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Vicky's Inheritance, Chapter Four: A Useless Twat



After taking an entire day to sleep, eat real food, and then sleep again, Vicky returned to her father’s office. She felt prepared this time, with her new tits and bare cunt, having foregone any underwear. With the leftover money from her father’s checks, she picked up a few new outfits that she thought the old man might approve of. The outfits made her feel like she was advertising herself as a rape victim, so she wore a long jacket to cover herself as she traveled to the office. The jacket strained over her new tits, though, and it was summer, so she drew odd looks from everyone she passed by.

Once she reached her father’s floor and entered the office, she removed the jacket to reveal a miniskirt and tube top set, which did little to hide her enhanced melons. The girl at the desk gave Vicky an approving nod as she approached.

“Hey,” she said, “Lookin’ good, honey buns! You want I should slap ya’ to get you ready for the boss?”

Vicky, still, did not want to be slapped. However, the mere idea that it might happen already had her pussy wet, and she did need a handprint and tears to go with her slutty outfit, so she agreed. The girl rounded the desk, slapped Vicky across the face, then again, and then gave one of her tits a painful squeeze. Vicky’s eyes filled with tears, even as her cunt juiced up. The girl buzzed her father, and this time Vicky was allowed in straight away.

The old man sat, as usual, behind his expensive desk. Vicky waited for him to acknowledge her. Minutes went by without a word. Vicky, anxiously, took out her pocket mirror and looked at her face. Her cheeks had tear streaks on them, but the handprint was beginning to fade. The old man would not approve of her lack of tears or recently slapped face, but he still had not acknowledged her. What was she supposed to do? Should she go back out and ask the girl to slap her again? Finally, the old man looked up, once, beckoned her forward with his finger, and then looked back down at his papers.

Vicky approached the desk, waited for another long moment, and then the old man leaned back in his chair.

“Girls are to be respected and treated as equals,” the old man said.

Vicky was caught off guard. Was it a question? It sounded like a statement. Was she supposed to answer? The statement wasn’t true, in her father’s eyes. Vicky recalled the painful shocks that she’d suffered for two days.

“That’s a lie,” she said, almost without thinking.

The old man stood, rounded the desk, and slapped her face.

“Never disagree with a man,” he said.

Vicky trembled, her face red, embarrassed. She’d been certain that it was what he wanted to hear.

“Yes, Sir!” she answered.

“Girls are to be respected and treated as equals,” the old man said, again.

“Yes, Sir!” Vicky agreed.

The old man slapped her again.

“That’s a lie,” he said, “The only thing more useless than a girl is the goddamn government.”

“Yes, Sir!” Vicky agreed again, thinking of her billions.

Her father rested back against his desk.

“Show me your cunt and your tits,” he said.

Vicky lifted her skirt without protest and pulled her tiny top up over her melons. The old man stared at them, wordlessly, for several minutes. Vicky felt flushed and silly, standing there, the only sound the quiet ticking of the clock on the office wall, as her father stared, wordlessly, at her tits and cunt.



“When was the last time a man used your bald twat?” he asked, finally.

Vicky blushed. She had not had sex for over a year, and she had only done it three times in her life, with the same boyfriend.

“Over a year ago,” she answered.

The old man slapped her again and said, “That’s a lie.”

“No!” Vicky said, confused, and then the old man slapped her again.

“Never disagree with a man.”

“Yes, Sir!”

“If you’re going to lie to me,” he said, “you can get out. I need an heir, not a lying, traitorous cunt.”

“I… I don’t understand,” Vicky said, hoping that this would not count as disagreement.

“That’s not surprising,” he countered, “Maybe if your cunt wasn’t wet, you could comprehend human speech. I will repeat the question. When was the last time a man used your bald twat?”

Vicky chewed her lip, and then caught the meaning.

“Never,” she said, “My… cunt, has only been bald for a week.”

The old man nodded, pleased, and then said, “Why?”

Vicky blinked and said, “I... I don’t have a boyfriend.”

The old man slapped one of her tits, making Vicky moan out loud, which was confusing because it had hurt.

“Was my question in any way related to you having a boyfriend?”

“No, Sir!”

“Being in a relationship is not an excuse to have an unused cunt. A girl with an empty cunt is more useless than a girl in general. What use is having a cunt if it’s not being used?”

Vicky didn’t understand.

“I… I don’t understand,” she said, and then added, “I’m sorry, Sir.”

The old man nodded, seemingly pleased with the response, then he went on, “The tits are amusing. The bald cunt is acceptable. You wore a coat over here, didn’t you?”

Vicky nodded. The old man slapped her other tit and Vicky moaned again.

“How do you expect your cunt to get any use if you’re covering it up?”

“I… I don’t…”

“Blah, blah, blah,” the old man mocked her, “I don’t want to see you in here again, until a different man has been able to make use of your cunt each day for the rest of the week, starting today. How in the name of sweet fucking Jesus do you expect to know if you’re a decent fuck, if you aren’t even getting fucked?”

“But, Sir, how am I supposed to do that?” Vicky asked.

“In general, you spread your legs and a man puts his cock in you,” he explained, then, at her continued look of incomprehension, he added, “My suggestion would be to get on a train, late at night, or go to the bars, dressed like that, and you’ll be sure to get what you need.”

Vicky’s mouth fell open in shock. He couldn’t be serious.

“I don’t want to get raped!” Vicky protested.

The old man slapped her tits, again, several times, until Vicky was crying, and her pussy was soaking.

“Remove the phrase, ‘I don’t want’ from your vocabulary,” he instructed, “and replace it with ‘Yes, Sir’.”

“Yes, Sir!” Vicky screeched.

“Rape isn’t a real thing,” he said, “That’s some made-up word that do-gooders use, because in their little heads, they have this whacky idea about consent. A man’s got a right to a wet hole and a set of tits to squeeze. I’ll need proof that you’re living up to your potential,” he said, and returned to his chair, adding, “Today, I’m making a donation of one billion dollars to the Future Authoritarians of America. Now, that’s a group that’s got their heads on straight.



Vicky paled. Another portion of her inheritance gone to a group of gross men. She had to figure this out, to win his approval and become a legal heir. Then, she could put that money to work for good.

“How do I get proof of… you know?” she asked.

“Get creative. I don’t care how you do it, just that you do it,” he answered.

Vicky waited, but the old man had no more to add.

“Yes, Sir,” she mumbled and left the office.



 

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