You will want to have read previous episodes in this series to make the most of this.
This story contains a scene with a sharp knife. No real harm is done but the psychology is intense and disturbing. Please don’t read this unless you want to.
It takes her a long while to respond. He doesn’t mind. Watching her is a pleasure in itself. The many small quivers that pass across her body, small adjustments that she makes, awkwardly, are evidence enough that she is not stalling, but working on herself.
Gratifying. Once again, he has to restrain his powerful urge to simply throw her down and fuck her. His cock is throbbing with hardness in a way he can hardly remember experiencing before — decades, at least. But he’s survived years without such simple release. He can be patient. Now … now, there is more to play for.
The girl’s response to what he’s put her through has exceeded his hopes. Perhaps he can do more, more than he had dared to imagine with her, so pliable, so willing does she seem.
He had been watching her, from the hallway, the whole time — the door not fully closed, watching and waiting, expecting to have to appear, as if through perfect foresight, at the point where she began to choke, or to lose control of herself, or that she had had enough, and began to take the bottle from her mouth herself.
She would either have apologised for her failure, or been unable to contain distress or outrage. He planned to be tolerant, understanding, merciful, kind, however it had ended; helping her to leave for the alternate accommodation he had arranged for her in the latter case, being strong for both of them as he enforced her departure. If, on the other hand, she had apologised, expressed contrition, he would have told her that he had set her up to fail, that he did not assume that any other outcome had been possible, worked to calm her down and then had her tell him how she felt. Again, this could have gone two ways, but he had always assumed that it was likely she would not prove herself strong enough for him to take the risk of allowing her to stay.
In the event, she had proven herself committed beyond all expectation, and he had waited as long as he dared before relieving her, almost spellbound by the sight of her, struggling with the weight of the bottle, which had worked its way ever more deeply into her soft throat. When he had gone back to her, far from talking her down, he had been seized by a desire to test her further, and done something unplanned — something that shocked him with its cruelty — getting so close to her that she must feel his presence, and yet offering her nothing.
His throat had thickened with desire — desire to fuck her, or simply to hurt her, he couldn’t tell, but he had to clamp his jaw, hard, to maintain the necessary control. She was standing there, right next to him, all but naked, trembling, moaning helplessly past the bottle, clearly terribly stressed but in perfect compliance, totally vulnerable, suffering for him, simply because he had asked her to — suffering to prove herself worthy of being subjected to more suffering.
Part of him had been seriously concerned at her ability to continue to manage the weight of the bottle, so obscenely lodged in her throat, now. That it could perhaps have done her serious damage if she had lost control.
But I’m going to damage her. I want to damage her. I must be able to damage her. She has told me I can damage her. ‘All of it’, she had said; ‘whatever’, she had said.
And then it had hit him;
I am, really, going to hurt her. Hurt this girl, this sweet, soft, lovely girl, who is so foolishly trusting of me, who says I make her feel safe …
If I do this thing — if I carry it through … I’m going to hurt her. Hurt her badly. Make her scream. Look in her eyes and tell her I’m going to hurt her, then look in her eyes as I do it, then look in her eyes afterwards. And If I’m right, then I’ll enjoy it. It will make me hard, and then I’ll fuck her, while she’s still crying — and I’ll enjoy it more because it’s hurting her and shaming her that she has let me degrade her. If I can’t accept that about myself, what am I doing?
Is that right? Will I? Can I really do this?
Because only if I can do it and still maintain control, really maintain control — of myself, of her, of the fallout, of the aftermath, of the implications — only if I can, with all that, still keep her safe, still make her feel safe, will this be anything other than dreadful selfish cruelty.
And even if I can convince myself that I am keeping her safe, even while I hurt her, even while I degrade her, I don’t have to do it. Doing it cannot but damage her. Not just physically, but mentally. I want to reduce her, take her down until she is almost all gone — nothing left but a fuck dolly. Can I do that? Can I really?
Does the idea of taking care of her even mean anything? If I do any of this, under any circumstances, is it anything less than evil? Anything other than the taking of someone else’s life, simply because I want to? Her offering herself is no excuse, is it? She has no idea — no idea at all — of what she is really offering herself up to.
If I do this, then she becomes my responsibility. 100%. I will have to care for her, even as I diminish her.
Can I do that?
