetime later...

The problem with dreams is that they make sense only as long as you're dreaming. Once the REM phase stops and you wake up and try to live the dream, you are defeated by the lack of substance. Is the dream to blame, or is it you?

I know it is me, through and through. And I am sorry but that's the way it is. At least I realise that. A 15 years old London punk in a leather jacket with a fucking crush, emailing his poems through a time tunnel helps me realise.

"my mother was a dog my mother was a dog my mother was not a bitch my mother was a dog what am I?"


Clarissa was reborn in her shame. She was a work of art divine. Her eyes closed around his cock, still huge, still bigger than mine.

Clarissa was so wet and warm later that night. Or it was some other night? It had to be another night, right? I was washed away that night, right? The original night, I mean. I was drowned, wasn't I? I don't remember throwing up, which could have done away with some of the alcohol still hanging around my intestines and not yet breaking and entering into my bloodstream and ultimately brain.

I don't remember throwing up, and I sure as hell don't remember growing up, no. I don't remember getting up and walking but it must have happened. She was so warm and wet that night. Not sure which night, sorry, it's all a mess in retrospect, but she was reborn in her shame, glistening like a star, she was begging to be punished, crawling like a dog with broken legs.

And punished she was. I think...

I don't remember getting up and walking, but I think I remember standing up and talking. Maybe it was a dream, but maybe not.

"...able to close your eyes. No matter how much you cry. I will nail your hands to the floorboards. You won't be able to move. I will spread your legs as far as they will go and then some until you scream and beg for mercy. And then some more. You will feel your body pushed over the edge. You will. You will feel the heat and you'll beg me not to burn you. Then you will beg me to fuck you because you're a slut and you think this will save you from further punishment.

"You can hope but I will teach you to abandon hope. I will tie your breasts 'til no blood is able to get in anymore. I know you will cry. And you'll have to watch. All of it. I will shove a candle up your arse and light the part sticking out. You will feel the heat and you'll beg me not to burn you. You will beg me to fuck you. You will beg me to fuck you. But I will not grant you your wish as you don't deserve it. You will be whipped, your cunt and your breasts and your face and your thighs, you will be whipped long and hard until you piss yourself. Then I will release the dogs. You will get your fucking. You will thank me. And I'll make sure you are the bitch I always knew you were. And I will leave you to them. Nailed down, spread, punished."

Or something like that. Maybe it was a dream.


"Oh, God, no... That's not me..."

I can hear her voice racing through a whole range of emotions in just a brief moment it takes to pronounce those six words.

"It is. That's you."

"No... God..."

Her face is like a cloud of smoke going through endless metamorphosis, a thousand different images in one second, some of them really there, some of them only in my eye.

"Oh... my God..."

She knew I was taking those pictures. Still, she is shivering. She is shaking her head in disbelief. She is looking at them for the first time. The counter on the website says there have been eleven thousand something visitors before her and it's only been up a couple of days. I didn't want to tell her about it before. And she never asked about those photos, the good girl. The good, good girl.

"Nick, I..."

She is looking for words but are there any? What do you say when you run into someone else's dream and find yourself there?

I am proud. For a while I will be proud.

I worked very carefully on those pictures. It was a labour of love and dedication. For a moment, even, I felt like an artist, not just a designer. It was a labour of love and dedication and passion. And hate and fear and passion. I worked very carefully to capture the very essence of her submission, of her agony and her humiliation.

I worked very carefully to conceal her identity in case her children or anyone else knowing her runs into this. You don't expect your kids surfing private porn websites, but, hey, you don't expect yourself to wake up old and dying one day and still it happens even to the best of us.

I sculpted her with light and shadows, using filters not to enhance the photos, but to give them a dreamlike quality. Clarissa, a fantasy made flesh, a flesh made light and darkness. Her body on those photos, an endless possibility of shapes and textures. Where does it end, where does the imagination begin, eh, boy? Her limbs, restrained and long, strange angles, suggesting pain but not just pain, submission, but not just submission, there's more to it. There's a sense of her being someone else there, something else even.

Contrasting tones of her stockings and her skin, her jewellery and her red, red velvet between her lips and between her lips. Her eyes, black and bottomless, closed on all the pictures, caught only one at a time, almost unimportant at first glance, essential, truly essential. Her neck, her ankles and feet, high heels, ropes, chains of silver, ring and black nails. Marks of punishment on the skin, red, looking as if they were carved into her to stay there forever.

Her lips around the gag, dark and smeared with sperm. That's the only part of me visible on those pictures. A golden stream between her thighs. Her breasts large and dark red and so swollen from the rope, her nipples, clamped and so juicy looking. God, I could eat them. Her anus, savaged and penetrated, stuffed with a black, shiny dildo. Her skin and red wax.

"Oh, God... Oh, God!"

She is panting.

"Oh, God, this is me... This is me."

This is her, alright. This is you, Clarissa. This is you.

Eleven thousand people have seen what we see now. Eleven thousand people have witnessed her most intimate moment. Eleven thousand people able to carefully examine every detail of her humiliation, to marvel at her pain, to explore her tortured body. Eleven thousand people seeing Clarissa being herself.

Of course, out of those eleven thousand webcrawlers, there's a fair number of guys specialised in one-handed surfing: eyes fixed in eternity only a foot away, lips forming words the throat never vocalises, one hand clicking away forever, the other pumping the flesh. I point this out as if it wasn't obvious, but Clarissa closes her eyes for a moment, listening. Just for a moment.

