Chapter 8: Building Bitches
The hum in the living room had changed. It wasn’t just a pressure in the teeth anymore; it had a texture, a lazy, satisfied frequency that vibrated through the plush carpet and the overstuffed pastel cushions. It thrummed in time with the slow stroke of Mal’s hand through Ellie’s hair. She was asleep, or something like it, curled fetal on the couch with her head in his lap, a line of drying drool on his thigh. David had vanished upstairs an hour ago. The television flickered, sound off, casting blue-gray shadows over the scene.
Mal looked past Ellie’s sleeping form to where Anya sat on the floor, her back against the armchair. She was still in the grey shift, her knees drawn up to her chest, staring at the silent screen where chefs plated imaginary food. Her collar was a sleek, black band. Her expression was smooth, empty.A vase.
He’d broken her nicely. The fire, the defiant lesbian pride, the sharp intellect—all of it had been smothered under a blanket of relentless, conditioning pleasure.She was docile. Quiet. Useful in her way. But lately, it had started to bore him. A broken thing was only interesting for so long. The real art was in the breaking and the remaking. To shape something new from the pieces, something that remembered the fracture.
“Anya,” he said, his voice cutting through the hum.
She turned her head slowly. Her eyes, once a bright, challenging brown like her mother’s, were flat.Dull. “Yes, Master?”
“Come here.”
She uncurled herself, movements graceful and utterly devoid of personal flair. She rose and walked to him, standing before the couch. She didn’t look at her mother. She only looked at him.
“You’ve been very good,” he said, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. “Very obedient. But I think we’re ready for the next phase.”
Her brow furrowed, just a millimeter. A tiny ghost of confusion. “Phase?”
“Mmm. You’re empty. That’s a good start. A clean slate.” He reached out and touched her cheek. She leaned into the touch instinctively, like a cat. “But now we get to write on it. And I want you to be conscious for it. I want you to see the pen moving.”
He snapped his fingers.
It wasn’t a loud sound, but it seemed to warp the air in the room. The hum dipped, then surged. Anya gasped, a sharp, choked intake of breath. Her hands flew to her temples. Her eyes, suddenly wide, scanned the room—the familiar furniture, the fake-cheerful family portraits on the wall, the silent TV, her mother asleep on this stranger’s lap. The fog didn’t just lift; it was violently ripped away.
Memory crashed back in. Not all of it. Not the childhood birthdays or the college lectures. The recent memories. The brutal, intimate ones. The collar snapping shut. The helpless, shocking waves of forced pleasure. The hours, days, of her body being used while her mind was shoved into a dark, quiet corner. The humiliation of kneeling. The sound of her own voice, begging. The sight of her mother, babbling.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. Her voice was raw, her own. It trembled. “No. No, no, no…”
“Yes,” Mal said, pleasantly. “Welcome back.”
Terror, clean and electric, coursed through her. She stumbled back a step. Her body felt alien—tingling, sensitive in places that made her sick, sore in others. She was intensely aware of the cool metal around her neck. She looked at Ellie, really looked. The peaceful expression, the utterly vulnerable posture. A low moan escaped her. “What did you do to her?”
“The same thing I did to you,” Mal said. “Just… more thoroughly.” He shifted, carefully moving Ellie’s head onto a cushion. He stood, stretching, and took a step toward Anya. She flinched, throwing up her hands as if to ward him off.
“Don’t touch me!” The words were a cracked shout.
He didn’t. He just smiled, hands in his pockets. “You’ll ask me to touch you soon enough.”
“I’ll die first.” The old fire was there, flickering in the panic. It felt pathetic.
“No, you won’t. You’re already changed, Anya. Your body knows the truth your mind is struggling with. Look at you.”
She was.She was trembling. But it wasn’t just fear. A deep, crawling heat had begun in her belly the moment her awareness had returned. It was a phantom echo, a conditioned response to his presence. She clenched her thighs together, horrified. “Fuck you.”
“Language,” he chided, still smiling. “But since you mentioned it. That’s the point, isn’t it? That’s the core of the new you. We’re going to rebuild your ego, your sense of self, around one simple, beautiful truth: you exist for my pleasure. Everything else—your politics, your pride, your past—is just clutter. We’ve swept it out. Now we decorate.”
“You’re insane.” She backed up until her legs hit the coffee table.
