Sadism

3/26/15

"Rape is not sex, rape is violence."

Somewhere inside the Internet, in the world, these words were spoken. Nopony ever thinks this way because nopony ever cares to be that considerate. Everypony else likes to sit in the comfort of their homes and make insanity wolf memes about rape.

It's humorous, actually, to think evil is a fine blend of two things in varying levels: stupidity and vanity. Nobody likes to say it, but being a decent person is advantageous. Helping people in need allows them to do their part in the world where you can't. And the absence of this understanding, the absence of responsibility for others, is simply a selfish tendency.

Obviously, being a decent person is just too hard.

The same could've been said for the Cattleprod Sisters.

By my third month in captivity, they'd found a present for me. I woke to cattleprod claws popping with electron arcs. I leapt back and hit the cage. They ate it up and grinned their cheshire grins. I couldn't articulate just how monstrous their expressions were. Their lips turned sharply, angular and impossibly curved. I thought, for a moment, that their lips were scarred that way. But, no, they were just grotesque. They were just... sickening.

"Wake up, shithead. We got a surprise for ya." Said the shorter one.

In her hooves was a writhing, restless sack of burlap. Inside it, I could only project my deepest horrors. Who ir what was it. I didn't know. I grew anxious, nauseated even. My chest was tightening in the abstract fear of what would spill out and touch me. Touch was the most dreaded perception a kitten could ever have. Sex kittens, the term my psychiatrist had used, were ponies indoctrinated to be full-time sex slaves. The most common psychological side-effects were heightened anxiety, excessive trust issues and reduced pain threshold.

"Yeah, that's right... get scared. We're gonna hurt you later. But don't worry, princess. This is all pleasure. No business whatsoever, right sis?"

The taller sister nodded and kept quiet. Cattleprod 2, whom we called 'two' because she never acted first, was tall, muscled and stoic. She was also the more traditional sociopath. I barely escaped Cattleprod 1's horrid wakeup tasing. The claws were arcing right where my ears would've been, had they not drooped from my empty depression dreams.

Soon, she gave her sister the signal. Her signal, humorously enough, was smacking their flank. No wonder they were such troglodytes. They were inbred psychos, too. As much as I wanted to scream, or lash out, I couldn't. Happyland 362 was a facility that broke you down and programmed you. If you were out of line, you weren't being angry, you were malfunctioning. As emotional, as extroverted as some people might've been in my shoes, that got you killed. I still have trouble emoting myself. Even as I write, I don't articulate emotions the same way as everyone else. They taught me not to.

I bit my tongue and watched them drop Silver Spoon to the floor.

She struck the concrete. And then, in her weakened, starving state, she crawled over with fresh tears. I could see her ribs portruding outwards. They were bulging against her coat. Her once-fine coat, fluffy and rich before, was mangled and dirty. Heavy protien scents breached my nose and I tried to look away. I did. But how could I. It was Silver Spoon.

For the first time in months, I could feel my heartbeat. She made me feel equine again just by being in the same room. We locked eyes. I didn't know why, but I was crying, too. We were shells of what we were in Cloptober. I didn't know how to feel, but something innate kept me from sobbing. Whenever I wanted to openly display myself, my emotions were the first to leave. I didn't have them. How could I.

"... Silver Spoon... is that you?" I cracked out, barely articulate.

"Diamond... Diamond, don't look. Don't..."

They grabbed her by the hair and stepped on her. Cattleprod 1 was the one to do it. She always made the first move. And she always did the grinning.

"Oh, so it's true... You two used to be sweethearts, huh? That's some hot shit right there. Two mares is pretty boring, though. Why not six stallions and one filly?"

No.

"Diamond, look away...!"

I rattled the cage with my forehooves. I slammed myself forward and grit my teeth.

"Damn it! Leave her the fuck alone, you country hick pieces of shit...!"

I only had one second to realize what I'd done. And that was it. Before I could curl up and defend myself, or beg for anything, they tore my door off it's hinges and yanked me out by my tail. I'm not going into detail about how it felt to get raped in front of my best friend and lifetime crush. No shit I'm not going to. I'm not going to sensationalize and describe every little detail about how inhumane it was to orgasm for six strangers in a row while Silver Spoon spent her time crying.

No shit I won't. Abuse isn't some fucking entertainment media. Some asshole might sensationalize my body's natural response as me enjoying rape. That asshole needs to take psychology classes and research the anatomy of sex. Orgasm isn't decided by the human brain. It's not intentional. Kinks, however, can be controlled. But pure, physical response, isn't a choice. Neither is how I feel writing about this.

I could extrapolate every inkling about how rough the sex was, how heavy they were slamming against me, but I'm not a writer. I'm an awareness speaker. I explain the science and effect of abuse on somepony. I don't write about how amazing it felt being raped because I didn't find it amazing, the region in my spine responsible for sexual response did.

If you are not clear, if you are not heavy-handed, apparently people don't understand what you mean.

The Red Scarab raped Silver Spoon alongside me. And I struggle to say any of it. I'm wretching and gagging and trembling, but I'm going to tell not show. Because I'm not a writer. This is not some novella you can sip some chardonnay over and socialize with your friends over due to the literary mastery.

Oh Luna. Oh Luna I cant write.

Oh Luna I have to go. I can hear her sobbing. I have to calm down.