You like little girls, don't you?
It's alright. You can admit it. I'm a bit of a freak myself.
However, this isn't a story about me. Not really. This is a story about you, and what you did to Cecelia La Porta, who was only eight years old when you sank your dirty claws into her sweet, supple flesh; when you pried this innocent little girl wide open to fill her tiny, pliable body with your raging lust and your scalding, bittersweet ichor.
Like she was a mold—a cast by which you could pour yourself into; to shape this little lamb as you saw fit. And, oh, how she fit you like a glove. How she clenched around your turgid flesh and begged, tweaking beneath your probing fingers, mouth agape, drooling from both ends. And, oh, how she watered the bedsheets with her tears.
How you putrefied her from the inside; polluted her precious, prepubescent body with your vileness and your virility, your viciousness, your venom.
She trusted you. Now she'll trust no one ever again.
I understand how delicious that kind of power can be. Let's remember it together, you and I, what you did in September, when the angel called Ezell had gone away. He didn't know it at the time, but he'd be gone for much longer than just one day— a sudden Catastrophe would see to that. For you, it was the perfect storm. Just what you needed to get closer to little Cecelia.
Intimately close.
You were not the Doctor, but you were a doctor—and there was no better place for a doctor to work than Rhodes Island. A medical professional could really make a difference there, or so Folinic had you believe. She was one of Dr. Kal'tsit's students, and you were one of her students. As part of her tenure at the pharmaceutical company, she was instructed to take on at least one more pupil. That was you.
Fortunately, whether Infected or otherwise, you were a hit with the little ones. Suzuran, Shamare, Popukar, they loved you. Bubble, Cuora, Vermeil, too, as well as the other tykes who weren't Rhodes Island operators. Who were only there to receive treatment.
Cecelia La Porta was one such girl. She wasn't a Rhodes Island operator; she was too sickly for work of that nature. Her guardian, however, was a different story.
Born under the name Ezell Pastore, operator Enforcer looked after the girl, on account of her parents no longer being in the picture. The young man was like a father figure to her. He and little Cecelia got along swimmingly, and she trusted him above anyone else. You didn't inquire about the specifics of their circumstances following the events in Laterano. Frankly, you didn't care.
It wasn't Cecelia's past you were strictly interested in—it was that stunning body of hers.
Just the body type you were interested in.
Prepubescent.
Undeveloped.
Unripened.
Yes… little Cecelia La Porta was most certainly in your age of attraction range. She wasn't even ten years old. She was perfect.
The sight of her radiant smile always filled you with an overwhelming burst of joy, making you eagerly expect her medical visits. The poor thing was sickly, but Ezell Pastore would swing by occasionally to brighten her mood with little gifts, and he'd tell Cecelia about his upcoming assignments, and how long he might be gone for.
A day off the ship here, a weekend off the ship there; Ezell was never gone for over two days in succession, much to Cecelia's assurance. She could always count on seeing her guardian—her protector and father figure—more than a few times each week. Cecelia knew that as long as Ezell stuck around, that she would be safe. That no one or nothing could ever come to harm her.
How fortunate you were, then, for that Catastrophe.
Most Catastrophe Messengers could predict such storms up to two days in advance, but surprises were still surprises. The enigmatic nature of Originium still made for confusing, frightful times, as well as confusing, frightful storms. This time, it was a blizzard—one that kept Ezell Pastore and the rest of his squad away from the landship for quite some time, seeking to provide disaster relief, medical treatment, and assess damages. You were already on good terms with the gracious Sankta, and he knew you and the other doctors could look after Cecelia while he was gone.
Cecelia's mood soured instantly as the unwelcome news reached her ears. Her guardian, Ezell, would be gone for a few days at least, and the poor thing was already stressing about it. You sat at her bedside and stroked her leg softly, assuringly, and you told Cecelia that everything was going to be just fine. You told her that Ezell trusted you to look after her while he was gone, and that you would do whatever you could to put a smile back on that pretty face of hers. Cecelia smiled bashfully when you called her pretty, and you felt your heart soar.
