Confessions of a Dream w***e

Chapter Two-2

Madame raised her hand and the w***e knew that to speak would be the most foolish action of her life.

“Tempest.” The red-haired woman spoke in a gentle, frightening voice. “Tempest. You have offended Senior Marvus, caused him great distress. What shall we do about this?”

That was a rhetorical question. Tempest was wisely silent.

Madame continued, “We have punished you before, and it has done nothing to correct your behavior. Being a dream w***e is a privilege, Tempest. There are women assigned to be actual, physical whores to the men of the Republic. Would you like to actually turn your flesh over to them?”

Tempest shook her head. Like the others of her kind, she had been roughly used by her trainers, r***d repeatedly almost every night of her education. She recalled nights laying on her cot in a large room filled with other girls, and the heavy footfalls approaching her. She would lay still, feigning sleep, hoping that he would go away.

He never did. The trainers took turns with different women every night, but she was popular. Thick, heavy hands fumbled at her covers, yanked them away. She felt their oppressive weight upon her body, smelt their coarse manly odor. Her nightgown slid upwards, and upon her young thighs she could feel their turgid member. Her legs were forced open by a relentless knee, and with no preparation, the phallus would enter her and a hot mouth would fix itself upon her n****e, sucking too hard and pulling against sharp teeth.

It seemed as if he pumped forever against her, grunting and palpitating her body. She turned her head from him, trying to separate herself from the invasion. She never could, though, for although she was brutalized, violated, her body responded with thick honey pouring from her, making him slick and hot, and the sensations building in her body were delicious. She would orgasm quickly, ashamed because he would laugh at her as if she were nothing but a cheap slut. She was. Then he would come into her, groaning and hurting her more. She was unable to have children; she had her tubes tied as soon as she was brought to the training facility.

He would pull away, walk from the bed, leaving her covered with sweat and semen. Sometimes she lay there all night long, weeping at the injustice and embarrassment. And she knew that the next night it would happen all over again.

Madame knew her thoughts. “Well, then, Tempest, let us not have another episode like this one. Girls who are too rebellious end up in the brothels.” She turned to leave. “Clean up and prepare yourself. Another Senior has arrived, and I think that I will suggest you to him.”

As Madame walked through the door, inwardly Tempest protested. Another? In one evening? Already she was exhausted, her mind weary from Senior Marvus’ onslaught of a dream. She knew though that to complain would send her from the Dream Centre to a place where she would not wish to be.

She turned and mechanically pulled the rumpled sheets from the bed, replaced them with fresh, crisp ones. She cleaned the electrodes, then pulled her shift from her. Nude, she crossed the room and pulled another shift from the cabinet. This one was a deep blue, sheer like all of her shifts, and it highlighted her striking coloring.

She knelt facing the door, waiting. It seemed forever before she heard the chime that announced the arrival of Madame and the Senior. She sat straighter, a pleasant smile coming naturally to her ripe mouth.

The door slid open and Madame flowed in, followed by the Senior, who was supported by the Matrons. Inwardly, Tempest groaned. This man was more decrepit than the last, but his face had settled into a mask of cruelty and avarice. His lips were flaccid, and his dark eyes ravaging as he looked at her. She had been with him before. He was savage.

“Greetings, Senior Timmons.”

“Yes, yes, let’s begin,” irritable, he kept those cold eyes upon her as the Matrons led him to the bed and began to attach the electrodes. Aware of his scrutiny, Tempest rose fluidly and lay in her own bed. She felt the chill as Madame placed the metal against her scalp, pushing aside her silky hair.

Madame leaned over her and hissed, “Remember.”

“Yes, Madame,” she promised.

The Matrons left the room, and Madame checked the Senior. “Are you ready, Sir?” she asked, properly deferential.

“Yes, yes,” he snapped. “Go. I want my time with the whore.”

Nodding, Madame exited the room, pressing the panel that dimmed the lights. Tempest felt the familiar tingling that signaled the Monitor had been engaged. Her eyes felt heavy and she fell into the chasm of sleep.

She was in a forest, and all around her were the sounds of war and boomings of weapons. Men cried out. It was night, the air heavy and sultry. Periodically, flashes of flames lit the area, and she could make out the boles of the trees around her.

She looked down at herself. She wore a torn pair of jeans, a tight T-shirt, old-days’ clothing. She was barefoot, and the twigs on the ground hurt her feet. She was dirty and her hair was matted.

Behind her she heard a noise, and she whirled, terrified. A soldier stood there, rifle aimed at her. He wore dark blue fatigues, his hair was short and spiky and on his square-jawed face was an expression of utter brutality. He seemed pleased to have come upon her, and instinctively she knew that he was her enemy.

“Hello there,” he spoke in a voice like a tiger’s.

“Please,” she whispered, “Please. I need to go home.”

He approached her, the muzzle of the rifle never wavering from its target. “I bet you do.” He laughed then, softly. “Home. And you’ll give away all our secrets, won’t you? Dirty little anarchist.”

“No, I won’t,” she protested, knowing it was futile. The gunmetal jabbed into her belly. “I know nothing, sir. Please, I know nothing.”

“Such a pretty little girl,” with his free hand, he stroked her hair from her face. “Such a pretty little girl to be trying to overthrow the government.”

