Amy's Treatment

[SoftGameHunter]

Well, that puts any thoughts I had of this pair having a past together to rest. It's a budding romance! I wonder if it would be possible in the end for Amy to see that Blackton and Lamb became a couple. Just throwing out ideas here, but what if the story ends with Blackton arrested and put on a very public trial, with Amy's name out in the media, but he's utterly exonerated based on Lamb's testimony about her unstable condition? Feel free to use it if you like it.

[skuttrusk]

Softgamehunter, that's a really nice suggestion and I'll think about how to incorporate it.

JTCK, thanks, glad you're enjoying the story. More build-up to come, but hopefully it's exciting in its own right.

[skuttrusk]

CHAPTER THREE: A Session with the Cunt

Of course Amy's next therapy session was electrically charged for me. This tiresome victim, whose whining had become so hatefully dull to me, wearing out both sympathy and arousal, was now about to be raped again, far more cruelly. Her immanent destruction had me so turned on I could hardly speak.

Dr. Freud invented the psychiatrist's couch because he felt uncomfortable when his patients looked him in the eye when telling their innermost secrets. I used it sometimes with Amy, and I definitely wanted to do so this week. There had been at times a certain pleasure in watching Amy full-face as she went over some painful or degrading detail of her rape, but for this session I needed to be unobserved.

I showed her to the couch and sat behind her. I could look at her, the back of her head and her figure stretched out, in blouse and pencil skirt and heels, but she couldn't see me.

"I had a dream last night—" she began.

"That can wait for another time," I said, a little too quickly. "Today I think we should go over your rape again."

"Again? I feel like I've told you everything there is." Typical of the cunt! Week after week she droned on about her trauma, and when I want to discuss it she changes the subject. I wasn't having that.

"I have some new thoughts I'd like to offer for consideration, but it would be very, ah, helpful, if you could go through the events that traumatised you… in a… blow by blow manner."

This was a lie, I had no new insights at all after three years listening to the cunt, but I wanted to question her along fresh lines… it's different when you want to help a girl versus wanting to have all the knowledge you need to really break her. I knew I could then easily fob her off with some psychobabble bullshit. The cunt considered herself intelligent but I felt her mental capacity was negligible at best. Really her best purpose in life was as a hole for men to spurt into.

"Well… I was coming home from an office party. It was dark and the streets were deserted but it was a short walk. I've blamed myself so often for being careless…"

"Well… perhaps you were a little stupid to take the risk," I offered. "Any man might have been tempted, seeing you alone like that."

"I, uh… well, but that doesn't justify what happened," she protested, weakly.

"No, of course not," I said quickly. "It just… explains it, in a way. What happened next?" I was behind her looking along her body from the back of her brunette head down past her small breasts, along her slender legs. I opened my own legs and slid my skirt up. I was deliberately not wearing panties.

"I heard someone walking behind me. Rapid footsteps. I didn't think anything of it because he seemed to be about to overtake me…"

"Rather silly of you," I observed, my fingers reaching my exposed pussy.

"Yes, I know. I felt so stupid after… what happened."

I caressed my clit. "And what did happen?"

"He caught up at me just as I was passing an alley. Grabbed my hair. Got his hand over my mouth. Marched me into the alley. He was too strong. I tried to yell but he hissed in my ear.
He—"

"What did he say?" I asked. Important to get all the humiliating details.

"He said, 'Don't struggle, you little wh-whore, or I'll break your neck!' I was terrified. He shoved me into the wall. I can still feel the cold, rough brickwork against my face."

I was wet. "Yes… and what did you feel next?"

"He l-lifted my skirt. He pressed against me. I could feel his… I could feel him rubbing against my bare bottom. He seemed huge. I thought… I was afraid… that he was going to…"

"Anally rape you, Amy?"

"Yes." Said in a tiny voice, with a slight sob at the end. I rubbed harder.

"Say it, Amy. You must face it. You were afraid he was going to shove his erect penis up your rectum. To ass-rape you. Say it."

