Chapters Hyper Love Surprise: Ritual Abuse
Nightmare Night
3/21/15
I remember walking home from school on Halloween Night. Daddy was back at home counting his money. Iwas free to roam without anyone else watching over me. I was a big girl and I was proud of it. Imagine my surprise when I saw Silver Spoon trotting towards me. We giggled and bumped our rumps together. We went trick-or-treating. Nightmare Night was one of those holidays fillies just didn't skip. And Ponyville was one of those towns that never got in trouble. So we were safe, you know. To us, foalnapping was just a myth.
I waltzed over to the nearest house, which was dwarfed by a few, taller oaks and barely off the border to Ponyville Train Station. The trees provided heavy, impenetrable shade. And it swallowed the house away. All we saw was the front door. Nothing else was visible. At first, I joked around.
"Hey, Silvie. What if this house is too ugly for the others? Whoddyou think lives here?" I chuckled, rocking my body about in childish energy.
"I dunno, Tiara, maybe we should stay away. It's too dark here. What if it's haunted?"
'Haunted?', I thought pompously.
There was no such thing as ghosts. Ghosts, like all boogeymen, were made to spook the younglings. I wasn't that dumb, I told myself. I wasn't that naive. But I was. I ignored her warning. I stepped away from her lingering and ominous premonition to knock on the door. It barely cracked open and somepony whispered from the other side.
"Candy...? It's been a long time since I've had visitors."
So it gave us candy. A worn, almost sickly foreleg bent around the door space and presented crunch cat bars. They were tiny little waifer treats that mewled when you bit into them, some kind of magic that Twilight Sparkle had bored us about two weeks ago in class; 'psychic acoustical engineering' she called it: manipulating the magnitude of mechanical soundwaves, or engineering it to sound exactly the way an acoustician wanted it.
Before we could skip away, because we took our time opening the candy then and there, we were taken away. Somepony had bagged us kicking and screaming. I never told anyone but I was so frightened, so crippled with fear that I wet myself in the burlap. That was my first, real taste of fear. My second was hours later; by that time, I was insensate and barely awake. I was limp and numb from realizing I'd been kidnapped by a complete stranger.
We were kids. We were just fucking kids. I was barely eleven and I was already living a nightmare. They set us up in different rooms. I knew because when I finally came to, Silver Spoon was gone and all I saw were iron bars. They locked me in a cage. It was hardly a pet carrier, hardly a cramped vessel. My containment vessel was three times my size with a doggy bowl in reach of the padlock and another doggy bowl filled with meat. I stepped backwards and did the only thing I knew how.
I cried.
I cried and cried when I realized that was my home from then on. The other fillies were crying too. Most of them were wailing at that point. Some of them were dry-heaving from the meat scents.
Ponies will never be predisposed omnivores; our bodies aren't supposed to process it. They were just kids put in cages like savage animals, starved and bruised in places I never even touched. My peers were younger than me. I was the oldest. And I, by some measure of guilt, was the healthiest.
The others were caked in shit, you know. They were heavily bruised on their flanks, on their shoulders, chests and necks; everypony else was a replica of every parent's nightmare. I scuttled to the back of my cage. Somepony had opened the door to the room. Inside walked a skinny, developed stallion, a skinny, athletic type of stallion with nothing but a candy cane tie on.
His mane was pitch black and his coat was canary yellow.
He wore this mask, a fairly pristine one made of dull plastics. His mask was a deer skull replica, a doe one to be exact. It was slimmer than his actual face, but hid the important bits.
I could never see his eyes. And I never saw his jaw elevate or sink. It seemed he had no soul. No equine nature. Because even the lights cowered before him. Our only source of luminescence in that dark, dusty space was a cluster of hanging lightbulbs. Some were dotted with a darker substance, the origins of which I repressed from memory.
He shuffled forward with a characteristic laziness. A certain relaxation was stolen away from us. Because he was quiet. The deer skull stallion was a patient pony. His casual glances left and right disoriented us.
It seemed he was enjoying himself, because, at odd intervals, he'd chuckle or chortle just below speaking volume. We were huddled all to ourselves, against the very bars that kept us inside. That was our only comfort, that maybe, if we stayed isolated, nothing worse could happen to us.