“I’m pragmatic. You had a self.I erased it. Now I’m offering you a new one. It’s a gift, really. Most people spend their whole lives confused about who they are. You’ll have absolute clarity.” He took another step.She was cornered. “Your mother, for example. She doesn’t wrestle with existential questions anymore. She’s happy. She’s simple. She’s a set of beautiful, responsive functions. But you… you’re younger. Your mind is more resilient. I think we can make you something more… interesting. A pet with teeth. A slave who knows she’s a slave.”
“I’ll never…” she began, but her voice failed. The heat was spreading, a traitorous warmth that made her skin feel too tight.
“You already have.” He was close now. She could smell him—clean soap and something darker, metallic, like ozone. “Your body remembers what your mind is trying to forget. How good it felt to let go. How powerful the sensations were. How right it felt to obey.”
“It didn’t,” she spat, but it was a lie, and the flinch in her eye gave it away. There had been moments, in the haze, where the pleasure had been so total, so obliterating, that everything else—identity, rebellion, love—had felt like a distant, stupid dream.
“It did.” He reached out, slowly, and cupped her chin. She tried to jerk away, but his grip was firm, not painful, just absolute. “And your body is wiser than your pride. It knows what it wants now. It’s been re-wired.” His thumb stroked her lower lip. A jolt went through her, straight to her core.She whimpered. “See?”
Tears of fury and shame welled in her eyes. “Stop it.”
“Make me.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Use that fire. Fight me.”
She tried. She swung a fist at him. It was sluggish, uncoordinated, as if her limbs were filled with sand. He caught her wrist easily, folding her arm behind her back and pulling her tight against him.The contact was a shock. Her body arched, not in struggle, but in a horrifying, involuntary echo of arousal. A small, choked sound escaped her.
“There it is,” he murmured into her ear. “The conflict. That’s what we’re going to nurture. The hate and the need, twisted together. It’s so much more fun than simple emptiness.”
He spun her around and pushed her forward, over the back of the couch. Her hips hit the soft cushions. Ellie slept on, undisturbed, a few feet away. Anya’s face pressed into the fabric. She tried to push back up, but his hand was between her shoulder blades, holding her down.
“Don’t do this,” she begged, the words muffled. “Not with her here. Please.”
“She’s not here,” Mal said, his voice clinical. He gathered the hem of her shift in his hand. “Not in any way that matters.” He yanked the fabric up to her waist.
The air was cool on her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut. She heard the soft sound of his zipper. Terror screamed through her veins. But beneath it, underneath the revulsion, a deeper, slicker current was stirring.Her own betrayal. Her body was preparing itself.She was wet. The realization was a knife in her gut.
“You feel that, don’t you?” he said, his voice right behind her. He didn’t sound triumphant.He sounded curious. “The readiness. That’s your new baseline, Anya. A state of perpetual welcome. Your mind can scream all it wants. Your body is already mine.”
He entered her in one slow, inexorable push. She cried out, a strangled sound of protest that died in her throat. It didn’t hurt. That was the worst part. It was familiar. Her muscles, trained by countless anonymous sessions in the fog, relaxed and accepted him. A moan was dragged out of her, a sound of pure, unwanted pleasure.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, beginning to move. His pace was deliberate, not frantic. This wasn’t about drowning her this time.It was about illumination. “Feel it. That’s your reality now. This connection. This is what you are for.”
She sobbed into the couch cushion. Her fingers clawed at the fabric. Every thrust was a referendum on her soul. With each one, a piece of her old self—the outspoken feminist, the daughter, the young woman who knew who she was—felt more like a costume she’d once worn. It was flimsy. It didn’t fit anymore. What fit was this: the stretch, the fullness, the degrading, undeniable slide towards an orgasm she didn’t want but was building inside her anyway.
“I hate you,” she gritted out, the words hot with tears.
“I know,” he said, his breath steady. He leaned over her, his chest against her back. “Focus on that. Cling to it. It’s the last thing you have that’s truly yours. Your hate. But listen to your body, Anya. It’s telling you a different story.”
Her body was singing a chorus of submission. The heat was coiling, tightening, a familiar crest she’d been taught to chase. She fought it. She bit her lip until she tasted blood. She tried to think of her girlfriend, of pride parades, of anything that was hers. But the images were gray and distant, overshadowed by the immediate, physical truth pistoning into her.
“It feels good, doesn’t it?” he whispered, cruel and gentle. “To stop fighting. To just be what you are. A thing that gets fucked. A smart, angry little thing that finally understands its purpose.”