"I was afraid he'd… rape my ass." Another sob, louder. I was getting very wet. I hoped she wouldn't turn around suddenly. I hoped she wouldn't smell my wet pussy. And in a way I hoped she would. It would certainly be funny to see the look of betrayal on the cunt's face.

"And did he?"

"No, he, he put it in my… in my…"

"In your pussy, Amy? Say it. Own it."

"He put it in my p-pussy. And I was scared. Scared I'd get p-pregnant. He was thrusting. Fast. Hard. It hurt. I wasn't ready. But then, I…"

"What, Amy?"

"I… I got wet." Not as wet as me, I thought, rubbing furiously, trying not to make a sound.

"We've talked about that, haven't we, Amy?"

"Yes. You said women's bodies often do that during rape. As self-defence."

"That's right, Amy. But new research also shows that some women have masochistic tendencies, which they only discover when they're raped. It can open up new sexual horizons for them. They find they enjoy force, brutality, humiliation."

"I didn't!" she cried out.

"I didn't say you did," I said soothingly, patronisingly. "I was just mentioning some recent research. No, for you, the rape was degrading and traumatic." I slipped a finger inside myself and suppressed a moan. "It's caused you pain and anxiety and guilt." I thought of what the next rape would do. Two fingers now.

"Yes. I was so scared. Scared he'd hurt me. I mean, he did hurt me. I was scared he might kill me."

"Mmm," I said, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. The thought of the pathetic little cunt getting choked blue in the face was a curiously exciting one. "But he didn't. You survived.
You're a rape survivor, Amy."

"Yes."

"Some might call you a victim. A fucktoy. A cum receptacle. A whore. But do you know what I see when I look at you, Amy?"

She wanted to turn round, but she didn't have the confidence. "Wh-what?"

"A c-" I came that close to telling her what she really was. "A contestant in life's battle, Amy. A total contestant. Now, did he cum in your pussy, or where?"

"No, he pulled out. I felt him squirting on my… on my cheeks. And then he spun me around, pushed me to my knees, and ordered me to suck him clean."

"Mmm. And what did you do?"

"I… I obeyed him."

"I see. And why did you do that, Amy? You could have bitten him, couldn't you? Why did you submit, degrade yourself?"

"I was s-scared."

"Mmm. And how did you feel as you sucked the semen from his penis?"

"Like a whore."

"Yes. Naturally."

"Do you think I should have—?"

"Bitten him? Heavens no, he'd have murdered you."

She sighed with a kind of relief, and also a sadness.

"There is some research that suggests that girls who show a little more… spirit than you did, can recover more readily from the mental anguish of a rape. But they then have to contend with the inevitable physical injuries that result from defying a rapist's will. Those can be… very severe. So it's a unfortunate trade-off, Amy. On the one hand, broken bones, concussion, or even death. On the other, the utter shame and humiliation of surrendering to your rapist, pleasuring his cock, rewarding him with your body. Making it all but inevitable that he'll go on to rape more young c… college girls."

I slid my fingers from my dripping pussy. I knew I couldn't get away with actually cumming during analysis. I had to be content with edging for now.

"And then… at the end. Almost the worst part. He made me… thank him. And he laughed at me." The tears were flowing freely now, her face almost as moist as I was.

"Well, try to see the other side, Amy. I expect you must have looked a bit comical kneeling in front of him, cum and pussy juice on your lips, thanking him for raping you. He probably couldn't help having a bit of a chuckle at the sight of you." I licked my fingertips and reapplied them to my clit. I felt that at any moment I would say something so vile the cunt would sit bolt upright and turn around, and my hiked-up skirt, spread legs and dripping vulva would take some explaining. I closed my legs and lowered my skirt, rubbing my thighs together in an erotic squirm that stimulated my pussy at a lower level.

"It was just so—"

"Humiliating, yes, I know." I was essential that Blackton force the cunt to thank him for raping her at her forthcoming assault. It had to be done in such a way that her earlier shame would be triggered, but she wouldn't assume some causal connection between the two rapes. But it was worth the risk. Forcing her to thank Blackton for violating her in every hole was too delicious a concept to pass up.

