Caught in Time
Copyright© 2025 by SpankLord40k
Chapter 5
Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 5 - Elara must endure a brutal, endless cycle of humiliation, trapped in a nightmare orchestrated by the people around her. Their cruelty, fueled by a mysterious curse that binds them all. But a subtle change suggests that this cycle may finally be broken. This story weaves together multiple universes, parallel realities, magic, and harrowing themes such as sexual violence and brutal punishment. This is my first ever story, so bear with me and enjoy. Note that this story builds up slow.
Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Teenagers NonConsensual Rape Slavery Heterosexual Fiction Horror School Science Fiction Time Travel Paranormal Magic Incest Mother BDSM DomSub MaleDom FemaleDom Humiliation Rough Sadistic Spanking Torture Gang Bang Group Sex Orgy Black Male White Male White Female Anal Sex Cream Pie Double Penetration First Facial Fisting Masturbation Oral Sex Sex Toys Squirting Tit-Fucking Water Sports Body Modification Public Sex Teacher/Student Nudism Revenge AI Generated
Big thanks to CaptainPig for helping me polish this story!
The drive home from the clinic was a silent, suffocating journey into a new hell. Elara sat trembling, her body still throbbing from the brutal invasion, her mind reeling from the impossible reality of Dr. Schmidt. But it was her mother’s final words, “From now on, Elara, you will be treated exactly like one,” that echoed loudest, a chilling prophecy of her new existence.
As Vivienne pulled into the driveway of their meticulously kept house, Elara felt a wave of icy dread. This was no longer her home; it was a cage, and she was about to be remade.
The moment they stepped through the front door, Vivienne’s demeanor shifted. The cold, clinical detachment evaporated, replaced by a predatory gleam in her eyes. “Into your room, Elara,” she commanded, her voice sharp, dismissive. “And discard those drab, innocent clothes. They no longer suit you.”
Elara numbly obeyed, her legs still unsteady beneath her. She walked into her room, the familiar space now feeling alien, contaminated. Before she could even fully comprehend what was happening, Vivienne followed her in, a large, ornate pair of shears clutched in her hand.
“We are starting anew, Elara,” Vivienne declared, her voice almost gleeful. “You wish to be a slut? Very well. We shall craft the perfect one.”
Before Elara could protest, Vivienne grabbed a handful of Elara’s dark, unruly hair. SNIP! The shears cut through it with a brutal, satisfying crunch. Elara gasped, a cry of shock escaping her lips as clumps of her hair fell to the floor. Vivienne worked quickly, efficiently, her movements precise and ruthless. Elara watched, horrified, as her long, beloved hair, a small comfort in her life, was savagely hacked away, transformed into a choppy, uneven mess that barely skimmed her shoulders.
“There,” Vivienne said, stepping back, surveying her handiwork with a critical eye. “Much better. Less ... demure. More ... accessible.”
Next, Vivienne turned her attention to Elara’s wardrobe. She ripped through the hangers, pulling out blouses, modest skirts, comfortable jeans. “This is all going,” she announced, tearing a favored sweater with a vicious rip. “No more hiding that body. No more pretending you are something you are not.”
Vivienne then produced a pile of clothes Elara had never seen before: impossibly short skirts, impossibly tight tops, blouses that left little to the imagination, and dresses cut so low and so high they were barely decent. The fabrics were cheap, synthetic, designed to cling and reveal. “These are your new clothes, Elara. Every outfit will be selected to highlight your ... assets. To attract the gaze. To provoke.”
The next few hours were a horrifying blur of forced transformation. Vivienne pulled Elara into the bathroom, where she applied layers of heavy, garish makeup: bright red lipstick, thick eyeliner, shimmering eyeshadow. Her face, once a canvas of quiet intensity, was now a painted mask, a vulgar caricature. Vivienne even produced a bottle of cheap, sickly sweet perfume, dousing Elara in it until she felt nauseous.
“This is how a slut presents herself, Elara,” Vivienne lectured, her fingers tracing Elara’s newly painted lips. “Bold. Obvious. Demanding attention. You will learn to enjoy the stares, to crave the desire you ignite.”
But the transformation wasn’t just external. It was behavioral. Vivienne sat Elara down, forcing her to look through glossy fashion magazines and endless social media feeds of scantily clad influencers. “Observe, Elara,” Vivienne commanded, pointing at a photograph of a woman posing provocatively. “See the way she holds herself? The jut of the hip. The pout of the lips. The vacant, inviting stare. This is your new posture. This is your new expression.”
Elara was made to practice. Pouting in the mirror. Arching her back in exaggerated ways. Walking with a deliberate sway. If she failed, if she reverted to her natural shyness, Vivienne’s hand would lash out, a stinging slap to her cheek or a sharp pinch to her arm.
