Selfless Cunt

By day I worked making money that would be spent the moment it came in on new shoes or clothes for Liz, in the evening I would rush around desperately trying to cook something acceptable and then I'd be cleaning as unobtrusively and quietly as I could to avoid any chance of dust settling. By night I masturbated to the sounds of their passion.

I developed a deep fear of failure because, with the rules, came punishments. From simple slaps to being made to act as a doormat for a set number of days, them walking on my unprotected flesh as they wiped their shoes on my face and hair. Sometimes they'd just kick me, have me lie flat on the floor and then they'd just lay into my soft, flabby, tender parts with occasional breaks for me to kiss and worship their feet, thank them, and apologise before they'd start again. If I balled up and tried to protect myself that would keep it going for longer, so I learned to spread myself out and accept what they wanted to deliver.

However one torture was not punishment, it was routine. One morning, when Derek was feeling ill and stuck in the toilet, Liz came downstairs, desperate to pee. There I was, preparing breakfast when my head was pulled back and I was dragged down onto my back by her hard grip on my hair. I thought for a moment I was due a punishment for something and I was about to get a kicking. Instead I got a face full of her shaven cunt as she squatted down on my face, dried cum coating her lips.

"I'm so sorry I didn't get out of the way," I plead, "I am sorry I sullied you with my fat ugliness."

"Drink it or there'll be hell to pay." Her fingers dug into my abdomen.

It took me a few confused moments and the beginning of her stream to realise what she meant. I did my best but the combination of my late uptake and the acrid strength of the first piss of the day meant that I could not swallow much and most went over my face, down my neck, into my hair and onto the floor in a spreading puddle.

When Liz noticed she got very angry.

"You disgusting worm, you fucking piece of shit," she shouted, pulling up my sheet, grabbing my pussy hairs and yanking hard. I screamed into her cunt through which she now rested her weight on to my face.

"Clean me up," she demanded, not letting go of my pussy hair. The abuse turned me on. Only I had touched anywhere near my slit since Liz had come back into my life, so I buried my face even harder into her lips in a stupor of sexual need and did what came naturally. Which it turned out was what my husband had done so many times to me. I ate her like a professional lesbian, cleaning up the encrusted remains of their previous night's passion and digging my tongue deep inside to draw out her nectar. The flavour was familiar, from my husband's cock, from her panties I had started to suck on a daily basis. Then the tease around the clit and down and around and then the assault on her nub. I tried, anyway, but it was hard when she pressed down and started to fuck my face, rubbing it raw with the slight stubble that was starting to grow around her sex, riding her clit on my nose as my tongue struggled to add to her pleasure.

She moaned and came on my face, squeezing with her thighs, stopping me from breathing until I thought I was going to pass out. I started to struggle until she punched me in the stomach and winded me. Mercifully she did get off me before I suffocated and I lay gasping in a pool of her piss.

"Clean that up, I need a shower."

She decided I needed training. After all, an extra toilet is always useful in a house, so I became her urinal. Every morning she'd come down and sit on my face. Every evening before bed she'd use me and I'd arouse her for my ex-husband's cock. Not that she needed much, but she liked to remind me.

"That's it, lick deep, get me nice and wet for him to slide deep inside."

I became accustomed to the taste of her piss, even started to crave it and the degradation it entailed for the meagre amount of human contact it represented. I cleaned her pussy with such fervour, trying new ways to pleasure her, hoping she would prolong the contact, would use me more so I could have that extra moment of human intimacy, but it always passed too quickly. Liz noticed.

"So, looks like maybe you are actually a secret lesbian after all," she said one morning a couple of weeks in to my 'training'. That had been one of the insults levelled at me for not having a boyfriend as a teenager. It stung, and I kept on licking with greater urgency. It was more true than she knew. I no longer worshipped Derek. I had fond memories of him, my cunt ached for a cock to fuck it, but sexually my world was now entirely taken up by Liz. I started licking her arsehole, probing it with my tongue and running the tip around it's rim as my fingers went to her slippery slit in a bold move of daring. She'd not requested my fingers, I was in dangerous territory.

Liz moaned.

"You dirty fucking lezzy, you do like being a woman's bitch!" she exclaimed.