I almost felt sorry for the cunt.

The timer went off shortly afterwards. I was flustered and sweaty, my thighs sticky with pussy juice.


"The new research you mentioned—" Amy began.

"Yes, I was trying that out. It's been suggested that sympathising with rapees doesn't help them recover, and that taking the point of view of their guilt and shame and confronting them with it – giving voice to your own urge to blame yourself for your stupidity in getting yourself raped – would help you build resilience."

"I see. It was quite… challenging." She daubed at her face with a tissue.

"There's another form of treatment that's getting good results, called exposure therapy."

"Oh, what would that involve?"

"Well, for instance, you would visit the alleyway where you got yourself raped."

"Oh, I could never go back! I go out of my way to avoid even passing it!"

"Then we would get a suitable male colleague of mine to reenact certain parts of the assault. Pushing you against the wall. Lifting your skirt. Lowering your panties. Going further and further, over many sessions, until you could face the whole thing without fear."

"Oh my God! I could never…" Here come the waterworks again. More racking sobs. Her tissue disintegrates.

"I understand, Amy," I said, showing her to the door. "But we've tried everything else. Think it over. I may have to end these sessions if they're no longer being… productive."

"Oh no! You don't understand, Dr. Lamb, this therapy is the only thing holding me together! I couldn't face life without it!"

"Well, then, think about that possibility."

I closed the door on the sobbing cunt and thought, if I can just keep the worthless bitch from committing suicide after Blackton's finished with her, I'll be the greatest therapist who ever lived.

End of chapter 3
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Your reactions are very much desired. What would you ideally like to see happen to Amy? What do you like/dislike about this set-up? Etc

[embarrassedalready]

i really wish i understood why the idea of being betrayed by a therapist or doctor is so hotttt........it's like that gif i made on the other site we frequent, "just learned my therapist has been recording my rape fantasy admissions to play for his friends".....oooof....

[skuttrusk]

It's such an intimate betrayal, isn't it? Kind of the most evil, delicious thing I could think of.

[JTCK]

The story keeps getting better and better! Isn’t the therapist incredibly evil and mean? Such an abuse of her position of trust!

And it’s impressive how you keep building up the suspense in your story. One slowly starts to get an idea of what poor Amy will have to face, and I’m really looking forward to it!

[Blue]

@JTCK

Well written. I'm waiting for more.

[peterfrisk]

Like the story and the concept of a betrayal by someone she trusted. Hope there will be more chapters coming

[skuttrusk]

Thanks guys! Next episode appearing soon.

[skuttrusk]

CHAPTER 4 - CAPTURING THE CUNT

The weeks leading up to the cunt's rape passed slowly, and they did, agonizingly slowly in a haze of masturbation, fantasy, dark porn consumption, and skewed values. I found myself acting in an increasingly misogynistic way during therapy sessions.

When a battered wife complained of her husband's latest act of violence (punching her to the floor and kicking her in the pussy), I found myself responding, "Well, give the man a break, he has to let his frustrations out somehow."

When a young mother complained that her partner was handsy and lecherous towards her eighteen-year-old daughter, I pointed out that men are not naturally monogamous and suggested that letting him use the girl, with or without her consent, would cement the family's closeness.

I encouraged my three other rape victim clients to look more compassionately upon their rapists and take more responsibility and shame upon themselves. This was rather easy to do since rape victims hilariously tend to blame themselves for getting rapes. I found it intensely erotic to subtly increase their humiliation and internalized misogyny. One of them agreed to write to her rapist absolving him of all blame for anally violating her, and another agreed to meet with hers to give him another chance." LOL.

I told myself I would get back to normal therapeutic practices once Blackton had successfully raped the cunt. I knew this was a lie, though. I wondered if actually witnessing a rape would break the spell, show me this was wrong, reset my mind to normal. I knew it wouldn't. And I didn't want it to.

