Thread: Transporting Taylor (Dere and skittish_butterfly)

As the man's abuse of her mouth grew more and more brutal, with nary a concern for what he was doing to her throat or whether she could breath or if she was hurting her nose each time it banged into his pelvis, Taylor's mind sought refuge in nothingness. She was choking and hurting and still felt like she was bleeding between her legs for all she knew, and there wasn't a thing she could do about it. Thinking wouldn't help. Planning wouldn't help. It was all useless to her. Taylor had come to India to discover the null in meditation, tranquility in the void. That she found it down on her knees on this hard concrete, taking a thick cock deep in her throat over and over, well, sometimes life throws us little surprise parties from time to time, doesn't it. The trick is to survive the party. Her blue eyes were blank as they stared back at him through the tears slowly tracking the last of her mascara and eye liner down her cheeks. He suddenly gripped her hair, still in a ponytail surprisingly, the one thing of hers he hadn't ruined yet. The way he jerked her and pulled her with it so painfully, that didn't matter either. She was already hurting every way she could imagine, couldn't shed tears any harder, couldn't cry or beg or plead at all with his cock pistoning away in her throat. All she could do was gag and take it. She had decided early in this abuse not to bite it off him. Taylor didn't live a life of regret, so she stuck by that decision. It was right. No sense dying on her knees of thirst or starvation. And she didn't want to think about it anymore anyway. Just keep her mouth as soft as she could, pray he finished quickly, protect her mind in the shroud of nothingness. Don't let him touch her where it really counted, inside. Her mind, her spirit. Let him rape and beat her body, that didn't define her. It was her thoughts, her experiences, her hopes. Hide those deep inside, where he can't touch, keep them safe. Her mouth? Let him have it, it was worthless to her now anyway. How could she ever use it again after this? Taylor was certainly no expert on the sounds of male sexuality, no more than the acting she heard in the same R-rated movies everybody else did. But the man's guttural breathing was unmistakeable, the change in how he gripped her hair, the way he held her fully impaled on his cock for just that little bit longer, like he was trying to extract every drop of pleasure from her before finished, it was unmistakeable. But she didn't let it fool her, didn't bother getting hopes up or praying for him to finish sooner, as if it would somehow end her suffering. She kept herself deep inside, out of sight. Don't come out yet, Taylor, she kept reminding herself, lest she forget and expose herself to the ruining horror of what he was doing to her. Another stroke, this one full in, balls rudely against her chin, the stupid curly hairs tickling her, pushing so hard like he regretted he couldn't drive all the way down to her toes. She gagged automatically, retching and convulsing around him, but he didn't release her, didn't pull on her hair and drag her lips back off the thick cock. He just held her there, pulsing in her throat, and then exploded, his breath sounds suddenly giving way to beastly grunts, like he was shouting to the world of his conquest. Some part of her knew without even thinking, was just instinctively aware that he was pumping his seed right into her again and again, straight into her throat so she didn't even have a choice in this either, to spit or sputter on it, just pumping it straight into her belly. Taylor blinked back tears as she felt her face turning shades of red, and then worse, the stars swimming in the air between them as she felt even her knees close to giving way. She peeked out from the blank darkness for just a last moment, convinced that maybe he was going to be merciful and let it end for her now already, choking her to death right here on the concrete with his cock. It could be worse. At least she could see a little light coming from high up behind him, slowly fading. Bye Daddy, I'm sorry I couldn't make it. Taylor yelped in surprise and pain as his grip suddenly just tossed her head back, his slick cock sliding out of her gagging throat and mouth with a disgusting slurping sound. The yelp hurt coming around his cock as it popped free, using vocal chords that were long since hoarse from abuse of a sort they'd never experienced before even in her very longest sets. She knelt, gasping, looking up at him just because that was what she'd been doing before, and she didn't want to risk thinking of anything else to do, risk exposing the slightest hope or whim for him to crush. Let him rape a Taylor Swift doll, not Taylor Swift. He held the cock, shiny with her own spit and throw-up, more of his vile seed still leaking out the tip, which he promptly rubbed against her cheeks. Taylor flinched because she couldn't help it, hated it and then regretted that too. Just accept. Her breath slowly returned and she realized he was going to keep her alive longer. Taylor tried to swallow that knowledge, to hold it inside her in some way her dad might recognize if he could just get here and rescue her. But swallowing hurt now too, like everything else. It hurt too much to hope. She decided she would try to stay alive still, try to keep herself going, but not because it mattered to her, not on the outside at least, and she didn't want to talk to the hidden part inside. No, but her dad must still have hope, her mom too. They would have enough hope to keep her going too. So she just knelt and persevered because she had to, had to be here still alive when they came for her. The crank started up again, she recognized it, and it tugged her arms back upward, not down. Her body reacted, the cries not hers but purely physical tears, fear of pain. She couldn't help it, so she didn't blame herself for it. As the tears ran down her cheeks and mixed with the disgusting mess he had smeared there, she struggled to her bare feet, the concrete so hard she was sure her knees must be bruised or broken from kneeling so long. But the upward pull, the pain in her shoulders was relentless. She could see him watching her as the chain forced her up again, the look in his eyes like this was almost as much fun for him as raping her. She was sobbing by the time she was back up on her toes and straining not to