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Hate

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It wasn’t long ago that they got you, snatched you off the street and threw you into their dungeon, chains around your wrists and ankles locked tight enough that it hurt to move.

You quickly found yourself wishing that you wouldn’t get rescued. Not because of you having started liking your situation or what they do to you, but because you don’t know if you’d be able to stand the look all those people you love and care for would give you once they found out what you’ve become.

What they turned you into, with spells, rituals and potions that some sick fuck came up with to sate his own perverse mind.

You hate them more than you hated Voldemort, but you’d still rather be where you are right now than letting your friends know what have become of you. Best for everyone if they think you’ve died. There’s no prophecy hanging over your head anymore, so you don’t have to feel to guilty for not trying harder to escape, to send a message of some sort.

A hand close around your neck – tight so that you can’t breathe – and you open your mouth to gasp as a reflex, knowing all the while that it was a mistake, one that you can’t take back.

The thrust makes your jaw, lips and throat ache.

The cock in your mouth feels massive, the sole weight of it forcing your jaw to slack even more toward the ground, and it is the only thing you’re able to think about. You’ve gotten good at it – sucking cock – because sometimes you just wants it to be over, and it takes less time for them to blow their loads if you’re actually participating instead of just being some glorified doll.

You don’t contribute today, though, the raw hate in you overriding your need for it to be over.

Large hands are fucking your face onto the cock in you, tugging at your hair to get the angle right, sometimes shoving you down all the way till your nose is getting crushed against the pubic bone, and forcing you to stay there until you’re close to blacking out from lack of oxygen. Suffice to say, you’ve gotten really good at holding your breath.

The squelching sound of the dick slamming into your mouth and the feeling of drool mixed with pre-cum sliding down your face sickens you, makes you want to throw up and rinse your mouth with soap to get rid of the taste.

And everything just feels so goddamn messed up. There’s an ache in your knees that comes from kneeling on a cold, stone floor for too long, no clothing what so ever to shield your fragile skin where new marks and scars seems to pop up almost daily. Your hair is dirty and lays plastered to your scalp with sweat, telling obvious tales of how long time it had been since you last showered.

The growling sound coming from your stomach is the one you loath the most, though. The one you hate even more than the people that caused it to be there in the first place.

They can hear it hungering just as well as you can, and they laugh – harsh, aroused and fully amused sounds that grates your nerves – telling you just how much of a slut you are, and wondering just what your friends and family – but no, you don’t really have one do you, sorry – would think if they were to see and hear you now.

You hate them a little more for bringing that up, and would feel some surprise that that is even possible, if it weren’t for the next pair of hands – not the ones crushing your skull – dragging your ass up by the hips, exposing your bottom to the man behind you. And you are no longer kneeling on the floor, but suspended, by two pair of hands, in the air and it is so hard to feel human and like you are your own person, when you’re treated like a thing.

Ever since you were captured you have felt small pieces of your humanity slipping away, so much that sometimes it is hard to even care, let alone remember how you came to be where you are when all you can really feel is hate and pain and that god-awful hunger that never never leave you. You’re always craving more.

You want to laugh – but can’t because you’ve got a cock in your mouth and another up your ass and it is still not enough. And you know that it will never be enough, that you will always crave it and that right there is the reason you can’t bear to wish for coming home.

The only time you’ll feel sated is when they come in you, when they fill you with their cum till your practically dripping with it.

Anyone’s but your own will do.

And you hate it, so bloody much, that you can’t eat or drink any regular substances any more, that the only thing that is able to satisfy your hunger is semen, that you’ve been made into nothing more than a fucking cum-dump. You hate it so much you’re drowning in it, suffocating under the massive pressure.

The only time you don’t hate is when you’re being filled, but you make up for it by hating even more afterwards.