Thread: Transporting Taylor (Dere and skittish_butterfly)

It was harder and harder for Taylor just to stay on her feet at all now, her long legs quivering from the effort. She could feel the sweat on her skin, dripping from her nose and pasting her damp, blond locks to her shoulders, back and forehead. She was in hell, and the man setting the bottle of powdered torment down where she could clearly see it, he was the devil. Taylor knew it now, there were devils in the world. Taylor never liked to believe in evil, rather in relative shade of goodness, misunderstandings, and competing interests. But he was evil. She worried he could hear her thoughts, or that maybe she was so weak and disoriented from the heat and abuse that she might be saying these things out loud. He looked at her like he knew everything, making her feel even more naked than she was just dangling by her injured shoulders with all her clothes long since shredded and gone. It was hard even to look at him, to make eye contact with the man who had... who had... done such things to her. She still hurt, still felt his seed -- still tasted it. Taylor's eyes couldn't follow him as he stalked around her, her neck physically unable to turn enough to track him behind her. What was he doing? She heard her chains starting to rattle as she got more agitated, moaning in pain but unable to hold still enough not to hurt her wrists and shoulders even more, but there was no escape from her from whatever he had planned for her next. The clanking chain sound, a momentary panic he was just going to hang her from the ceiling until her slender arms finally just ripped free and she could bleed to death. But instead the cuffs steadily lowered. It should have been at least a few moments of blessed relief, to have her arms lower behind her to the level of a handcuffed criminal and not a dangling side of meat at the packing plant, only by this point even letting her shoulders relax was excruciating. She moaned as she straightened up and her arms lowered. Finally she slumped to her knees, unable to stand up any longer on wobbly legs with the tortured support of her ruined shoulders taken away. Even if she ever got to see her pool again, she'd never be able to do another lap, she was sure of it, not after what he'd done to her with his chains and cuffs. As the chain lowered Taylor let herself hope, the tiniest little dream, that if he would just lower her arms another foot and a half maybe she could fall over on her side without shredding anymore ligaments, and she could curl up on the floor and sleep forever. So of course he stopped, proving devils read minds. She was kneeling almost straight up, flexing her toes and feet behind her to fight off cramps in her calves now that their strain was relieved for a bit. Her arms were still cuffed but nearly straight down behind her. If he would just... But whatever she wanted, he wasn't going to do. Without seeing him at all, she felt his rough grip on her head, then two thick fingers at her lips, a painful insistent tug in her hair demanding she open as he shoved them into her mouth. He swirled them around, like he was a doctor taking a throat culture, like he expected her to suck his fingers off too now. No way. But he didn't get angry with her passive tongue and unsucking cheeks. He just pulled his wet fingers free, wiping some of her spit on her cheek, and then she was free of him again for a second. Only for a second, until he was at her bottom. He was prying at her cheeks, clearly where he didn't belong. Taylor screamed with a hoarse panicked voice that couldn't possibly be hers, and her whole body tensed up as much as she still could, the muscles in her rear tightening up in a futile struggle to fend him off. She made a couple pathetic swings of her arms behind her, as if she might somehow knock him away, but it only made her scream anew from the pain, and in that moment gave him the chance to force his thick wet finger between her cheeks that he so brutally spread and exposed, and jammed them against her other hole. He wasn't stopping! She screamed no, no, no, no. He was no medical professional, this was all wrong. She shook and twisted. Her breasts bobbed and her head thrashed, her hair whipping around giving off a light mist of her sweat, but nothing could stop him. It hurt, it hurt so much, feeling him force another finger up into her tight hole. She felt her tears on her cheeks again as her head hung miserably, unable to stop him from playing in her bottom, toying with her however he pleased. She was just a toy now, an accessory of pain and humiliation. He shoved and she grunted, unable to take it silently, his fingers twisting as if he was trying to see if he could break a record for how wide a girl's bottom could be forced open until she split open. He must have got the record because he finally pulled the fingers free of the achingly tight clinging grip of her bottom. Taylor was panting, her body's senses hyper alert for any sound he made, and hint of what he would do next, her whole world narrowed down to focus only on him now, because what else mattered anymore? Sound of shuffling, and then his body in contact with her again from behind, trapping her cuffed arms and wrists between the two of them. She could feel his disgusting hardness between her legs, and only then did understanding dawn on her, as he pried her resisting cheeks open again and pressed his thick meat against her. Oh no, oh God, no you can't... But he could and did. She screamed. It was so much worse. Her own voice sounded so pitiful, which made it even that much worse. He pressed and pressed and she fought him and it just hurt more, feeling like he must have inserted his whole thick log, covered with horrible bark, deep in her bottom, but he just kept shoving more in. How deep could he go in her before he destroyed something? Her slender fingers twisted and clutched at him behind her but there was nothing to grip. When she annoyed him he just slapped her hands back where he wanted them, hurting her shoulders in the process, Taylor slowly, slowly learning to surrender. The grunt of an animal behind her, his next brutal thrust rocked her forward on her knees, split her wide open, like he was roasting her on a spit, his cock running right through her. She cried, she screamed, there was no pride anymore and no sense trying to hide her fear or pain or emotions from him. She couldn't. Whatever he wanted to know, or see or take from her was his. Her body resisted because it couldn't help it yet, but he had her, rocking her back and forth, pounding her from behind where it was just... so... wrong. She grunted through gritted teeth as he grabbed her damp hair and jerked her head back, bending her neck back and forcing her to take him even deeper, using her hair like a handle, a convenient