A bedtime story

Once upon a time, there was a little boy, he was a sweet little boy, but when he looked around at the world, he was confused about how he fitted in. Sometimes, he would whisper to himself that it was ok, really. And sometimes, he would sneak off and find things to hurt himself with and hope that no-one would notice.

This little boy would find sweet little girls and kiss them. They would kiss him back, they liked him, those sweet little girls. And he would sometimes pretend that they were being mean to him when they were being gentle and lovely and kind.

Sometimes he showed them, shyly, how to be mean to him a little, but most times, he would wish it was so when it wasn’t, and he would wish that he didn’t think about it the way that he did.

The little boy started to find ways to make himself feel what he wanted to feel. He was bashful and embarrassed about it and pretended it wasn’t really happening. He would look around his house for things to help him… He found belts and knives and cords, and when he was alone, he would try to use them on himself, to see what it felt like… But he never went out and bought any things that were specifically for that purpose, that would be wrong, that would mean he was strange and not quite right.

And the little boy imagined, while he hit himself, that there was a big girl, a mean girl standing over him making him do these things. He imagined that she would take that belt off him and hiss, “Let me SHOW you how it’s done!”

And she would swing it at him while he knelt on the floor. She would say horrible things to him, she would call him a filthy little bitch and a fucking slut and slap his face and make him crawl across the floor with his arse in the air and his face to the ground. She would be looking around the house for things to hurt him with, she would be eyeing off the umbrella, the wooden spoon, the knives. She would make him crawl all over the house to get these things for her and bring them to her in his mouth, one by one, while she smacked him every time he got close enough.

He imagined that she liked it, that she loved to see him confused and lost and small, that it made her wet, that it made her want more of him. He wanted her to hurt him more, he wanted her to force his face into her cunt, to stop him breathing, to cut him open, to fuck him so it would hurt, to open up his skin and his mouth and his chest and his stomach and shove her cock into all the holes.

He wanted her to slice pieces of him off his body, his nipples, holding them away from his body and sawing at them until she had them in her hand, then poking at the wounds with the knife, asking him, “Do you think I’m finished with you yet, bitch?”

And the boy would try to shake his head. “No, no, I don’t think you are finished with me yet… I am still here…you haven’t got it all yet.”

When the boy finally passed out, the big girl lay down beside him. She poked her fingers and her cock and her tongue into the holes in him, touching him inside, gently at first, but it made her hungry and she wanted to wake him up so that she could fuck with him some more. She fucked into his arse with her cock, trying to bring him around by slapping his face so that he would fuck back against her, or fight her, or do something, but he wouldn’t wake up. She finally gave up and fucked at his lifeless body, different holes, trying to find the one that would give enough resistance to make her come.

At the end, she fucked her cunt against his face, wet with blood and tears and saliva, until she came in his mouth. And she snuck out before he was found, a bloody beaten, stabbed, holey mess on the floor.

And she lived happily ever after.