Then came the language. “From now on, Elara, you will speak like the slut you are. No more polite requests. No more intellectual ramblings. Your language will be direct. Suggestive. Coarse, if necessary. You will embrace the vernacular of your chosen lifestyle.”
Vivienne drilled her. “Say, ‘Hey, boys, checking out the goods?’”
Elara hesitated, her face burning. “Mom, I can’t...”
SMACK! Vivienne’s hand connected sharply with Elara’s cheek. “You can and you will! Say it! Right now!”
Tears welled in Elara’s eyes, but she knew better than to resist. “Hey ... hey, boys,” she choked out, her voice trembling, “checking out the ... the goods?”
“Louder! With more confidence! More inviting!” SMACK!
Elara repeated it, louder, her voice laced with pain and humiliation, until Vivienne was satisfied. Every single sentence Elara uttered now had to be filtered through this new, debasing persona. If she spoke normally, if she used a word that was too complex or too innocent, she would be punished. Vivienne would strike her, pinch her, or worse, threaten another session with the hairbrush.
All her beloved books, her treasured history texts, her scientific journals – Vivienne gathered them all and locked them away in a cupboard, out of reach. “These are distractions,” Vivienne declared, surveying the now-bare shelves. “Sluts do not need knowledge. They need to attract. To entice. To be looked at, not to think.” Elara’s existence was now to be solely focused on superficiality, on physical presentation, on attracting attention.
School on Thursday morning was a brutal extension of her new reality. Elara was forced into an impossibly short denim skirt, a tight, low-cut halter top that exposed her midriff, and a pair of cheap, high-heeled sandals. Her newly chopped hair was styled to look messy, provocative, and her face was heavily made up, plastered with the same garish colors Vivienne had applied. She looked utterly unlike herself, a stranger staring back from the mirror. Vivienne stood over her, scrutinizing her appearance. “Perfect,” she murmured, a chilling satisfaction in her eyes. “Now, go. And remember your lessons.”
The moment Elara stepped out of the car at the school gates, she felt the eyes. All of them. Not just whispers this time, but outright stares, catcalls, whistles. Her heart pounded, a frantic drum against her ribs. Every step in the unfamiliar heels was precarious, making her sway awkwardly, but Vivienne had insisted she learn to walk in them.
As Vivienne pulled away from the curb, Elara stepped out, bracing herself for the inevitable stares and whispers. She moved slowly, consciously exaggerating the sway in her hips, as instructed. The moment the car was out of sight, a desperate impulse seized her. She couldn’t face the day, the looks, the boys, not like this. She needed to feel like herself, just for a moment. Her makeup felt like a heavy, suffocating mask.
She made a beeline for the girls’ bathroom, ignoring the catcalls and whistles that followed her. The minute she was inside, she hurried to the sinks, twisting on the cold water. She ripped off handfuls of paper towels and began to furiously scrub her face, trying to erase the garish lipstick, the heavy eyeliner, the layers of shame plastered onto her skin. She scrubbed until her face was raw and red, her natural complexion emerging, albeit blotchy and tear-streaked. She took a deep, shaky breath, a sliver of desperate hope flickering.
“Well, well, well. Look what we have here.”
Elara froze. The voice, cold and laced with cruel amusement, belonged to Brittany. Elara’s blood ran cold. She slowly turned, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Brittany stood leaning against the doorframe, a predatory smile slowly spreading across her face. Chad and Marcus were nowhere in sight. Just Brittany, her eyes glinting with a chilling satisfaction. She pushed off the doorframe, walking slowly towards Elara, her gaze sweeping over Elara’s raw, scrubbed face.
“Trying to wash off the slut, Elara?” Brittany purred, stopping directly in front of her. “That’s not very obedient, is it?”
Elara swallowed hard, her voice trembling. “Brittany, please. Just ... leave me alone.”
Brittany’s smile widened, revealing a flash of perfectly white teeth. “Oh, ‘Brittany, please’? Is that how you address me now, Elara? Tsk, tsk. Someone’s forgotten her lessons already. Your mother will be so disappointed.”
Before Elara could react, Brittany’s hand shot out. SMACK! A sharp, open-handed slap connected with Elara’s left cheek, hard enough to snap her head to the side. The sting was immediate, blinding. Elara cried out, a small, choked sob.
SMACK! Another blow, this time to her right cheek, the force pushing her head back. Elara stumbled back against the cold, tiled wall of a bathroom stall. Her cheek burned, a fiery agony spreading across her face.
SMACK! A third, brutal slap, directly across her nose, making her eyes water and a faint trickle of blood appear at her nostril. Elara whimpered, pressing herself against the wall, trapped.
“That,” Brittany said, her voice dangerously soft, leaning close, her eyes glittering with malicious glee, “is for trying to deny your new purpose. For trying to revert to the pathetic little bookworm you once were. Your mother and I had a lovely little chat. A very productive chat.”
Elara stared at her, tears blurring her vision, unable to comprehend. “My ... my mother?”
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