The sound of her voice was so pure and ethereal, it felt as though an angelic choir was serenading you. A special song, just for you.
"Are you going to take care of me?" she asked.
A cute question from the cutest little kid you've ever seen. You nodded so sternly. "Yes," you told her. "I'll take good care of you, Cecelia. Don't you worry."
You kept a stash of candy for the little ones. It was something else they knew you for—your generosity with treats for the tots. When you held the blueberry lollipop up to Cecelia's face, she gasped quietly and sat up in her medical bed.
"But," she said, "I thought I wasn't supposed to have any candy before my shot…"
Nonsense, you told her. Go ahead—take it.
Cecelia bit her lip shyly as she took the lollipop from your hand. She looked down at the treat with anxiousness clear on her countenance… and then she unwrapped it.
"You promise I won't get in trouble?" she asked you, her eyes sparkling. God, it should have been criminal for a kid to be this attractive.
(Well, in your case… oh, never mind. I won't tell anyone how you ruined her life.)
In any case, you promised Cecelia she wouldn't get in trouble. She just had to eat the lollipop now, before Folinic or the others found her.
The cutie beamed. She stuck the lollipop past those gorgeous, glistening lips of hers, and she closed her eyes with a quiet hum of contentment.
You could feel your pants becoming tighter around the crotch. You could watch these underaged girls suck on lollipops forever. She wasn't quite as enthusiastic as Cuora or Popukar, but Cecelia was her own special brand of sweet and savory. She hummed to herself as she sucked on the blueberry lollipop you gave her, and you sat there at her bedside, just watching her. Licking your lips, wishing you could push your hot, wet tongue past her sweet little mouth to explore that tiny maw of hers.
You made a mental note to give her more things to suck on, and you did your best to contain yourself while Cecelia ran her cute, tiny, pink tongue along the sweet sphere of the lollipop. She wasn't trying to be erotic, of course. Cecelia had no clue what she was doing to you, and that innocence made this moment all the more saccharine.
"You're really nice," Cecelia told her, in that too-soft voice of hers. A voice like honey. "Thank you for the candy, mister…"
She fidgeted suddenly, squeezing her bed covers with a sad, pensive expression. "Do you think that, um… is he going to be okay?"
The " he" she was referring to must have been Ezell, no doubt about that. You smiled and nodded, confident she would see her guardian eventually…
…but only after you had your fun with her, of course.
(Not that you told her that last part. You sicko.)
(It brings me joy to see how much we have in common.)
"Okay…!" Cecelia smiled sweetly. "I'll pray for him every day, and every night… do you want to pray with me, mister?"
You agreed to do exactly that. Oh, how you longed to see this little bitch on her knees. How you longed to free your cock and drop it right on her head. To give her a new god to pray to.
That was then.
For now, you prayed with Cecelia. You pretended to give a shit. You clasped your hands together and prayed for Ezell's safety, as if it mattered one bit. Pretending was such hard work sometimes, but it was ultimately worth it. Remember how close you were to Cecelia at this moment? Remember the way she smelled? Her scent—the faint scent of oranges; of a child's sweetness, of freshly washed sheets and clean clothes and soft skin—made your hairs stand on end and you felt titillated beyond reason. You leaned in close and sniffed her, and Cecelia certainly noticed. She looked confused, then smelled herself. "Do I stink?" she asked, suddenly embarrassed. "Do I need to change clothes?"
Your mind was racing. You thought of how Cecelia would look wearing nothing at all, a constant fantasy that kept you rock hard in the late hours of the morning before you relieved yourself. You thought of Cecelia's tight little underaged body pressed up against your own, sitting on your lap, fidgeting, grinding, praying, singing, moaning, begging your name. Begging to pull her a little closer, closer to hell, where you were destined to stay.
(You never had a chance, my dear friend, but I'll save a seat for you down there.)
Ah, and what of Cecelia wearing something different? Her standard attire, the clothes her late mother left for her, were clean and clung to her frail little body. A snow-white sleeveless top with a dark ribbon around her slender little neck, and a brown robe that was almost too big on her; it fell off her shoulders and draped her petite body like a hanging blanket. Maybe it looked cute on her mother, if that mattered at all. Cecelia certainly loved wearing it, sometimes even sniffing the fabric like she did so to recall a faint, fond memory.