The orgasm hit her like a detonation. It ripped through her willpower, shattering her resistance into bright, shameful splinters. Her back bowed, a silent scream locked in her throat. Her hips bucked against him, seeking more, deeper. The pleasure was catastrophic. It felt like dying. It felt like truth.
When it subsided, she was hollow.Spent. He finished inside her a moment later, his own rhythm finally fracturing into a few rough thrusts. He held himself there for a long moment, then withdrew.
She collapsed onto the couch, the rough fabric scratching her cheek. She didn’t move. She felt the wetness between her legs, the ache, the profound, soul-crushing understanding. She had come. She had come while her mother slept beside her. She had come while hating him. The hate was still there, a cold stone in her chest, but it was surrounded by something new: a devastating, complicit knowledge.
He stood, adjusting his clothes. He looked down at her, a scientist observing a successful experiment. “Get up.”
She couldn’t.Her limbs were water.
“Now, Anya.”
The command slithered into her ear and found a newly-installed lever. She pushed herself up, her movements shaky. She didn’t pull her dress down. She stood before him, exposed, waiting.
“Look at me.”
She raised her eyes. The defiance was gone. In its place was a shattered, lucid horror. She saw herself reflected in his green eyes—a used, broken girl who had just achieved a devastating orgasm against her own will.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Her lips moved.Nothing came out.
“You’re the girl who comes when she’s fucked,” he said softly, answering for her. “You’re the girl who hates it, and loves how it feels. That’s your axis now. That’s your conflict. We’re going to explore it. Deeply.” He reached out and tapped her forehead. “The cage is comfortable, Anya. You don’t have to live in the panic. You can live in the reality. The reality is, your body belongs to me. Your mind is a fascinating, complicated guest in it. We’re going to be great friends.”
He turned and walked toward the kitchen. “Clean yourself up. Then come here. You can make me a drink.”
Anya stood there, trembling. The hum in the room seemed to settle into her bones, a permanent frequency. She looked at her mother, still asleep, a serene smile on her lips. She looked at the family portrait on the wall, their smiling faces now a grotesque joke.
She had never felt more alone. And she had never understood herself less.
Slowly, mechanically, she pulled the grey dress down over her hips. The fabric clung, damp. She walked past the couch, past her mother, toward the kitchen. Her legs carried her. Her mind was a silent, screaming room.
From the top of the stairs, unseen in the darkness, David watched her go. He had heard every sound. He had seen the final, shuddering collapse of her body. He slid down the wall onto the cold hardwood, his hands over his face.
In the kitchen, Mal handed Anya a glass. “Scotch.Two fingers. No ice.”
Her hands shook as she took the bottle. She concentrated on the task, on the simple, physical reality of pouring liquid. It was a tiny anchor in the howling void of her new self. She could still feel him moving inside her. She could still feel the aftershocks of the climax she hadn't wanted.
She handed him the glass. He took it, his fingers brushing hers. A fresh, unwanted jolt of heat bloomed low in her stomach.
“Good,” he said, taking a sip.His eyes never left hers. “Now, stand there. And think about what you are. We’ll talk more when you’re ready.”
She stood by the counter, her arms held stiffly at her sides. She stared at a smudge on the stainless steel refrigerator door. She tried to think of nothing at all. But all she could think was one repeating, damning phrase, in time with the hum:
I came. I came. I came.
I came.
The words were a silent, searing brand on the inside of her skull. They pulsed with the same rhythm as the hum that now felt permanently fused to her bones. Anya stood at the kitchen counter, the cool stainless steel doing nothing to ground her. Her thighs were sticky. The ache between them was a damning proof.
Mal watched her from the breakfast nook, sipping his scotch. He seemed utterly at ease, a man enjoying the quiet aftermath of a minor chore. The silence stretched, filled only by the refrigerator’s dull drone and the low, sub-aural thrum from the living room.
“She’s waking up,” Mal said, tilting his head toward the other room.
Anya flinched. She didn’t want to see her mother’s blank eyes, not now. Not with this fresh, shameful heat still simmering in her own skin. A cushion sighed. There was a soft, giggling groan.
“Mmm… Mal? Where’d you go, silly?”
Ellie’s voice, sleep-thick and sweet as syrup, floated in. Footsteps, clumsy and light, pattered on the hardwood. She appeared in the doorway, blinking. Her hair was a mess. David’s old sweatshirt was twisted, hanging off one shoulder. Her face was soft, imprintless.