And then his body had made the decision for him; his hand, pushing into her groin, had taken possession of her sex, exploring the contours of her pussy through the thin panties, pressing hard, without the slightest kindness or care, only greed driving him — only desire — not so much sexual, as to communicate to her, powerfully, that he considered it his absolute right to play with this most intimate part of her, even if she was in the midst of some other torment inflicted by him.
And she? She had reacted strongly — he had felt her jerk as if struck by lightning, but she had not broken her pose. More, he had found her intoxicatingly, warm and moist, there. He had felt the surge at her hips as her body moved for him, trembling, taut, urgent, needy, felt her open herself to him, rather than shrink away, or seek to clench her thighs — to deny him access. She had encouraged him to make free with her, and it was undeniable between them that she had done so.
And that was it, then; the decision was made — had been made for them both, by that act; by her response to it. She was his, for good or ill, whether it was evil or not. His to destroy, his to keep safe. He wanted to do both. He would do both, somehow. Or, more likely, he’d fail; but it didn’t matter — there was nothing now that could stop him from doing this to her.
It was too late. He was lost; she was lost. They were lost together. But it was he who must take charge. He who must allow her to become — require her to become — nothing. Nothing, at least, but her body, and her cello playing.
For he had promised himself that he would respect that — respect the only thing that had sustained her through her troubled life path. Whatever he might do to her, whatever he might require of her, he would not compromise on that.
But apart from that, he knew that here was no stopping him, now; knew it in his gut. He would manage her, to be sure; and manage himself, too. He was in control, but he would brook no trivial resistance now. She was his. She had given herself to him, and the animal within him would have her.
He acted decisively then; time to move her on.
He managed her as he withdrew the bottle from her throat, seeing how deeply it affected her, seeing the torrent of emotion unleashed in her as the threat was removed, as any possible excuse for compliance — the fear of what the bottle could do to her — was removed. Seeing how hard it was for her to swallow that emotion, internalise it, accept it, suffering the reaction herself, rather than screaming her distress at him.
She was suffering for him, near naked, right there; taking it as prettily as she could. Voluntarily. His jaw set as his heart raced.
Christ he was fucking doing it. Taking her down. Owning her. And she was going with it. Wanting it, even.
Strange, how similar, in some ways their experiences must be, he recognised — except that she, she had only herself to manage, while he had to have both of them at all times under review.
For it took all he had to control himself then, too, when all he wanted to do was to take that distress of hers and multiply it, double down on it, demand more, impose more, rape her, right there, on the floor, as he now had every right to do. As he had assumed the right to do, on his own recognisance of total responsibility for her from now on.
Responsibility for his property.
But still … still, he knew it was not yet time — that these first stages must not be rushed — that they were precious, each moment unique, irrecoverable, that he would enjoy her more if he took it slowly, savouring her slow realisation of just how far he meant to take her.
Too, selfishly, he recognised that he must pace himself if he was not to smash her to pieces, find himself with nothing but a ruined husk of a girl in a matter of weeks.
His demons had smelt blood, they were not to be denied, but they could still be kept on a tight leash.
He settled himself in his armchair, making himself wait, making her wait, too, holding her degrading position in the corner, letting her understand that, without an explicit order from him, she must see herself, must experience herself as in stasis — her feelings, desires, needs, all irrelevant; simply having to hold herself, awaiting his pleasure.
He’s intoxicated, and unnerved at the same time. This is such a dangerous thing to do.
Dangerous for him, dangerous for her. And he knows that he can’t, he won’t let it be some role-play game, some lifestyle kinkiness.
She must know that she is no longer her own person. He must know that he owns her life.
The weight of these thoughts takes the heat off his arousal, and he calls to her to come, to kneel again for him. He wants to hear from her.
The thought occurs to him that she might, now, after that experience, say that she’s changed her mind. That she wants to leave. That he has offered her this option, explicitly. His mouth forms into a feral grin. It’s not going to happen. He felt her; he smelt her, just now. He knows.
And this realisation makes everything fit. She’s a fit for him, this one. However strange, however unlikely. This isn’t a matter of being evil, of taking advantage. It’s fate. Each of them keeps pushing the other past some sticking point, until between them they have attained such a degree of momentum that nothing, nothing, can stop this.