You wouldn't mind seeing or putting something new on Cecelia. You thought of seeing the little bitch in a maid outfit, one with a too-short skirt but plenty of frills, black thigh-highs that would hug her perky little ass just right, a midnight-black bra and a choker to match…
You spent a long time thinking about it, didn't you? How this eight-year-old little angel would look dressed up like a sweet little slut, one to rival any adult actress. Imagine how pasties would look on those mosquito bite-sized nipples of hers. How embarrassed she'd be to be wearing something like that for you—as if she had a choice in the matter.
How snug her throat would feel as you forced yourself down her neck. How she'd shake and whimper against your larger, harder body. Your lust for the little brat was downright crippling, and if you didn't do something about it soon, you were going to lose your mind…
…even more than you already had.
So, you made a plan, if only to "preserve your sanity."
You were going to steal sweet Cecelia's chastity, ruin her beyond repair, and you were going to make sure you didn't get caught. Fortunately, you were a doctor. You knew exactly where to touch, where to prod, where to pull, and what to do.
"The m-medicine had to go w-where?"
Little Cecelia's face became a deep shade of red when you told her what suppositories were. You told her this particular medicine couldn't be taken by mouth—it had to be taken from behind. She bit her lip and shuffled beneath the bedsheets with visible discomfort. But in the end, Cecelia was a good girl. She listened to you.
Plus, as embarrassing as it was… there was no chance you would ever do something unsavory, right? The other little ones trusted you and adored you.
As you shut the door to her room, Cecelia reluctantly climbed out of bed and stood before you, her movements sluggish. Poor thing looked like she was close to falling over. She was that waifish and lithe.
As Cecelia removed her brown robe, she could feel the weight of it lift from her body, and she took a moment to fold it neatly before setting it on the bedside table. Then, with growing embarrassment, she faced you directly with her next question. "Should I… take off my skirt?"
You told her no.
(You wanted to handle it yourself.)
Instead, you did something brave and outright picked her up, and Cecelia's eyes went wide with shock as you lifted her without warning or consent. Just as you expected, she was light—almost worryingly so. Poor little thing needed to eat more, you figured. Or, perhaps it was better this way; that she was so light that you could manhandle her, even throw her around if you wanted to. She wasn't a chubby little twerp, but skinny enough to do with as you pleased.
So, you turned her around and pushed her back onto the bed, positioning her so that she was face down with her pert little ass raised toward you. A discomforted whine left her mouth as she turned to look at you with concern and some fear. "Not so rough," she complained, pouting. "Wait, w-what about my skirt?"
Little Cecelia's heart raced as she felt your rough hands hike up her skirt, the shock of your touch making her gasp in disbelief. She felt helpless as you handled her in this way; why was this happening? Why were you being so rough now? You were usually so much kinder, so much softer, but now…
Well, there was nothing Cecelia felt she could do except trust you. Maybe you were in a rush? Maybe you were having a bad day. Little Cecelia was clueless, the poor brat. All she knew was that you'd just pulled up her skirt and yanked down her pretty pink panties, the panties you'd always fantasized about looking at. They were even more childish than you expected, what with the bear paw print stamped near the front and the cartoon bear's face plastered over the back. Genuine kiddie underwear; oh, how your heart raced at the sight of it! You almost started salivating right then and there, but you managed to compose yourself just in time to squirt something onto your fingers.
"What is that?" Cecelia asked, trying to peer over her shoulder. "Is that lotion, mister?"
You told her it was something like lotion, and that it made the medicine slide in easier. Before the next question left her lips, Cecelia gasped and whimpered, clenching her gray eyes shut as you worked your lube-slick forefinger into her kiddie asshole.
"M-Mister!" Cecelia whimpered again, then sniffled. "It's… it f-feels so weird! Your finger is going in my b-butt! Why?!"
You told her to keep it down.
(God, you wanted to choke her. Soon. Very soon.)