“Oh, hi!” she beamed, her eyes landing on Anya. There was no recognition, no concern. Just a vapid, generic warmth. She shuffled to Mal, draping herself over his back from behind, nuzzling his neck. “I had the best nap. I dreamed about, like, rainbows and your cock. It was awesome.”
“Sounds profound,” Mal said, not turning. He kept his eyes on Anya. “Ellie, baby, look at your daughter.”
Ellie peered around his shoulder. She squinted, as if trying to bring Anya into focus.“Oh yeah. Hi, sweetie.” Her tone was the one you’d use on a passing acquaintance’s kid. “You look… serious. You should smile more! It’s good for your face muscles.”
Anya felt a scream building in her throat, brittle and dry. This was worse than the violation.This erasure.
“She’s learning,” Mal said. His hand came up to stroke Ellie’s arm wrapped around his chest. “But she’s fighting it. She’s still clinging to old ideas.”
“Aww,” Ellie pouted, resting her chin on his shoulder. Her gaze drifted over Anya’s disheveled state, the tremor in her hands. A flicker of something—not understanding, but programming—passed behind her eyes. “Don’t fight it, honey! It’s, like, so much easier just to let go.Seriously. All that thinking?” She made a puffing sound with her lips, like blowing away dust. “Exhausting.”
Mal smiled. It was a cold, pleased thing. “Why don’t you show her? Show her how easy it is to be happy.”
Ellie’s face lit up with a simple, radiant joy. “Okay!” She detangled herself and shuffled around to the front of his chair. She didn’t ask him to move, or check if this was appropriate. She simply went to her knees on the kitchen tile, her movements practiced and automatic. Her fingers went to his belt.
Anya looked away, a sharp jerk of her head. Her eyes locked on the smudge on the fridge again. It was shaped like a teardrop.
“Uh-uh,” Mal chided softly.“Watch. This is your lesson.”
Ellie freed him, already wet from their earlier session. She didn’t pause. She took him into her mouth with a happy, humming sigh, her eyes sliding closed in immediate contentment. The sounds were obscenely domestic in the bright kitchen—soft, wet, rhythmically obscene.
Anya wanted to vomit. She wanted to shut her eyes. Her body wouldn’t obey. She stood, rigid, forced to witness.
“See?” Ellie mumbled, pulling off for a second, a string of saliva connecting her lips to him. She looked up at Anya, her expression earnest, helpful. “It’s, like, super simple. You just… do the thing that feels good. And then your brain gets all quiet and fizzy.” She went back down, taking him deeper, a low groan of pleasure vibrating in her throat.
“She’s a natural,” Mal said, his voice a little tighter now. His hand rested on the back of Ellie’s head, not forcing, just guiding. “A quick study. She understood that her mind was just getting in the way of her true function. Now, she’s empty. Now, she’s useful.” His green eyes pinned Anya. “She bounces on my insatiable cock for hours at a time, cumming her pretty little brains out. It’s all she does. It’s all she is. And she’s never been happier.”
On the floor, Ellie moaned in agreement, the sound muffled. Her hips shifted on the tile, seeking friction.
“Tell her, Ellie,” Mal prompted, his fingers twining in her hair.
She pulled off again, gasping. “It’s true!” she said, breathless, addressing Anya as if sharing a great life hack. “You just, like, let the feelings happen. And you don’t worry about anything else. ‘Cause what else is there, really?” She blinked, her pupils wide. “It’s way better than being all tense and thinky, like you are. You look soooo stressed.”
Mal chuckled. “She’s trying to help you, Anya. She’s encouraging your new state.” He pushed Ellie’s head back down gently. “Tell her what she’s becoming.”
Ellie serviced him with renewed enthusiasm for a moment before popping off again, her need to obey the command overriding her need for stimulation. She grinned up at Anya, a strand of hair stuck to her wet lips. “You’re gonna be a stupid, subjugated fucktoy, just like me! It’s the best! You don’t have to decide anything.” She nodded, sage-like in her absolute idiocy.“He decides. And then you just get to cum and cum. It’s, like… paradise.”
The words, delivered with such cheerful, bubbly sincerity, were like having acid poured in Anya’s ears. Stupid, subjugated fucktoy. Her mother’s voice. Her mother’s face.
Anya’s knees buckled. She caught herself on the counter’s edge, her knuckles white. A torn sound, half-sob, half-retch, escaped her.
“Look at that,” Mal observed, his breath hitching slightly as Ellie worked. “She understands now.The poetry of it. You’re being welcomed into the family business by the woman who raised you.”
