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Vicky's Inheritance, Chapter Five: Cockhunter

Vicky wore her coat, again, as she left the office, distraught. She did not want to get raped. She did not, in fact, want to have sex at all with anyone that she didn’t care for. The instructions were clear, though. A different man each day for the rest of the week, starting today. On the ride home, Vicky considered if this was really worth it. These things were terrible. Her father was terrible. The old man was the worst human being she’d ever encountered. Would it be so bad if the government got his money, rather than her?

Then, she thought about the billion a week going to groups of men that advocated for subjugating women. The longer that Vicky dithered, the more money the old man would be giving away to hateful, vile groups of perverts. Didn’t she have an obligation to do something about that? She reminisced over her heroes, other women that had gone through arrests, beatings, trauma, all in pursuit of liberating women from the antiquated ideas that her father supported. Not all heroines, she mused, got that kind of attention in the history books.

Thus far, the things Vicky had endured were nothing compared to her heroine’s trials. Being slapped a bit, called names, and having to get a boob job were things that were embarrassing, but those icons of gender justice that she admired had gone through much worse. Vicky rallied her strength, her will. She would be the silent hero. No one would hear about her, and no one would know. She could make a stand against the old man, though, doing those things that would win his approval, while he was alive to see them, and then use his fortune to undo the horrible things he’d done with it. Someday, perhaps, when she’d spent that money on creating opportunities for underprivileged women, somebody would write something about her, call her a heroine.

Upon returning home, Vicky felt strange. Something wasn’t right. As she stripped off the slutty clothes, glad to be rid of them, she caught her appearance in her full-length mirror. Her skin was flushed, and it was then that she realized what was wrong. She was aroused. Highly, desperately aroused.

All the way home, she’d been considering what she was going to do, how she was going to do it. She’d been fantasizing about herself being molested and even raped. She’d gotten horny from fantasizing about it. Her father, she thought, would approve of that, but Vicky did not. It was awful. What kind of disgusting slut gets wet from fantasies of being used for pleasure by anonymous men?

She did. She’d gotten wet from it. Now, she had to do something about it, because it was all she could think about. Vicky locked her door, as though she were about to commit some kind of crime. Then, she got under her covers and began to masturbate.

Vicky did not masturbate often. She was not a highly sexed young woman, and masturbating made her feel dirty, like she was doing something wrong. Normally, Vicky would picture her encounters with her one, previous boyfriend as she touched herself, remembering the pleasure of his tongue on her sex or the feel of his hands as they’d touched her small breasts, the hotness of his breath in her ear as their bodies moved together, slowly and passionately.

Now, though, as she dipped her fingers into her sopping pussy, Vicky did not think about hands on her small breasts. She thought about the videos she’d watched, while tied to the bed, and she thought about the faceless men slapping the girls’ tits and making them cry. Vicky didn’t have small breasts. Vicky had giant tits, fuck handles. The thought of the word, “breasts” brought the memory of a painful electric shock discharging into her cunt. Vicky had tits, melons, jugs, udders.

As she rubbed her twat more vigorously, the prior boyfriend’s hand no longer gently cupped her small breasts, his hands roughly groped and squeezed at her oversized melons, pinching the nipples in his fingers, tugging them painfully as her pussy got wetter and wetter. The slow, sensual movement of their bodies, grinding in a passionate rhythm became the hard slapping of his hips against her pelvis, as he drove his engorged cock into her and told her, in her father’s voice, that the only thing more useless than a girl with an empty cunt is a girl, in general.

To her horror and shame, Vicky orgasmed at the imagined scenario, sobbing in confusion as the pleasurable waves, so unlike any prior masturbation, swept through her. She tugged, painfully, on her own tit and gritted her teeth, but then she came again. Vicky cried harder when she pinched her own clit, choking off a third orgasm that had been about to come, before she finally got a hold of herself.

It was sick! She was sick! She scrambled from the bed and fumbled with the lock on the door, then, nude, started the shower and got in immediately, letting the icy water pelt her hot skin. The shock of the cold water began to clear her head, but it began to heat, and Vicky washed her traitorous pussy, she began to think, again, about how she was going to entice strange men to fuck her, in order to win her father’s approval. Worst of all, she imagined the ways she would prove that it had happened.


Vicky was not a drinker. On occasion, she would have a drink or two with friends, but never to excess. Tonight, she drank the remaining five wine coolers in her refrigerator, before heading out the door. The walk to the little corner bar near her apartment took her fifteen minutes, during which she passed only a few people. All of them, though, gave her a long look. This was because Vicky had worn one of the tight, short skirts she’d picked up recently, paired with a belly shirt that stretched tightly over her ludicrous melons. Her heels clacked on the concrete with each step and her skin was flushed crimson with embarrassment.

Vicky knew what she looked like. She didn’t feel sexy. She didn’t feel cute. Vicky felt trashy, like she was a hooker, going out to entice a man to fuck her for money. Only, the sum wasn’t small. Her fee was a mountainous fortune, which was in the hands of a perverted octogenarian that wanted Vicky to act like a slut. Her father saw a woman’s… no, a girl’s value as the wet slit between her legs, the funbags on her chest, and the hole in her face that could be used to masturbate his cock with. Her father was evil.

Vicky recited this line of thinking in her head the whole walk to the bar, justifying what she was about to do by trying to picture the face of smiling and happy women, as Vicky handed out opportunity from her inherited bounty. Only, when she thought of the smiling faces of those women, she pictured those same faces being slapped until they were red and crying, and that thought made her pussy wet. It was horrible and she felt disgusted by herself, which, in turn, made her pussy wetter.

The bar at the corner was called Aces and it was a typical suburban establishment, clean, with a middle-class clientele. Vicky did not want to go looking for filthy dive bars, where rough and violent men drunk themselves into a stupor on hard liquor, because Vicky did not want to be raped. She believed that she could do what many other women did these days and find herself a handsome throw-away for a one-night stand. That seemed the safest and most reasonable way to have mindless sex with a stranger.

The eyes of every man were on her the instant she stepped through the door. The women, out in small groups or attended by their significant others, eyed her with contempt and disgust, the same feelings that Vicky had for herself. She was here for a single purpose, and it wasn’t a night out with friends or to socialize. She was here to find a strange man to fuck her, and she felt like a slut. The men, rightly, saw the next hole that they could push their hard dicks into. She could practically see each of them filing through their library of pick-up lines and introductions, picking the one that would give them the best chance of taking this full-chested goddess home, to bounce her on their cock and watch her giant tits wobble about obscenely.

Vicky, already slightly tipsy from chugging five wine coolers in rapid succession, clacked her way to the bar and took up a seat next to an attractive man who, she guessed, was in his mid-thirties. He wore a pair of tan trousers, into which was tucked a button-down plaid shirt. After quickly sc