Then, there are two-handed ones. They prove this by leaving their comments. Not that you can't type with one hand, but the one-handed type rarely wastes time and effort on trying to type. That's the other type, the ones with two hands and a need to communicate the message even if its one-direction only. I haven't explained anything. I haven't given them much information save for her name and a few facts about her character: her needs, desires, dreams. I haven't asked them to do anything. I have just provided space for them to comment. And comment they did.

Like a pack of wolves, like piranhas sensing blood spread through the water, they all storm in at her and bite a piece off each. It's a mess of improperly typed messages of desire, frustration, disbelief... Insults, invitations, promises, brags, pledges... It's a men's room wall crossed with schoolboy's poetry notebook. There are some well written, downright intelligent decent messages there. There are repulsive chunks of language halfway between animals and demons, misspelled, lowercase, scary, pathetic, hilarious, exciting.

Someone who claims he's a thirteen year old boy describes what he'd do to her and how she'd like it. Someone who claims he owns his own consulting company and a university degree has left his email, just like hundreds of others, but his message is even charming to an extent. There are some messages written by people claiming to be female, praising Clarissa or the photos and in some cases the photographer (why, thank you, I am honoured). Some are even taking time to explain how disgusted they are with the images and how Clarissa needs to get some help if she allows this to be done to her.

Usually I find those idiots to be really troubled since they actually had to work to get to this site (it's not like I advertised it by spamming random recipients through email) and then they look at it and feel the need to piss righteous rage all over you from their high moral stance. But in this context, they are really welcome as they serve the purpose well. I know their words of harsh judgment do the same to Clarissa as do the words of raw sexual desire she receives from others.

"You.... You didn't tell me..."

I didn't. This was meant to be a surprise. She can not take her eyes off it, her face bathed in the artificial light of the monitor screen. Her eyes are wide and she is panting, clicking through photos, through messages, forward and back. This is a small, insignificant, badly built shrine. But it was built for her, built through a joint effort by me and thousands of believers who left their footprints in there. This will leave a mark on her, I know.

And when she finally manages to turn her head away from the screen, her face is a battlefield of conflicting emotions and instincts. She looks at me and I manage not to move any part of my face. She is breathing heavily and her eyes are wet with tears. Her lips are trembling. And she stares into my eyes, so deep, so deep. And when she reaches out for me I almost fall from my chair.

"please..."

She is falling into the voice again.

"please, please Sir, fuck me now"

What? Now?

"please, I am so wet, please, Sir, this slut wants to eat Your beautiful cock right now, please I need You to fuck me hard as only You can"

How the hell does she do that? How the hell she manages to remain so shy and so fucking dirty at the same time? I close my eyes just for a second. Someone is going to get hurt. Someone.

I know what she is thinking.

"I know what you're thinking."

All those eyes devouring her body on those photos. All those words typed with nervous, violent, sloppy keystrokes.

"Don't count on it, bitch. You are a no good cunt and you don't deserve it."

I know what she is thinking. Right now in her head...

"...I bet you are fucking all of them, sucking their cocks and riding them, and swallowing their sperm, aren't you?"

Isn't she?

"It's not happening, bitch. You fucking, fucking slut, you are so turned on by a thought you could fuck dozens of strangers just like that."

"please... I want You. only You. take me, Master, please, take me now, I am a no good slut, please teach me to be good, please..."

Her words spiral off into grinding white noise as I unbutton my jeans and grab her hair. She says she wants only me right now, but I will make her admit she wants to fuck each and every of those people. Then I will make her apologise and make it up to me. Then she will swear with her life that I am the only man she will ever want, the only man she will ever fuck. She will describe herself as worthless and thank me for being good to her. It's going to be a long, painful process, I think. Hang on, my lady. This is going to hurt. A little. But... I am a big boy now.


I ran another crash test before deciding to go through with the Plan. Theory is theory, but you can't really tell if the car will break down until you give it a ride across some harsh ground.

I like to think I handled it well, but who knows really. I try not to think about it most of the time. Well, in any case, I was sober this time around so I can't blame the demon alcohol for painting the picture in unrealistic, unlifelike colours. She WAS there, kneeling on the floor of that filthy little back room, sucking this guy's cock and making her sexy, catlike noises. Her earrings bounced back and forth as she was accepting his cock all the way in and letting it all out again.

Yes, it was just like that, him saying "oh, yeah, baby, yeah, suck my cock, you whore", twenty dollar bill in his sweaty hand. It was just like this: she leaning on the box as he pounded her from behind with all the force he could muster. It was not like it was a hard fuck by any standards she got used with me around and shit, but she was still screaming her lungs off and I really and truly believe she had two orgasms in a space of mere minutes that took him to complete his sweaty race and, howling like a wolf, fill her cunt with his semen.

Between the two of them, a slut goddess out of a porn comic book and a cheap bike-mechanic, they made so much noise as if they weren't aware of the fact that just behind one tiny door and a short corridor, there was a bar full of people. I didn't even tell her to do anything after he came (and during the intercourse, I restricted myself to simple pimp one-liners like "Yeah, boy, fuck her hard, she can take all you got." and "Fuck that pussy, boy, make the slut scream"), she swiftly turned around and took his cock into her mouth, her cunt juices, sperm and all. She sucked on it as if her life depended on it and the guy nearly lost his balance.

He left her on all fours looking up at him, money pushed into her blouse, her tongue licking her lips. I knew what she was thinking but I couldn't do it. No, sorry. I could have found another guy right there and then, God knows the place was crawling with drunken, horny males, but no, this was not the way I wanted it. This was just a test and I passed it. With grace, I'd like to add, but really I just passed it and I would like not to speak about it any more if you don't mind, thank you.