ELLIE BOUNCES ON MAL’S INSATIABLE COCK FOR HOURS AT A TIME, CUMMING HER PRETTY LITTLE BRAINS OUT, AND “ENCOURAGING” ANYA’S NEW STATE WITH DEGRADING COMMENTS ABOUT HER BEING A STUPID, SUBJUGATED FUCKTOY
He pulled Ellie up by her hair. She came off him with a wet, plopping sound, her lips swollen, her eyes glazed and ecstatic. “Up here, baby. Show her the advanced seminar.”
Giggling, Ellie climbed onto his lap, straddling him right there in the kitchen chair. She wasn’t hurried. She settled onto him with a sigh of profound contentment, as if slipping into a warm bath.Then she began to move. It was a steady, rolling bounce, deep and claiming. The chair creaked in a sharp, rhythmic protest.
“Omigod, Mal,” she breathed, her head falling back. “I love this. I love being your… your happy hole. Your personal cocksleeve.” She was looking right at Anya, her gaze unfocused but intense. “You see? You see how good it is? You don’t have to be smart or sad or… or anything. You just have to be this.”
Her words dissolved into babbles and gasps as she found her rhythm. The wet, slapping sounds filled the kitchen. Her breasts swayed heavily under the sweatshirt. Her face was a mask of simple, unadulterated bliss.
“That’s it,” Mal grunted, his hands gripping her hips, helping her rise and fall. “Tell her what she is.”
“She’s a… a dumb little fucktoy!” Ellie cried out, the words punctuated by her bouncing. “A stupid… subjugated… slut! And she’s gonna… she’s gonna love it! Just like I do! She’s gonna forget her own… name and just… remember this!”
Anya slid down the cabinet until she was sitting on the floor. She wrapped her arms around her knees, trying to make herself small. She couldn’t block it out. The sounds.The words. The sight of her mother, so utterly transformed, so joyfully annihilated. It was a surgical dismantling of her entire world, performed with a cheerful smile and a bouncing ass.
The humiliation was a live wire inside her. But beneath it, beneath the revulsion and the terror, the traitorous heat in her core grew warmer, wetter. Her body was responding to the spectacle, to the raw, amoral display of surrender. It recognized the programming. It craved the simplicity.
Ellie’s climax was a long, wailing crescendo. She shuddered, crying out, grinding herself down onto him as if trying to fuse their bodies together. She slumped forward, giggling into his neck, completely spent. “Wow. Just… wow. My brain is total, like, smooth jelly now. The best.”
Mal held her there for a moment, then lifted her off like a child, setting her on wobbly legs. “Good girl. Perfect.” He tucked himself away, his calm undisturbed. He looked at Anya, crumpled on the floor. “Your mom’s right, you know.It is easier. This fight you’re putting up? It’s just wasted energy. You’ve already lost the war. You’re just protesting the peace treaty.”
He stood, stretching. Ellie clung to his side, beaming dopily up at him. “Go clean up, Ellie-bear. Then maybe… make some popcorn. We could watch a movie.”
“Okey-dokey!” she chirped, and skipped off toward the bathroom, moving with the loose-limbed gait of the profoundly satisfied.
Mal crouched down in front of Anya. The kitchen lights haloed his dark hair. He smelled of sex and her mother. “Look at me.”
She couldn’t. She stared at the grout between the tiles.
His finger hooked under her chin, forcing her head up. His touch was electric and foul. “The awareness is a gift, Anya. It’s what makes you more interesting than her. You get to know what you are. You get to feel every layer of the degradation. The hate makes the submission taste sweeter.” He leaned closer, his voice a confidential whisper. “I felt how wet you got just now. Watching her. Listening to her describe you. Your body is already signing the treaty. Your mind just needs to catch up.”
He let her go and stood. “When you’re ready to stop suffering, you know where to find me. You can kneel right where she did. The offer’s always open.”
He walked away, leaving her on the cold floor. From the living room, the television flickered on. Cartoon music tinny and bright filled the air. Ellie’s voice, humming tunelessly, joined it from the bathroom, accompanied by the sound of running water.
Anya pressed her forehead to her knees. The silent scream was back, trapped behind her teeth. The hum in the house seemed to vibrate in time with a new, terrible rhythm in her own blood—a rhythm of surrender, beckoning. Her body felt hollow, ached, and longed all at once. The words echoed, in her mother’s cheerful, empty voice: Stupid, subjugated fucktoy.
Upstairs, the floorboard outside the guest room creaked under a silent, shifting weight.