I pushed my tongue in deeper, tasting her taint, and humping my hips off the floor with the unrequited arousal I was experiencing. My fingers found her clit and started their dance, one I'd only ever done on myself.

"I think we need to get that engraved somewhere on you."

I moaned. The idea of being branded by Liz for everyone to see was strongly compelling. My heart fluttered in my chest and I rubbed my legs together to try and gain some desperately needed friction.

"What do you think? Lezzie lover?"

I moaned my agreement.

"Cunt licker?"

I moaned louder.

"Piss drinking cunt sucker?"

I shuddered as an orgasm went through me. I hadn't even touched myself. That was how much I wanted the world to know what a piece of shit I was.

"Ok," said Liz, "I think we can do that. She ground down on my face until it bruised my lips and came with a shudder on my face.

---

And that's how I got branded. We went to the tattoo artist and Liz told him what she wanted on me and where. A few hours later I was proudly branded with the words 'Piss drinker' on one side of my neck and 'Cunt licker' on the other. I would have to wear a scarf to work, and I'd be perpetually at risk of discovery, but Liz didn't seem to care, Derek didn't even notice, and I was too caught up in the sexual thrill of being mutilated like that to want anything different.

Of course it was only a matter of time before it was discovered. It was Mandy, a forty-odd year old woman in the office who accidentally pulled my scarf off in the toilets when suggesting a different way to wear it. For a moment she just stared at the writing and then she started laughing.

"Seriously?" she asked, "Who gets a tattoo like that?" She craned her neck to read the other side.

I stayed silent, red faced, looking at my feet, hoping the floor would open and swallow me whole.

"Really?" she asked in a conspiratorial whisper. I glanced up and blinked at her in confusion.

"Do you really like drinking piss?" she whispered, a grin spreading across her face.

I nodded shame faced and looked down again, unable to bear the gloating amusement in her eyes.

"I've always wanted to try watersports, but Harry's never been interested," she mused.

I could see where this was going, and I desperately wanted to keep my job. If I lost it Liz might kick me out. I stepped over to a stall and opened the door, standing to one side to let Mandy past. She slipped in and stood uncertainly.

"So how do you do it?"

I shrugged. "Usually I lie on the floor, but that's not really an option," I whispered back.

Mandy sat on the toilet lid, pulled her tights and knickers down to her ankles, lifted her skirt and spread her legs. A thick bush of dark hair was revealed, untrimmed and untamed. My mouth watered.

I closed the door behind me and knelt to get my first scent of new pussy. It was musty and fishy and my cunt drooled with anticipation. I leant forward, kissing her stubbly thighs. Mandy's breath caught above me, and I continued in, kissing gently, letting my tongue out to caress and wet her. I fought my way through her bush with my tongue and found the base of her slit, already drooling. I could taste strong, dry piss. I shuddered with anticipation.

"Hurry," said Mandy, "It's coming!"

I clamped my mouth over the orifice and applied suction. After a moment it came, her delicious water, stronger than even Liz's first piss of the day, more flavoursome, more salty.

I was in heaven. Humping the air, my but hit the stall door and I shuffled forward, still gulping every drop. All too soon the flow ceased and I began the job of cleaning up, digging deep with my tongue, flicking, licking, sucking, nibbling. Mandy grabbed hold of my head and rode it to orgasm, squeaking slightly as she struggled to keep herself from crying out.

A pat on the head was the thanks I got, before she pushed me away and rose.

"That was good," she muttered to herself before pushing past me to wash her hands and head back to her desk.

I became Mandy's automatic toilet partner. Even when she went to freshen up, she'd get me between her knees to pleasure her "better than Harry has ever done," apparently. One of the new starters, a girl called Suzie, who couldn't have been more than 18, noticed how flushed Mandy was after one trip and I saw them talking. A couple of hours later Mandy dragged me out of my seat again, accompanied by Suzie. My eyes darted back and forward between them in fear, but Mandy smiled and lead the way to the bathroom. Inside she turned to Suzie, leaving me standing there awkwardly.

"Look, I'll show you," she said, pulling my scarf away. Suzie covered her mouth in shock as she read the words 'Cunt licker'.

"No way, and she does that?"

"At the drop of a hat, and look here," said Mandy, turning my head.

