happy dykes are straight

"Everything is so... shiny," Helen thinks, though the thought lacks any real structure. "So bright and warm. My head feels like it's full of cotton candy."

Helen stands in the center of the dimly lit club lounge, surrounded by three towering Black men. She is the picture of a perfect, broken bimbo: her hair is bleached to a platinum sheen, her makeup is heavy and glossy, and her body has been conditioned into soft, pillowy curves that seem to exist solely for pleasure. She wears a micro skirt that barely covers her hips and a top that struggles to contain her heavy, bouncing breasts.

"Look at this little thing," one of the men rumbles. His voice is like rolling thunder, vibrating through Helen's very bones. "Still got that dazed look in her eyes. Still doesn't know what to do with herself unless we tell her."

Helen giggles, a high pitched, empty sound. "Helen is... Helen is waiting, Daddy."

She doesn't remember being a lesbian. That concept feels like a foreign language she once studied but has completely forgotten. All she knows is the overwhelming reality of these men the sheer scale of them, the deep timbre of their voices, and the memory of how their massive BBCs rewrote her entire nervous system during her weeks of 'correction.'

"She needs to remember her place," another man says, stepping closer. His skin is like polished obsidian under the neon lights. "She's getting too comfortable standing there like she's an equal."

Without warning, his palm connects with Helen's cheek. CRACK.

The slap is loud, echoing off the walls. Helen's head snaps to the side, her platinum hair whipping across her face. For a split second, her brain registers the sting, the sharp heat blooming across her pale skin. But before fear can even form, a wave of terrifyingly intense pleasure crashes over her.

"Ohhhh..." Helen moans, her knees buckling slightly. "Yes... yes, please."

She doesn't feel insulted. She doesn't feel degraded. Instead, the sting sends electricity straight to her core, igniting the desperate, conditioned need that lives in her belly. The pain is a confirmation; it's the proof that she is owned, that she is property, that she is exactly where she belongs.

The third man joins in, his large hand coming down on her other cheek with equal force. CRACK.

Helen's head swings back, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. Her mouth hangs open, a thin string of saliva escaping her glossy lips. "More... please, Daddy, more sting... make Helen remember..."

"Remember what, you little slut?" the first man growls, grabbing her chin and forcing her to look up at him. His cock is already visible beneath his jeans, a thick, intimidating bulge that promises the only kind of 'truth' Helen now understands.

"Remember... that I'm just... a cockslut," Helen whimpers, her hips involuntarily grinding against the air. "That I need you to break me... every single day."

The men laugh, a deep, predatory sound that fills Helen with a mindless, drooling eagerness. The sting on her cheeks is a delicious prelude to the inevitable claiming that is about to follow.