But if waiting for the date marked on my calendar in red seemed to take an abnormally long time, waiting outside Amy the cunt's flat as Blackton broke in and lay in wait for her seemed to take eternity. I was roiling with both anticipation and anxiety.

What if he got carried away and injured her during the struggle? Even killed her? There would be a police investigation. They would want to talk to me.
I hadn't smoked in years but knowing the stress I'd be under I bought a pack of cigarettes and smoked most of them as I waited in the shadow of a doorway.

The cunt arrived approximately on time. Blackton had timed her movements and learned that she generally got back from work around six. The wintry street was dark. She entered the stair door and I felt my heart pounding. Just climbing the stairs seemed to take the cunt ages to accomplish.

"Hurry up, you little whore," I found myself whispering. My eyes glued to her front room window.

It lit up! I dropped my cigarette.

A minute later she appeared, having removed her coat and hat. She was talking on her phone. Blackton didn't dare strike while she was in communication with a third party. And if she should spot him…

She wandered back and forth in front of the window, blithely chitchatting, unaware of the danger she was in and the heart failure she was subjecting me to.

"Hang up, you fucking rapemeat cunt," I mouthed.

Finally, after about a thousand years, the cunt finished her call and all of a sudden Blackton, wearing a ski mask, appeared behind her. She was looking at her phone, hadn't seen him yet. And he waved at me. I felt a sudden rush of absolute admiration for his nerves of steel.

Then he grabbed her. Hand over her mouth. Dashed the phone from her little hand, then
wrapped his arm around her, pinning one arm. She struggled, clearly panicked. Reached back to try and claw at him. He spun her around and hit her hard in the face – a punch, not a slap. She staggered back and fell out of view. He plunged after her.

Was that necessary, the violence? I wondered. But I didn't really mind. A good crack in the jaw seemed suitable treatment for the little cunt. I wondered if he'd physically hurt her more once she was defenceless. I kind of hoped he would.

And then I couldn't see anything. But I knew it was time to get in position. I crossed the road and stood in the cunt's doorway. And waited another thousand years.

I jumped when Blackton's voice came from the entryphone. "No problems. The cunt is trussed like a turkey. Come on up."

I hurried up the stairs and arrived panting.

After a short pause the cunt's front door opened. Blackton, his ski mask pulled up to reveal his face, slightly sweaty.
He grinned. "No trouble at all. And now we can do what we like with her."

I followed him to the cunt's bedroom. Amy was still fully dressed, her wrists tied to the headboard of the bed. Her ankles were attached to an extendable leg-spreader, parting her thighs but not very much due to her restrictive pencil skirt. By the foot of the bed Blackton's valise lay open, a confused jumble of contents visible but not immediately identifiable. He'd told me he'd be bringing "an advanced-level rape kit" but hadn't specified the contents.

I hoped he'd have a few items in there that could really make Amy suffer as she should.

Amy's eyelids were taped shut, her mouth sealed with a ball gag. She looked intensely vulnerable. We had agreed on the tape blindfold so that Blackton and I couldn't be identified. Even if I'd worn a mask, Amy might have recognized my movement. It was essential that I not speak or she'd know my voice. But though she'd seen Blackton in passing in my outer office, she'd never heard him speak, so he could now talk to the cunt, and he did:

"My silent partner is here, now, whore. He really likes hurting cute little cunts like you, so if you want me to protect you from him, you'd better do as you're told. I always leave my victims alive, but he… well, he really doesn't care one way or the other. I'll try to restrain him, but if you piss me off I might just leave you to his tender mercies. I'll just walk out the door, because I really don't like the gory stuff."

This was excellent psychology from Blackton. We'd discussed Amy's intense fear of physical pain, and I'd explained that fear of being killed is part of what makes any stranger rape particularly traumatic for a victim. And we were both committed to making Amy's treatment as traumatic as it could possibly be. I wanted her totally broken. Beyond therapy.

TO BE CUNT-INUED