let her shoulder tear loose. He turned and left, and she whimpered softly now alone with her pain. She sobbed for her Daddy, letting a bit of herself back in now that the man was gone. It hurt so bad, she cried as she bent forward and tottered about on her toes. Her naked skin was shiny with sweat, she could feel the dampness in the heat, hear the chains pulling on her cuffs as they clanked with her little movements, but she couldn't wipe the sweat from her brow, or the tip of her nose, or trickling between her breasts. She just hung there in pain, feeling her toes slowly giving way again just the way she remembered last time, knowing already there was no way she could keep it up much longer. And then what? The door burst open and he was back, catching her in silent pleading conversation with her dad to please rescue her soon. The man's smile was pure evil, so vile and awful she didn't even really notice what he had in his hands. When she saw it was a little brush, like a makeup brush or something, and a little bit of powder, curry maybe, she returned her focus to her toes' struggle to keep her up, and the agony in her shoulders and elbows and wrists. He stood in front of her trembling body, almost face to face, so close she could easily have spit on him. Somehow, she didn't. He looked at her lips, the brush in his hand like an artist, like the girls in Makeup before every show. His thumb roughly traced each lip, wiping her spit and the dribbles of his own cum away, like he somehow cared. Then, a little dab, a little dab, almost tickling her with the brush as he moved in for detail work. Taylor could smell the spice before it touched her lips, the familiar scent not a true foreshadowing of what it was really like on warm soft flesh. She didn't get it at first, as he stepped back to admire his work as if he'd just painted a masterpiece. It just confirm what she already knew, the man was insane. He came close, like the masterpiece just needed another dollop or two of color. Taylor flinched, but couldn't draw away as he reached for her nipples, her taut, tortured position didn't allow for any movement without agony. So it was that he freely touched her nipples, smearing a bit of the stuff on her there too, until he was even happier. He stepped back, watching her, like he had some painted clown fetish and just wanted the experience of watching a pretty recording artist painted that way in the nude. While she was suffering, with his seed deep inside her. But something else started to emerge from what he'd done, a new pain, a new panic. A fire was kindled on her lips, and her nipples were alive with fear as sensation assaulted them. What was this? And it only got worse and worse, and she had no way of knowing if it would ever stop short of incinerating her for his amusement. She screamed, and it didn't help. Her nipples were burning and her mouth hung open with her drool running painfully across her lips and down her chin. Tears on her lips didn't help, nor did her drool. It was so bad she would have taken him on her knees down the throat again if there was a possibility his disgusting thick sperm would help. Thrashing, unable to stop herself, she moaned and whimpered and twisted, no longer on her toes but the balls of her feet, hopping up and down in pain, certain her shoulders were wrecked. She didn't look at him, couldn't, her head thrashing madly about, eyes casting around the room but seeing nothing really her hair tossed damply across her eyes, hanging from her like a miserable cat after an bath. The sound of a phone ringing, the slightest intrusion of her real world into this hell, but Taylor couldn't react, to lost in the powder's burning sensations, her cries and sobs unstoppable for now. She could hear him talking but it just sounded like gibberish to her, like he was talking Arabic or something like that, nothing she could understand. She tried to scream for help to whoever was on the other end, yelling she was Taylor Swift, but in the useless condition of her tortured lips, her tongue starting to burn too a little from incidental little contacts, her words came out like Arabic too, a foreign language she didn't speak, and no one else would understand. She kept screaming, words like please and help, but it was almost unintelligible. She gave up, it was doing her no good. Taylor couldn't be sure but at least the powder had stopped getting worse, or maybe she was just getting used to this level of suffering, but her screams turned to whimpers and her whimpers turned to pathetic sobs. She could hear her sounds clearly because the man had stopped talking and as she made the effort to lift her head and look at him, she could see it was because he was holding the phone toward her, like he was letting the other party listen to her. Her head sagged again with weariness, still down on her the balls of her feet, her calves still shaking with the effort, but now accepting the ruin of her shoulders because she was just to tired to fight it. Taylor's head snapped up as she heard a civilized voice. Accented English, a little tinny. She could see the phone. The cruel man was holding it up right in front of her, even inviting her to look. She moaned through the slow fade of the burn on her lips, gasping as little movements tormented what little must be left inside her shoulders. She watched. She listened. It was her attack. Everyone dead. Even her. She tossed her head back and forth vehemently, tears flowing. The first stage of grief is denial. No, no, no! Taylor looked in his eyes, crying her denial. This couldn't be! How could there be a body recovered? Mom and Dad! They think... she was wracked with painful sobs as part of her soul ripped, as the news reached even the parts of her safely tucked away in the dark nothingness deep inside, as the realization no one mounts rescue operations to save someone who is dead. Saudi Arabia. His. Taylor screamed, but no one cared, like there was the tinny sound of laughter coming from the phone before the man shut it off. She was just alone with him now. No one would save her? Would her dad really fall for that? Hadn't he seen the same movies and TV shows she did? Wouldn't he keep any shred of hope in his heart? Taylor prayed so, because the alternative... it was inconceivable. Please... please... stop this. It didn't matter what she did now if this was true. No one was coming to learn she'd shed all dignity and begged. Please.