My face, already red from being exposed in this way, grew darker.

"No. Fucking. Way." said the eighteen year old.

"Yep."

"And she...?"

"Yep!"

"And she doesn't, like, want anything?"

Being talked about like I wasn't there, displayed and scrutinised like an animal at market made my blood run cold and my cunt run hot.

"You just have to take her to the bathroom and use her like you want. I mean she's got to do what you want because you can get her fired."

A massive grin split the teenager's face.

"This is fucking awesome."

"Now don't be telling anyone else, can't let management know or we'll lose her, all right?"

Suzie grabbed my hand.

"Don't worry, I'll take good care of her."

---

Suzie's pussy turned out to be shaved except for a little landing strip. She also liked to take pictures of me going down on her and send them to her boyfriend who apparently enjoyed the idea of his girl dominating a "lesbian dike." He even had her send pictures of my flat chest and dripping cunt which he said he's put on the internet. She didn't take pictures of my face, thankfully, out of fear she'd lose her cunt sucker.

Between Liz, Mandy and Suzie I was kept full of piss every day. I drank little else, but I always craved more attention. I started playing up at home, intentionally fucking up so they'd slap me, spit on me and beat me. I started begging Suzie to take pictures of me naked and post them on dating websites so she could read back the nasty comments. Most were about how disgusting I was and how I should kill myself, which I enjoyed. Others wanted to fuck and I agreed to a few fuck dates at hotels. Because I was limited in time I had to make everything quick. I would go with no underwear, strip utterly naked as soon as the door was closed and beg them to abuse me any way they wanted for the half hour we had.

For some it was a turn off. Others just wanted to fuck. Some took up the cues I'd given in my profile and slapped me around, pissed on and in me and generally abused me. Some were old, some were young. None were pretty, or interested in me, and I remained empty inside.

Management did find out about my activities though. Another visitor to the toilets had recognised my shoes poking out under the door of a stall while I'd been pleasuring Suzie, and that combined with her muffled moans had raised suspicions. I was called to our office manager's room.

Mr. George Brent was a stern, balding man in his fifties and he laid out the case against me, not naming any names. I tried to play it off as me being sick from a period, the moans being my groans of pain, but he was not buying it and I could see it. Annoyed, he started to get officious.

"Miss Atwood, I'm sure you're aware, having been with us for so long, that scarves are not considered appropriate attire in this office. We keep the temperature at a suitable level, will you take that thing off!"

I must have gone white as a sheet. I certainly didn't rush to comply.

"Miss Atwood!"

My shaking hand went to my scarf and as slowly as I dared I undid it. His eyes bulged.

"What the hell is that?" he demanded.

I took a wobbly step closer. He rose out of his seat and read the words.

"That is disgusting filth," he spat. "You realise this is grounds on which you can be sacked?"

I nodded, tears running down my face unchecked. He turned away and threw himself back into his expensive swivel chair. A few moments passed where he thought. When he spoke again he sounded shaken.

"You've done good work for us this past decade, always been a model employee. I read your file when I came in. What's happened to you?"

I stood mute, unable to say anything. I had no defence, anything I could think of was more stupid than the truth, and that was saying something.

"If you don't defend yourself then there's nothing I can do, I'm going to have to let you go." He sounded resigned, disappointed. What did he expect, I was a worthless pathetic fat whale of a nothing. Of course I was disappointing. His disappointment freed me. It wouldn't matter if he knew. The idea of telling him about how worthless and pathetic I was actually started to excite me and I felt the first dribbles of that excitement slip through my slit.

I told him. Everything. About giving my husband, my money, my house and even my rights away to a bitch that saw me as worthless, about my desire to please and be degraded by them, how I'd ended up drinking the piss of, and pleasuring, co-workers, without naming names, of course, and how I felt that I didn't deserve my job. I was unfit for anything and everything except to slave away at the most menial of things and be used as a urinal.

When I finished my tears had dried. I found I was kneeling, a position I was increasingly comfortable in, before his chair. I bent and kissed his shoes.

"Thank you for hearing me out. It is more than I deserve," I whispered, as I kissed away my job and no doubt my bed and board. I knelt back on my haunches and stared down at his shoes.