In his hoof was a flower. A white daisy, to be exact. The alarming distance he showed at first burned away right before us. He took to warm, satisfied chuckles. And they were just that, a step below laughter in short bursts of happiness, to show how uncontrollably lost he was in all the splendor.
"I love you... I love you not." He giggled, picking the first petal away.
Two mares slipped out of the doorway and they stood by the outlier cages, the farthest on each side of me. I was the closest left to the middle. I was lucky. The others soiled themselves. We were all panicking.
A silent majority of us pressed our lips shut. Others, who chose to cry, were tazed with cattleprods between their bars. The mares shocking them always covered front and back, or either side of their victim. Even if the filly screamed, even if she begged them 'no' or 'please', or 'I want my mommy', all they did was giggle.
They giggled at our misery. Every convulsion, every painful seizure that slammed them against the bars was simply entertainment. One of us wouldn't stop sobbing. Her cutiemark was a heart, I realized, just barely able to discern the shape. Her coat was charred and smoking. Or, rather, her insides were smouldering. By the time I had the courage to open my eyes, I could see her own frozen in time. Her eyes were circles with how rotund and wide they were. I wanted to scream.
"Valentine! Valentine, wake up! Wake up...! No, don't- don't leave me, please! Please-!"
An identically filly just her age struck her corpse violently in vain denial. They were twins. Because she'd raised her voice, they electrocuted her, too. They dragged her out of the cage and struck her sensitive spots. Her rear, her inner-thighs and neck were all burnt by the end of her punishment. I tried to look away. But I couldn't. Their eyes had never closed. One died wide-open. Her sister convulsed wildy, twisting and slamming against her cage.
Amidst the thrashing, amidst her piercing wails, her left radius snapped and hung limply by threads of sinew and fat. I could spot her marrow streaming dowm her coat. It gave way and so did her body, forcing her comatose from shock.
"Anyone else wanna fucking cry?!" Asked the taller mare, tossing the comatose twin back inside.
We didn't dare make a noise. We didn't dare show ourselves. She took to smirking and lit a cigarette. I thought it was over. I wanted it to be over. But they did it all over again. When the skull colt picked a petal away, he said his trademark line.
"I love you, I love you not."
It bore into us. The three of our captors circled our cages. And they forced us to watch. If anypony turned away or shut their eyes, they were tased. I had three burns over my body. When he reached 'I love you not,' he ordered one of the other kids out their cages. And when they left, he made them shock the 'unloved' child. That very same child could've been their family, or friend. Or, in the case of the colt I electrocuted, classmate.
Did Featherweight deserve to die shitting himself and burning to a crisp. No. Never. None of those foals did. I spent the rest of my night curled up and shaking. His pleas were still ringing in my ears; they wouldn't stop. And the way his eyes melted out his sockets, I could only wretch and rock myself to sleep.
Hyper Love Surprise: Ritual Abuse
3/23/15
Sometimes, they let us sleep. But most days, we were sleep-deprived and kept awake for an excess of fourteen hours a day. The fuckface sisters liked to piss on our coats and tase us awake. It wasn't even September when they started brainwashing us. Indoctrination, experts called it. They called it 'being a good girl.'
Our handlers, as my psychiatrist would later call them, were mostly random. The only recurring handlers were the Cattleprod Sisters. We all agreed that would be their name, because they preferred cattleprods to low-strength tasers, unlike the others. They were also the most disgusting. They were also the worst of the bunch.
When I was tortured, those two wouldn't even try to act equine. They were, for the better part of my captivity, the very nexus for my hatred. The others didn't bother being sadistic. I didn't have to hate them. Sometimes, they'd finish tasing me early, stroking my cheek right after. Tasing was implemented for not following orders. Orders ranged from eating my own excrement, to sucking them off.
Sucking somepony off, ha, imagine that being your childhood passtime.
My body belonged to them. If I was told to eat shit, I ate shit. If my tenth handler for the day wanted anal, he had anal. The first few weeks, they cycled my holes one at a time. They were always lined up from the exit. It made me feel special to some extent. It made me feel wanted, especially the group sex days.