This was important, you explained. You had to get her butt nice and slick for the medicine to go in. Cecelia whimpered once more, shaking her head in disbelief. "Do adults really take medicine like this?" she asked, halfway curious and halfway disbelieving.
She continued to make noises of discomfort, but you didn't care. It felt like your cock was going to burst through your pants; your excitement was overwhelming. You watched with rapt attention as you pushed your index finger deep into Cecelia's butthole, lubricating the little brat's rectum for whatever suppository you planned on slipping in there. As expected, Cecelia had a remarkably tight, hot asshole, though you loved seeing how far you could get just one finger in there. Her pale little ass cheeks seemed to tremble as she stayed on her hands and knees, raising her rump to the air—all for you. You wanted so very badly to smack her ass and grope it, but that would have to come later.
You almost felt guilty that you were going to rape her.
(Almost. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. See that word count?)
As much as you wanted to savor this, you supposed it was best to get the show on the road. As you withdrew your finger from her tight backside, Cecelia let out a groan and struggled to maintain her balance on the bed. Then she stiffened once she felt something else press up against her lubricated anus.
"What is that?" she asked, blushing beet red as she refused to look.
It was the medicine; you told her. A big pill. It had to go in.
"But… I…"
She sniffled.
"Okay," she conceded, weakly. "Um, but please don't tell my friends about this…"
Not to worry, you told her.
It would be your little secret.
The medicine went up Cecelia's ass smoothly, and you pushed it all the way in with your middle finger, drawing another discomforted groan from the underaged angel in front of you. She laid down when you were finished inserting the medicine, and she raised her skirt and panties, flustered, unwilling to meet your gaze.
"What was the medicine for, mister?" It was like she only just thought to ask.
You told her it was supposed to help her sleep.
Naturally, Cecelia was confused. She didn't think she needed help with something like that. You offered her another piece of candy, and you took your time pushing it past those soft, quivering lips of hers. It wasn't any sort of candy she'd ever seen before. In fact, it tasted bitter, and she nearly coughed it out before you slammed your hand against her shuddering lips.
Swallow, you told her. Eat your candy. Don't be bad.
Cecelia's eyes glistened as she gulped. Then she was out like a light—one you'd snuffed out with your bare fingers; one that would never be seen by anyone ever again.
When Cecelia woke up again, she found herself completely unclothed.
The room was unfamiliar. The bed was unfamiliar. You found her fear absolutely intoxicating. With wide-eyed fright, she tried to cover herself and hide away her shame.
"M-Mister?" she asked, mortified, shuddering. "What's happening? Where am I?"
You didn't answer her. Instead, you raised your camera and took a couple of pictures, momentarily blinding the brat with the flash.
"Mister, I—!" Cecelia stammered, unable to find the words to convey her shock and awe. "I don't like this, mister. Can you p-please take me back to the m-medical room? Where are my clothes? My stomach feels weird…"
You were thankful you thought ahead and soundproofed this room. She could scream as much as she liked—no one was coming to save her. Even though she was only eight years old, she must have known that something was very, very wrong with this situation. She started panting, like she was trying to keep it together. Like she wanted to be a big girl and avoid crying. Oh, but you were going to make her cry, alright. She was going to cry for hours if you had anything to say and do about it—and her first clue was when you stepped over to the little brat, who scooted away from you nervously, and unzipped your pants.
"No!" Her exclamation was sudden and frightful. "No, please! I—I want to go back now!"
She wasn't going back. She wasn't going anywhere. You had this little bitch right where you wanted her; you couldn't get your pants and boxers off fast enough. Soon you were bottomless, and you climbed up onto the bed even as Cecelia struggled to crawl away from you.
Poor thing. It was almost too easy. She was too trusting; too slow. Frankly, she still couldn't believe that this was happening. Oh, but she changed her tune the second you grabbed her by the ankle and yanked her closer, damn near pulling her leg out of its socket.
Cecelia shrieked with all her might. "STOP! PLEASE! DON'T DO THIS!"