"Miss Atwood," he said, hesitating. "I can hear that you have had a tough time, but with the greatest respect, it sounds like you have lost your marbles. I think you need to go and pack your things."

I nodded dumbly, cried out and emotionally numb. I rose, unable to look at the man I'd confessed my life to.

"However," he said, "if you find yourself in need of a place to stay, I have a spare room. It's used for storage, but I'm sure I can move some things around."

He handed me a piece of paper with an address on it. My step was surprisingly light as I left the office and made my way to my desk. I even hummed as I put my things in an old xerox box and when Mandy and Suzie came by, reassured them with a smile that I had not dobbed them in.

When I got home I left the box of office memorabilia on the dining table, wrote a short note apologising for losing my job, for being so worthless that I could not even supply them with a little pocket change, for not doing dinner that night or for any night to come. I explained I was going and they would not see me again. I left my key on the table and walked out of my house for the last time.

When Mr. Brent arrived home he found me sitting on his doorstep.

"Don't you have anything else?" I shook my head.

He sighed and let us in. His house, such as it was, had not felt the touch of a woman for decades. I could tell. Things had an order, but not a tidiness. There was nothing pretty, nothing softening. It was all utilitarian and functional. We set about clearing a space in the spare room, uncovering an ancient bed that had permanently taken on the angles and dents of the boxes that had festooned it. George muttered and harrumphed and said it would have to do for now but I patted him on the arm and told him not to worry about it. I had slept on worse. I offered to make dinner and breezed through his protestations about me being a guest, insisting on doing something in return.

The kitchen was a nightmare. Old kitchenware, barely used and poorly maintained filled the draws, old unwashed tableware and cooking implements littered the surfaces. I set about organising things, finding out what meagre provisions were available, constructing an acceptable meal in my head and then setting apart the items that I would need to create it. George hovered by the door, offering to give a hand, but gave up after ten minutes. I smiled when I heard the TV turn on and I busied myself washing the things I needed and preparing the food.

I served it up at the surprisingly nice dining table he had, after I cleared it of paperwork and old bills. George made appreciative noises and thanked me for my efforts. I blushed. Here was a man who hadn't found anyone to make his life easier. I'd never realised he'd been alone all this time and mentioned it to him. He blushed and avoided the topic. Dinner passed in slightly uncomfortable silence. Once again I insisted on doing the washing up. George did not put up much of a fight and went back to his TV.

I cleaned and tidied and washed and scrubbed. When I was done the kitchen was looking much better. There was still a lot of stuff in the draws and cupboards that needed sorting and organising, but the place didn't look like a bomb site from world war one. Tired I went in to the living room and knelt on the carpet by George's feet. He asked if I was comfortable and I assured him I was. I leant my cheek on his knee and started to stroke him calf.

"Thank you," I said, tilting my head to look up and back at him.

He looked a little embarrassed and stared at the TV. I kept stroking his calf, letting my hand wander higher and higher on to his thigh. He shifted, but did not move away. I turned to face him, kneeling still between his legs and started to stroke the insides of his thighs, in towards his crotch.

"Melissa, I don't think..."

"Hush," I interrupted, "I want to."

I continued, reaching up for his fly. I pulled it down, tugging at his waist band. Awkwardly he helped me remove his trousers and white underwear. His flacid cock lay before me and I could smell the mustiness of his balls and the dry piss scent that lingered around the organ. I leant in, licking it. I took it in my mouth and sucked, but after a minute or two of nothing happening I stopped and looked up.

"I'm sorry," he said, his face red with embarrassment, "I'm, I don't know how to put this." He looked away. "I have trouble getting hard."

"Oh no, don't worry about that, I'm sorry, it's my fault, I shouldn't have presumed." I blurted. I felt stupid. I mean of course he wouldn't find me attractive, it was stupid to think that I could pleasure even an older man. I pulled back, reaching for his trousers to pull them up.

"No, it's not you, really, it's just," he sighed, "it's hard to say. I am ashamed of it, but you've told me all about your problems so..."

He took a deep breath.

"I can't get hard unless I hurt someone." His face was dark with emotion. "It's why I've been alone for so long. I couldn't face inflicting that on someone. It's not right or fair. Please don't take offence, but I don't want to hurt you."