A dark woods. A large oak, felled, halved, then sanded and varnished smooth. Prepared for me.
My bed. Naked atop it, I am on my back.
A full moon, sometimes hidden by clouds, now shines through the trees, casting beams like long fingers across my pale thighs and breasts.
I wear wrist cuffs, shackled by chains to eye hooks on either side of the half oak. The metal collar I wear is likewise bolted to the tree, holding my neck tightly in place.
I am bent at the knees, my ankles pulled tight against the back of my thighs. My ankle cuffs are shackled taut to eye hooks on the side of the tree, spreading me open.
I cannot move.
My vulva is bald and wet and waiting.
They will come.
There are sounds a forest makes during a sacrifice. Crackles and rustles and the voices of creatures at the edges. People too, trying to keep silent behind trees, heard only for the occasional cough or clearing of a throat.
After a time, there are steps. Heavy footfalls. I strain to look, I cannot help myself, but my neck and head are fixed tight and I can only see straight up to heaven.
I hear the unbuckling of a belt, the unzipping of pants, the rustle of clothes. Then the breathing of a man, the whiff of a spiced cologne. And the initial touch — his hand pushing my knees farther apart.
I feel him sliding close, his girth occupying my private spaces, and then his erect penis pushing hard into me.
I gasp. It has begun.
He pushes deep inside me, then slides back. Forward and back. My vagina grips him tightly, against my will as I would rather expel him from my body. But this is what I must do. This is what I am for.
He is slow, too slow, and I yell for him to finish. “Come, please come!” I scream aloud.
He doesn’t. He continues to impale me, over and over, and soon a vein along the top length of his cock slides directly against my clitoris, like a bow against the catgut string of a viola. I scream.
And now he grunts, tenses, and ejaculates. It happens just as my instrument breaks, and
I explode into shudders.
He shoots his sin inside me. My orgasm is a sign. He is forgiven.
I’ve lost track of time, but they approach, randomly, in steady succession,
Another walks up beside me. A man. I hear him first, then feel his exposed, turgid cock slapping my breast. He uses his organ like a crop, whipping my tit. My nipples harden, against my will.
His slapping continues, gets faster. And harder. He is bruising me.
And then he stops, groans. And his hot icing spurts across my breasts in stripes, as if decorating cake rounds with the word “Atonement.”
One hand massages his sin into my skin, spreading the frosting into an even layer all over my breast. And then he does the same, reaching over, to my other breast. I am coated.
He walks away.
Another approaches. I smell lilac. Soap or perfume. A woman.
She climbs atop my oak bed, straddling me over my tummy.
I hear a rustling sound. It is her skirt, I think, lifted. Within moments she releases and pisses her anger over my middle, her urine pooling in my navel.
It’s hot with rage and steams in the cool air.
She sneers at me: “Cunt!.” Then dismounts.
A man approaches. He has blindfold glasses and puts them on me.
I feel him climbing atop, him straddling my neck, his knees tight against my shoulders.
His balls flatten against my chin, as his cock finds my mouth. He feeds it to me, and I suck him, suck his shame, suck his evil.
His member bangs against the back of my throat, again and again. I choke, but he does not stop. I somehow control my responses, and continue this forced fellatio.
Soon, he stops, spasms, and fills my mouth with his thick come.
I swallow his sin.
It goes on and on.
A woman whips my pussy with a thorned fern, her rage against a business that wronged her. I am scratched and scraped, but my clit swells and feels the swipe of a frond. I jerk and come.
A man writes “Whore” in lipstick across my breasts, and I wear his anger against his wife.
There are others. Men, I lost count, mounting me, fucking me, injecting me with their affairs, a kind of reenactment of their sinful deeds.
I receive their guilt, again and again and again. It becomes a flood inside me, some oozing out, semen smearing my pussy and my thighs like a glaze, but much more collecting deep within, a co-mingled cocktail of man-lust impregnating me.
I climax, each time cursing myself for the pleasure, and then again. And again.
They are all forgiven.
The night grows dark. The moon hides behind clouds as if ashamed.
It starts raining, washing lipstick and come and piss off my body. But nothing cleans what’s left inside.
I fall asleep.
I hear birds chirping. My eyes open. There is light. The beginnings of dawn. My shackles have been unlocked. I can stand and leave.
But I am not free.
I will walk through town, naked, bruised and Jizz-dappled, and they will look at me with judgment and pity.
And also with gratitude.
For now I am the slut-whore that saved them.