All you could do was laugh while you pried her legs apart and squeezed them tight, holding her down to the bed despite her fidgeting; her shaking, writhing panic. This was going to be the tightest squeeze of your life, and you figured it only made sense to prep the little bitch—at least a little. That was why you started things off by eating her out, prompting Cecelia's eyes to widen further, and she started crying as you flicked your tongue against her soft, hairless, eight-year-old cunny. The texture was just like you expected—delicate, almost gelatin-like with how warmth and give there was.
Cecelia begged for you to stop, but how could you stop now? You were just getting started, my friend. You used both thumbs to spread her pretty pink pussy lips apart, and you slathered your hot tongue against the half-angel's underdeveloped vulva.
Whatever you were doing, it seemed to influence little Cecelia's Sankta halo. Normally, it appeared "glitched" and downright broken. Now it had taken on a darker hue, and it caught your attention even as you ate her out; flicked your tongue against her too-small cunny and relished the taste of her kiddie flesh against your wet lips.
"STOP!" Cecilia cried, reaching down to pull your hair and to smack your head. "STOP, PLEASE! I DID NOTHING BAD!"
You were tempted to correct her on that front. After all, she seduced you—wiggling that ass of hers, sucking on that lollipop, always looking so innocent, yet so flirtatious. She was a special little girl, and if there was one thing you loved, it was special little girls.
You sucked and licked with reckless abandon, humming and moaning as you ran your tongue along the length of her little cunny, even teasing her inner thighs with your teeth like you were going to bite her. Tears streamed down her face as you used her and embarrassed her like this. There was nothing Cecelia could do as you had your way with her. She was just too weak, and she could barely fight back at all.
Once you were satisfied with her wetness, you decided to stretch her out a little by pushing a finger into her sopping wet snatch. Cecelia thrashed beneath you, damn near breaking your finger as she used all her might to wrench away from your body. Her displeasure couldn't be overstated, and her expression spelled fear and hatred for you.
You broke her trust.
Now it was time to break her body.
Her resistance was only making you harder, and you let out a low growl as you pinned her back to the mattress, dropping the weight of your massive adult cock over her poor little underaged body. The little half-angel hadn't even had her first period yet, but you were going to make her bleed—no two ways about it.
"Please," she begged, shaking her head so quickly you thought it might fly off her thin shoulders. "No! No, no, no! Please, mister, I—I won't tell anyone. I won't tell Folinic, I won't tell Papa," she added, sobbing.
Papa? Is that what she'd taken to calling her guardian Ezell? How precious.
. . .
How fucking infuriating.
Even now, she was thinking about the man who saved her. She should know better than to call another man her Papa while you were just about ready to deflower this little brat.
You told Cecelia to call you Papa instead.
She refused, of course, wailing and shaking and panting and trying oh-so hard to break free. You showed her what it meant to be broken when you forced your cock into her underaged pussy, pushing straight through her resistance and making her scream with pain; overwhelming, spine-tingling, head-pulsing pain.
Fuck, she was tighter than you thought. You could barely move your hips without pushing her entire body up the mattress, and when you pulled back, the rest of her came with you. It was like you speared the poor girl right through with your cock.
Without even looking down, the unmistakable wetness that leaked out made both your hearts race. It was blood, and Cecelia clenched her eyes shut as she pounded her fists against your chest and face, unable to even see you through her tears.
You didn't care. This already felt better than anything in this world. Whether you went to hell, or you went to prison, you didn't care. You were tasting the forbidden fruit. You were indulging in something so very wrong, but so very stimulating; so very exciting!
You groaned as you started pumping your hips back and forth, in and out, over and over again. The rhythm was steady and stern, and you were so mean; you didn't give Cecelia a chance to adjust to the way you invaded her underaged body with your adult cock. It served her right for screaming so much, you reasoned, and you held a hand over her throat while you slogged your bloodied shaft in and out of her torn little pussy.
"Please," she cried, whimpering, "no… no, no no, no, no… I d-didn't do anything wrong," she tried, sniffling, snotty, looking up at you. "I did nothing bad, mister, please… please stop, it hurts so much, it hurts so bad!"