tool. When he tired of doing her that way, he let go of her hair, her head slumping forward weakly and bouncing with each thrust as his hands carressed her sides, controlling her then by her toned, shapely hips. He jerked her back to meet each thrust, until she could feel his body all the way against her bottom, telling her he couldn't possibly hurt her any deeper. She moaned and writhed and twisted in pain and shame, but no more than his grip and tolerance allowed. It didn't help, but she couldn't stop herself, her suffering too primal. He started thrusting even harder, trying to hurt her, she knew it, had to be it was so awful, and it just went on and on, until she all but slumped in his grip, her screams gone for lack of breath, limp and sweaty and moaning incoherently as his final grunts finally announced he had planted his flag in her where she would never be able to be rid of it, a reminder to her for whatever remained of her life that whatever he wanted he would take, there was nothing left for her, except the silent contemplation of her own misery, and it was all so pointless she couldn't even find a song title in that. She waited miserably for him to finally pull out of her, but he just stayed there, plugging her deep, like he wanted to savor this moment, or just keep his seed inside her as long as he could. An eternity later he finally pulled back, making her grimace and moan as each thick slick inch slowly slid free of her excruciating grip. He dashed from the room, leaving her swaying unsteadily on her knees, not even tension in her wrists to help keep her up now. She didn't stare around the room and look for exits or a key magically left where she could reach it. Taylor was too weary, too hurt, too weak to do anything but hang on. She just knelt in the silence, amazed how quiet it was. No sound, no soul around. He was back almost immediately, another bucket and a shiny bowl with him. The bowl clattered a little bit in front of her and he poured a bunch of water from the bucket in to the bowl. She saw the water, and for the first time in so long she wanted for something beyond the cessation of pain and suffering. Taylor was so thirsty, she realized, water finally close enough she could even consider her own needs. But he was watching. No good could come of it. Only when he left again did she strain to get her face down to the floor, groaning as she bent forward, straining to balance on her knees, her cuffed wrists and shoulders behind pulling on the chain as she tried to reach far enough to get to the bowl. For a moment she thought he might have measured it precisely and there would be no drink for her, but with enough pain and tears and struggle she got her face low enough, her hair floating in the bowl. It didn't stop her. She could see the filth of the bowl floating in the water, the warm rancid taste making her certain she would be desperately ill later, but she got her lips in the water and sucked and lapped at it as best she could, losing some to the floor, getting to drink a little at least before she heard his return. The sound of his footsteps was all wrong, but it was almost impossible for Taylor to summon the strength in her back and legs to get herself up from her awkward position over the bowl to see what the clattering was. Only out of her peripheral vision at first did she see the animal's legs. She saw the devil's legs approach and Taylor instinctively stole one last quick sip, barely avoiding a kick to her face as he knocked her bowl away, spilling its contents on the floor as it clattered across the room. Then the chain again. She moaned, knowing the pain to come. Struggling up on her weary legs, shaking and sweating already, briefly looking the goat eye to eye as he cranked her up onto her feet with her arms up behind her. He left her halfway, so she would just have easily knelt if he let her but her arms were too high and her legs couldn't give in, stuck spread and shaking and trying to hold her position. He came closer and she took teeny mincing steps with her bare feet on the concrete, trying uselessly to shuffle away, knowing it would be bad when he touched her. This time he went back between her legs, his touch rough, stroking her like her brother used to break in a new mitt, rubbing again and again hard and firm, like he was softening her up, only it was very uncomfortable. Awful in fact. She was suddenly aware of the fire of every little split in her skin, every abrasion, every delicate membrane he'd managed to touch. Pain and fire. She moaned and screamed, stamping her bare feet on the concrete. She hated his voice, the lack of emotion, taunting her pain with his lies. Taylor knew there was no relief for her. He wasn't human. He was pure cruelty, his only feeling seeming to be a joy from hurting her. Taylor moaned, wanting to make the pain go away but too far gone even to plead for his help. Why would he help her anyway? The clatter, clatter clip clop of small feet being led behind her. She was too weary for words, but her scream of despair was clear. Not that. She was a human being. Or she used to be. He couldn't no no no! She felt the disgusting hot breath, the nuzzling working its way between her legs and she moaned, dreading the violation. Then she felt it, a little fleshy sanding machine grinding away at her pain. She threw her head back, eyes red rimmed with tears, hair flying over her back. She couldn't accept this, but there was nothing she could do to stop anything. The animal just kept at her, urgently lapping away at whatever it was the devil was hurting her with, making her feel so swollen, so ashamed, so miserable. And still, still the devil left the animal to go at her. Her chains clinked as she thrashed, the sensations too intense to bear. Taylor yearned to pass out but she couldn't. The goat's tongue just licked her and licked her like the most persistent and perverted lover in the world, and she cried in shame as she couldn't hide from from the devil or herself how it was making her react, that it even felt good. She sobbed as her breath quickened and she felt a familiar twitching in her legs, the twitching she always felt guilty about, the one it was always so hard to stop when her fingers started to lose control and she had to get strict with herself. But this time it wasn't in her control, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. The first sensation she'd had in ages that wasn't pain, making her breath come ragged and her eyes squeeze shut, and it had to be a goat, bringing her to the brink of something she couldn't accept from herself. And the lover who finally brought her to this point was a miserable stinking goat. Her sobs turned to humiliated moans, and she knew. She wasn't Taylor Swift. Not anymore. Because Taylor Swift would never, ever do something like this.