Those days, every handler I had wanted my ass. It got them off in ways I could never resist. They were always hungry for me. They'd slam into me and have their way as long as they'd want. Rough, soft, it didn't matter to anyone. I was just their's. They were all I lived for, everyday and every night, I was their spermbank. The brief vacations I had were spent missing the rape, my vile schedule. Wasn't that the point of sex, my body might've said. Wasn't that the point of being a 'kitten.'
I was never loose enough to keep them off me. Some of them were abusive. Some of them were tender. But all I felt was somepony inside me. They were all adults. I was still infertile. The one that took my first made me afraid. He was bigger than the rest. His prick was thicker than all the others'. That drove me crazy.
My first was me screaming my lungs out. I kicked and screamed till he shut me up with kisses. I cried myself to sleep while he had his way with me. His girth ripped me open and crippled my nervous response. At all times, I would shiver. He didn't show mercy. My handler spent the next few hours making me a creampie dump. How my body enjoyed it, I would never ask.
His tip bulged my stomach out and shifted my guts around. He was my first and we never even talked. At least the others abused me, or talked dirty. He was barely emotive; the most we ever exchanged were wet kisses and vice-grip orgasms I got him off with.
Hours after, my insides were sore; they were hot. Swarming needles stabbed my pubic region from how torn I was. I didn't know it, but all that time, I'd been drooling. I woke to somepony else licking my insides with their cock. 'So what it was rape', I told myself, 'so what it was people treating me like trash.'
I was worthless. Nopony cared about me, not even the nice ones. No one was looking for me. That's what my handlers said everyday: 'nopony will miss you, so you might as well enjoy it.' So I did. I bit my tongue and lost myself. I was so overstimulated during captivity that it rewired me. I was habitually compliant, so much that, most days, I wet myself from raw satisfacfion. It made me red. It turned them on. And all that cum digging around inside me melted my strength away.
That was Hell. That was someplace I would never put anyone. I still have nightmares about being kidnapped from my bed. I still get anxious by cages of any kind, or people in masks. Most of all, I hate Nightmare Night. I never go out when other kids are enjoying themselves. I can never walk outside alone, either. It's too much. My chest starts to constrict and I feel eyes all over me. The kiss of acid, stress, chokes my ventricles and I have anxiety attacks for hours. Panic attacks, I get around zoos and prisons.
Having my childhood taken away from me was, strangely enough, not the worst thing they did. Till this day, I can't trust anyone in relationships. I can't get off to people I'm close to. Because they drove me to that. They programmed me with all the abuse.
The random handlers were kind to me. It was the Cattleprod Sisters I hated. They cackled about my abuse every fucking day. And every day was the same. Wake up to electric shocks. Get bruises from my seizing body. And drift off to my happy place.
Happy places, or near-comatose states, were imperitive. My mind was breaking. I knew that indisputably, because I was starting to crave it. Anyone could take me. Anyone could use me. So what if my brain function went to crap. That wasn't important. When they had me, I drifted away to happy daydreams and let my body take the fall. It wasn't a matter of struggling to the very vestiges of my being, but finding ways to ignore it. Soon after, weeks and weeks of ritual molestation worked me into blackouts. At least, I thought they were blackouts.
The Cattleprod Sisters were fond of reversing my pleasure centers. Bu default, the mind is a clever supercomputer. So if you're always in pain, always exposed to trauma, it finds ways to preserve you. But what they did was learn to exploit my defense mechanisms.
Over time, a body exposed to too much pain will force the brain to rewire pain to pleasure. And that'll help them cope. The first thing they did was establish my multiple personalities. They broke me down while I was still me, using sex and physical abuse to do most of the work. But, most times, it's the psychological process that they rely on to iron out the wrinkles. One day, a child might be tased for no reason at all and that creates an atmosphere of confusion. Confusion and fear is what cults especially rely on to brainwash their members.
That was why, I learned later, the Cattleprod Sisters were given free reign to torment me as much as they did. They weren't just sadists. They were monsters. I'd spend all night recovering from electroshock to my labia, or even my tongue in some cases. All that pain, all that pleasure, it was just a result they spent months conditioning my body for.