You realized her blood was enough, eliminating the need for lube. You thrust as deeply and as roughly as you could, ignoring her pleading, her cries for help, her screaming—and, oh, how she screamed. How she tightened around you as you held her down and pushed your length deep inside her poorly prepared, ruined, underaged pussy. Almost shamefully, you knew you would not last much longer.
While in this position, you paid heed to the girl's armpits, raising one of her arms and burying your face in her damp, hairless pit. The aroma was intoxicating, and it spurred you to keep pumping your hips while you relished the smell of her underarms.
Smelling turned to tasting as you flicked your tongue against her armpit, cherishing the stench of her underarm and the slightly salty, slightly tangy taste of the sweat against her trembling skin. You switched arms in no time, rubbing your face against her other pit and drawing more cries of fear and shock from the little girl, who felt disgusted that she was being ruined in this way. All she could do was cry, hiccup, and beg for you to stop—even though you were close to busting your first load inside her tight little cunny.
With a few final thrusts, you buried yourself as deeply as possible inside of her, feeling the tightness, warmth, and wetness surround you. Cecelia shrieked as you made yourself at home in her womb, and you blasted her insides full of your hot, thick, putrid cum. A permanent stain in her womb and in her mind—one she'd never be rid of for as long as she would live.
You cursed as you let yourself go; as you emptied yourself into her. It was truly a pleasure unlike nothing else, and you leaned down to suckle on Cecelia's mosquito bite-sized nipples while she cried, and cried, and cried…
You rolled your tongue around the tiny, pink, barely-there bumps on her chest, slathering her chest in your warm saliva and staining her further, making a her feel like the most unclean girl on the planet. The poor brat wept beneath you as you handled her in this way, shuddering like she was cold, still begging for you to let her go. By now her throat was hoarse from all her screaming; she sounded even weaker and more pathetic than she already was, and it was a welcome change, because her screeching had become more than a little bothersome by now.
You told her you were going to pull out, and that was exactly what you did. You freed your stained cock—stained with white and red—and groaned from the sudden release of pressure. Another long string of cum burst from the tip of your fat dick and splattered between Cecelia's tits, making her look like even more of a gorgeous little toy for you to play with. Her little chest rose and fell with her heavy breathing; her cheeks were stained with tears, her eyes bloodshot.
"I hate you!" She cried. "I hate you so much… I want you to die…"
You smiled, bent over, then licked the tears from her cheeks. Cecelia looked down in horror at the absolute mess between her thighs, and the crying started up again when she saw just what you did to her. The stream of blood and cum that oozed from her broken pussy was a sight to behold, and if you had any ounce of shame left inside your body, you might have felt guilty that you were already hard again—ready to fuck Cecelia even harder than you just did.
You felt guilty, didn't you? Even just a little—for what you did to her? After all, you're the reason she doesn't speak anymore. Not to her friends, not to her doctors, not even to Ezell. It's a minor miracle that no one knows what really happened to her. No one except me, anyway—but not even I have all the details. Did you tear her vocal cords with your fat cock, or something? Well, maybe I don't have to know all the details. Life's better with a little mystery, after all.
Anyway, you weren't done treating her like the little onahole she was. You stretched her pussy to hell and back, spearing her on your cock with reckless abandon, first taking her missionary position, the bouncing her on your cock like she owed you money. Naturally, the screaming was so loud that it made your eardrums rattle, but help never came for little Cecelia—not then, not now. I'm not sure when she gave up altogether, but it must have been quite the shock for her to go quiet all at once. Her spirit was as broken as her underaged little body.
You ordered her to wrap her arms around your neck, and she complied. Maybe it was because you threatened Ezell, or maybe it was because you threatened to kill her, too. Did you mean what you said? Maybe it doesn't matter. You said it to her face, and you licked the tears from her cheeks; you bathed in her anguish; the utter despair you could see on her face, in her eyes, like an infection of her frail little bones.
So, she wrapped her arms around your neck, though she clenched her eyes shit while you bounced on her your cock, grunting and groaning and lancing her little pussy like she couldn't feel an ounce of pain. It was, of course, the most painful thing she'd ever felt in all her life—not that you cared. It was pleasure you were after, and as you and I both know, there's nothing more exciting, more titillating, more spine-tingling, and more toe-curling, than using someone whose age wasn't even in the double digits.
