Cioccolata+Secco

how many hours had you been forced to stare at this screen? you’d lost count.

you thought you could salvage your sanity by refusing to become entranced by your own visage on the television, but you’d been watching your own destruction for so long that you were beginning to drool out of one corner of your parted lips. you could feel your thoughts melting away, little by little, leaving you hopelessly broken minded.

locked in a dark room, naked, with nothing but the TV to focus on, nothing to see but your digital twin choke on your master’s cock, from every angle possible ( even some you thought might have been impossible to capture ). the room— or, perhaps cell was a more appropriate term— was silent other than the gagging blaring from the speakers, your gagging. your crying. your begging for mercy. and Cioccolata’s moans. his snarls of twisted euphoria when you gurgled as he forced your head down with the palms of both of his hands flat against the back of your head. even watching it now, you recall what it felt like, the intensity of his strength, and the helplessness when his thickness slid into your throat.

the first time it happened, you’d retched, and thankfully he didn’t make you watch that video anymore. oh no, this particular tape was a compilation from the previous few days, of all the times he’d forced himself upon you, but you were only made to watch how he fucked your throat. a training exercise, that’s what Cioccolata had called it. “Watch your mistakes over and over until you no longer make them.” he made it sound so technical. so simple. so… normal.

was this normal?

a month ago, you had broken all your nails by scratching on the door, slamming yourself into it, and cried yourself to sleep. each time he opened the door, camcorder-holding Secco in tow, you’d scramble to the corner opposite him and hide, beg him to let you go, and once he was finished, he would turn the television on, play the recordings of you being raped the night before, and leave you until the next time.

the cycle had repeated. over and over. so many times that you’d stopped banging on the door. you’d stopped hiding in your corner. you’d stopped begging him to let you go.

this was your normal now.

you’d started sitting less than a foot away from the TV when it played, staring at your own, decimated visage being conquered on a loop.

this time you felt your breath diminish when Cioccolata dribbled your head against his groin— you couldn’t breathe for the poor, crying girl, for yourself, on the screen. you gasped for it, eyelids fluttering, feeling the pressure of his cock stretching your throat open. your image on the screen was flailing, so you start to mimic her, only to find both of your hands are occupied.

how strange.

one was gripping on to your own neck, squeezing tight to relive the pressure, the sensation of choking on Cioccolata. your nails were dug in to your skin, drawing miniature rubies to the surface. and the other hand was shoved between your trembling thighs. they were sticky; the same slick coated your fingers as they work to rub your sensitive clit. you mewl when you realize what you’re doing.

getting yourself off to your own abuse.

choking yourself to remind you how it feels when Cioccolata does it, so the pleasure surges deeper into your frame.

your back arches, and you drag your core over your fingers, squeezing your own throat hard enough to force your tears to break the barrier of their ducts and slide down your cheeks. just as your digital clone’s eyes roll back. just as Cioccolata howls what a good girl you are, and cums. you can see one, spit-soaked inch twitching before he thrusts it into your slack mouth, and your lips smash against his balls, oozing cum and spit— your muscles all spasming, your body convulsing.

“Now now, I think I’ll have to tie your pesky hands behind your back from this point forward,” it took you a moment to realize that this wasn’t on the TV. the door to your room had opened, and Cioccolata strolled inside, Secco following along at his feet with the camera. you whimpered in response, biting down on your lower lip. to resist, you would need courage. which you didn’t have. Cioccolata hums as he approaches, grasping your face and turning it up towards him. your hazy eyes drift over his form, big and looming, and your body crumbles against his knees in submission. “What do you think, Secco?”

Secco grunts in response, aiming the lense directly at your defeated expression. at one time, you shied away from the camera, tried to cover your own shame so you wouldn’t have to watch it later and see how pitiful you were. right now, however, with Cioccolata’s digits carefully stroking your chin, crooning with his wicked grin plastered on his face, you didn’t flinch from the camera. you just lay there, limp, batting your lashes with drool dripping from your lower lip. “I didn’t expect you to start to enjoy your training,” he mutters