Till this day, I wake whenever I'm damp. Whenever I feel sweat, or just natural humidity in general, my mind panics. I swear they're waiting for me, that someone is waiting just over my bed to shock me awake till I can't feel my legs anymore. I'm scared I'll wake up in my cage again. And they'll take me. They'll all break me in again.
I have to go. My psychiatrist is calling me.
Hyper Love Surprise: Ritual Abuse
3/24/15
I've never liked mirrors. Being kidnapped to Celestia knew where made that worse. Some days, I can't even look at my reflection. Mirrors were usually employed to disorient someone under sleep-deprivation. They'd tell us to state our names, which they picked, while watching our reflection.
We couldn't look away while we did it, or else they'd burn us and cut across our thighs. The cuts were usually shallow and done with biodegradable substances laced with hyperbolic steroids, to increase our healing process. That way, the scars wouldn't really develop, or barely existed. Our safehouse was called 'Happyland 362.'
There's no end to the nightmares of Happyland 362. Happyland, the infamous amusement park run by Prissy, was also codename for safehouses. A safehouse was typically grooved out beneath a Happyland in the underground maintenance tunnels. And every Happyland had maintenance tunnels.
For those of you who don't know what Prissy is, it's one of the largest, most expansive animations studios in existence. The only real match I can think of is Pickstar. Pickstar leads in the 3D animation department and deeply resents Prissy. Pickstar usually collaborates with Steamworks as well. And both, thankfully for us, share that same hatred.
The night of my disapperance, my psychiatrist said everypony was looking for me. The first place they looked was, fittingly, Happyland. Happyland had a reputation of being a hotspot for missing persons cases. It was mostly children. But sometimes, teens and young college students would vanish too. Thinking back on it, I never did like the idea of spending a whole afternoon at Happyland. It was neither enjoyable nor fulfilling. Even to a young mind like mine, I never did believe in whimsy.
If fairy tails were real, I was the ugly witch. Nopony liked me, not even after my rescue. In grade school, the others called me 'bitch' and 'Queen Stuckup', even 'snootypants.' They didn't like me. But, at the time, I didn't like me either. Daddy was always busy with work and all his corporate yesmares. And by yesmares, I mean mares he'd promise a promotion for a night in bed. And sometimes, they didn't stay long enough to savor their position. But for the most part, all of them fell for it.
Do you know why cults exist. Why things like equine trafficking happen. It's pure and simple: all these things happen and continue to happen because of power struggle. People love power. And sadly, all our shallow evolution forgot to hardcode child exemption from the list of 'variables to use for power advantage'.
The reason mares like daddy's corporate yesmares exist is because they want someone powerful. And the reason somepony wants a big, strong stallion is because he seems powerful. The same goes for money. And even someone who acts like a jackass.
I know because all my life, I saw other mares doing it, foo. Even my best friend Silver Spoon had that little tinge of excitement over how rich I was. And she was my only friend. She was... still there for me everyday after school. So imagine my disgust when I realized all those mares in abusive relationships, all those fillies being beat at home, were all falling for the same damn trap.
It'll always be about power. Mares. Stallions. Colts and fillies. It didn't matter how they got it, only that somehow, they got it at all.
You're probably wondering why I went on this tirade. Well, that answer's easy.
I'm not just telling you how horrible ritual abuse is. Sometimes, we need some perspective. And that's what most victims of abuse never have. Victims of rape, most prevalent, are often victim shamed. And why is that. Why is it that we ask a girl 'how drunk were you' or 'are you sure it was rape?'
Yeah. Because that's what you should do. Blame someone who hates who they are, blame someone who's disgusted with her own body for something that they had absolutely no control of. Victims of assault, be it sexual or 'physical', should never be victim-shamed.
Would you blame a hostage for being kidnapped. Or a match for being lit. Of course not. But people do it anyway because they're conditioned to blame the victim rather than the agressor. Why support someone so 'weak' and 'helpless', right? Why associate yourself with the weaker party when you can seem more powerful by being callous and self-serving.
Because power is everything.
The rich become richer and the poor grow poorer.
Hyper Love Surprise: Ritual Abuse
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.