“No...”

The rifle shoved painfully into her flesh. “Don’t lie to me.”

The hot air seemed unbearable, a blanket thrown over her, thick and suffocating. She knew he would kill her. Fine, then. She stood straighter, and he sensed the surge of pride through her.

“Ah,” he purred, “she comes out.”

Fluidly, like a dancer, his hand twisted in her hair and yanked her to the ground, on her back. He held his knee upon her chest, balanced on the other leg. He regarded her, then put the rifle aside.

“Pride is a foolish thing in a prisoner of war,” he told her, as he reached towards his boot.

She struggled, but his weight held her firmly trapped. She looked up at him, at his hungry, dangerous features. Her heart was pounding; could he feel it under his knee?

He drew forth a utility knife, held it to her throat. Was this his method then? She raised her chin, defiantly. He chuckled, then grabbed the neck of her shirt, sliced it off of her as he slid down her body, his knee on her groin now.

Her swelling breasts were bare to him. The horror surged through her; this indignity was worse than death. She was a feminist, untouched by man. She struggled frantically, trying to buck him off of her body. He laughed nastily at her attempts, used his weight to hold her. He threw the knife from him and it stuck, quivering, in the ground, blade joining the earth in a horrible image of what she was threatened with.

He lay on her, the buttons of his uniform scratching her chest as his hands fumbled with her jeans. He unzipped her fly, pulled away. She spun, tried to crawl from him. He grabbed her by the ankle, yanked her pants off. How could a man be so strong?

She wore only her panties. He flipped her back over, reached for the waiting knife again.

“No!” she screamed at him.

He laughed, then the blade cut through the white cotton, and he yanked the undergarment from her. He regarded her nakedness. Despite the heat, her body shuddered under his gaze.

“Beautiful,” he approved. “Utterly beautiful.”

He released her ankle, warning, “Don’t move.” She didn’t. Perhaps he would let her go at this indignity. Perhaps he would bring her to his command post for questioning now. There were laws, even in war. r**e was not allowed.

He didn’t seem to care. He released his p***s, full and erect, and she averted her eyes from it. He lay upon her body, exploring her flesh. A hand cupped her breast, fingers tightening around the n****e, and she winced at the unexpected sensation of pain and pleasure.

His other hand roamed down her side, came across to her legs, which were tightly clamped. “Let’s open this up,” he murmured, and shoved his leg between hers. The hand moved up the delicate skin of her inner thigh, the rough calluses catching on her skin.

“Oh, no,” as he approached where no man had ever been allowed.

His fingers brushed against the outer lips, pulled at the hairs. She wiggled, trying futilely to escape. With his index finger and thumb he spread her open, then his fingers were inside her body, ramming up and down. She cried out at the pain of it, as her hymen was broken savagely. He was not finished. He raised himself slightly, to give himself a better angle, and began to work his fist inside her. She was weeping now, squirming, trying to escape the onslaught. There was no escape.

His large hand was fully inside her. He turned it from side to side, watching her expression intently. “Hurts?”

“Stop, please,” and surprisingly, he did, pulling out of her. She lay there as he rose, looked down at her, his member a threatening weapon. He picked up his rifle.

“You know, there’s no reason I should dirty myself with you,” and he slid the gun between her legs. Tempest gasped as he inserted it into her womanhood. The cold metal was a shock to her hot flesh. “I want you to beg me, girl, or I’ll blow you to your maker right now.”

As prepared as she was for death, she couldn’t stand a death like this. “Please, don’t kill me.”

He grinned. “Please f**k me.”

The words wouldn’t come, and he jabbed the rifle in further. It hurt. “Please ... please f...”

“Say it.”

“Please f**k me.” So soft, so broken. The rifle was pulled from her body.

“Good. I think I will.”

He threw himself upon her, and she felt him enter her. He slid in and out, mixing horrible groans and laughter, his hand down there playing with her c**t. She squirmed, trying to make him stop.

“Oh no,” he silked, “you’re going to come for me.”

The indignity was too much. “I can’t do that!”

“You will.”

In and out, in and out, relentless. His hand squeezing and rubbing. His mouth licking and sucking her n****e, her neck, her lips. She felt the orgasm building in her stomach, fought it.

He reached over with his free hand, found a small flashlight that had been on his belt. He grinned at her, then flipped it over and placed it between her legs. In and out. She felt the cold metal at the entrance to her ass.

It was forced in. The pain was excruciating, then pleasurable. His hand returned to its groping and rubbing, his mouth to its hot torment. The flashlight handle inside her, just there, her muscles contracting around it, the cold metal of the lamp against her inner thighs. His other hand, still caressing the delicate bud of pleasure, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing. And constantly in and out, the rhythm horrible and delicious and frightening all at the same time.

She could no longer resist. The orgasm tore through her and she arched her back, dislodging the flashlight, pushing him in further, and she felt both of his hands upon her breasts, squeezing hard, bruising her. The orgasm continued – there was no end to it. His hands moved to her throat, and he pressed down, choking her. The sensations intensified as she fought to breathe. Let it stop!

Finally, it did, and he released her neck, returned to f*****g her. He looked into her face, and laughed. Mocking. Ashamed, she turned her head. His continued punishment of her body kept a tingle of pleasure racing through her. Stop.