You picked up the pace before long, her petite hips slamming into yours only after you loosened her underaged body with your mighty thrusts and passionate railing. She kept her arms wrapped snugly around your neck, her broken halo even darker than it was before, though of course you couldn't hazard a guess why. You focused once again on her nipples and her armpits, dragging your tongue against her exposed flesh as you made her bounce up and down on your cock, your fingers grasping her waist so tightly you might have left finger marks on her skin. You were careful, however, to keep her body free of any external damage. The last thing you wanted was another doctor asking annoying questions, after all.
You slammed Cecelia down against your lap over and over again, grunting like a beast in heat while you railed her like this, and she cried out from the pain that echoed through her frail little frame, still teary-eyed, but no longer wailing like she was before. All her begging and crying fell on deaf ears. She wasn't even strong enough to fight back against you; clawing at your skin and face did nothing but agitate you further, and you choked the little bitch just for trying.
Her reward was another hot and heavy creampie, and you stuffed her pathetic little cunt full of your baby batter, unloading another torrent of your thick, sticky cream inside her punctured uterus—a uterus in an underdeveloped body that belonged to you thenceforth.
You tossed her aside after that one, leaving Cecelia to shake and shiver on the messy bedsheets beneath her ruined little body. Her eyes were half-closed and empty; you made her hopeless, and all it took was a few doses of drugs and a few hours of hard fucking. Sedatives were your best friend here; anything you could find in your office would do well to hide any bumps, bruises, what-have-you.
To cap things off for the night, little Cecelia was going to help you clean the mess you made together. You grabbed her by the chin and forced your cock into her mouth, and you ordered her to clean the bloodstains and cum stains with her tongue. You told her not to bite you, or else you were going to hurt all of Cecelia's friends so much worse. Did she really want Suzuran, Shamare, or Cuora to feel what she felt? To hurt as she hurt? Did she really want you to break them, too?
(That was a bit much, but the little twerp got the picture, didn't she?)
Having threatened the other little ones, Cecelia sobbed as she took your cock into her tiny, inexperienced mouth, and she did her absolute best to clean your dick quickly, having assumed the sooner she finished this, the sooner you would let her go.
Oh, and how adorably naïve she was. Cecelia was going to spend all night with you, whether she wanted it or not.
(And we both know she really didn't want it.)
She gagged and spat up as she tried her hardest to clean your dick with her lips and tongue. She was a novice now, sure, but you'd change that in due time. For now, you relished her expression of disgust while she lapped at your twitching rod and drank down the residue that clung to your still-hard dick.
You put your hand on the back of her head and started pumping. Cecelia gagged and nearly vomited from the sheer force of your oral abuse, though perhaps fortunately(?) for her, you were already about to blow another load.
I'll always appreciate that photo you took for me, my friend. When you pulled your fat cock out of her throat and coated her crying face with your pearly white seed. She looked so pathetic. She looked so beautiful. I have to admit; she looks gorgeous with her face covered in cum. Even if she doesn't talk so much anymore, and even if she struggles to open up to others… well, I'm sure we can think of something, my friend. We always do.
Cecelia La Porta flinches when she sees a white lab coat. She casts her eyes to the ground; doesn't play with her friends; doesn't share secrets with her guardian. He's heartbroken. At a loss. He doesn't know what to do, or what's gone wrong.
And little Cecelia? Little Cecelia won't ever tell. You made it clear what would happen if she ever told anybody what you did to her frail little body back in September; what you did to this poor girl who was only eight years old when you sank your dirty claws into her sweet, supple flesh; when you pried this innocent little girl wide open to fill her tiny, pliable body with your raging lust and your scalding, bittersweet ichor.
And if little Cecelia should ever dare to forget? All she has to do is look in the mirror. All she has to do is look at her brand new halo—a black, thorned thing, mangled and ugly and broken. A rotten, ugly halo to match how she felt on the inside, and how she'll feel forevermore.