She is clearly overcome by shyness, by uncertainty about her body, about her sexual attractiveness, perhaps. She is almost pathetic, as she kneels, in her cheap but slightly fancy underwear, terribly self conscious as she moves her knees apart, and than further apart, blushing, breathing ragged, flushed, unable to look him in the eye, making a mess of choosing how to have her hands, dangling them at first, but finding they bash on the sofa behind her, then eventually remembering she has the option of folding them behind her, and doing that with very evident relief, quickly replaced by nerves as she realises how disempowering this is, her breathing out of control for a few seconds, noisy on the inhale and exhale.
Is she becoming hysterical? — he doesn’t know — and finds himself not caring.
It’s not that he’s being cool, affecting not to be disturbed — as he had been at times earlier in the afternoon. No, they’ve moved beyond that. He doesn’t care, because he’s in charge, now. He’s assumed control. If she has hysterics, he can choose to permit them, or stop them. If he wishes, he’ll slap her until she calms down. Or, if it’s entertaining, he’ll watch, amused. Either way, she’s his, and he loves the sight of her in distress, chest heaving, breasts swelling, belly taughtening, lips working. She keeps her arms tight crossed behind her — her legs never begin to close themselves — just as, earlier, she had held herself open even when his hand between her legs had shocked her so. She is already his, already making herself his. His by right. Offering herself up to him, opening herself for him, again and again.
She has calmed herself it seems, breathing slows, back straightens. She shifts her knees just a little further apart. A naturally modest girl, here she is, making herself into a whore for him, even though it shames her.
“Look at me, pretty. Show me your face, now that you are presenting yourself so nicely.”
“Good. Now, listen; I expressed an interest in what you might have to say, just now. But it no longer matters. I’ve made a decision, and that decision means that whatever you might have to say will make no difference, so that there is no longer any need for you to speak.”
He watches her face. Her eyes dare to meet his only occasionally, shifting weakly from point to point. Oddly, from her expression, it might be thought that she knows what he is about to say; that it is something she is looking forward to hearing.
“I’ve decided to keep you. It doesn’t matter to me, any more, what you might think of this. I will keep you, and I’ll do what I want with you, and you will be prettily and sweetly compliant, if you don’t want to be forced and punished into pretty and sweet compliance.”
He pauses, just for a second, and sees her visibly relax. It’s not that she slumps, or loses the intense concentration of her presentation, but rather that her pose loses all its contradictions. She’s no longer having to work to hold herself in a way that she hopes he will find attractive, but that her body is, simply, willingly, offering itself to him as hard as it can.
She’s going to be lucky not to wake up very sore indeed tomorrow, at this rate. Him too, in all likelihood, he thinks, ruing his long, hopeless celibacy.
He needs to tell her more, now, before things proceed;
“There’s only one other thing you really need to know, right now, which is this: I will not compromise on your cello playing — not your musical ambitions, or your career ambitions. If anything I demand of you seems likely to do such a thing, you are to tell me at once. The word ‘Cello’ will stop me, and I will reconsider.”
At this, she cries — just a few tears, and her face does not crumple, but her lips tremble and she is blinking rapidly. It seems she has been steeling herself for the end of her cello-playing days, and that this is heard as a boon, rather than as something she took for granted. Although this is a commitment he made for his own reasons, and not as any sort of manipulation or concession, it amuses him that it has perhaps had the same effects as if he had. His confidence is rising all the time, and suddenly he knows what he is going to risk next;
“Go to the kitchen, please, and come back with the Japanese knife.”
There is only one, and she has never been allowed to use it, one of his few special possessions. It’s a work of art, kept lethally sharp; she looks up, startled, whitening, but he’s impassive, and, after a few seconds, she clearly gives up trying to discover what she thinks about this, shakes her head a little, and, gracefully enough, rises and leaves the room, to return almost immediately, holding — with some little display of respect — the knife, in its charcoal-grey fabric wrap.
He has cleared the low table while she was gone, and now, taking the knife from her, he asks her — in perfectly normal tones — will she kneel onto its thick glass top?
Again, she hesitates only tinily before complying, although she is beginning to show signs of nervousness now. He taps one inner thigh, very gently, casually, all that is needed to remind her to make more effort to spread her legs, having to bite her lip to do it with him so close, with the unknown promise of the knife in her mind.
“Lean over backward, now, right back. Good. You can tuck your hands in under your back, now — hold the opposite elbows tight. Good. Now I’m going to show you how I’m going to ruin all your underwear — the pieces we’ll keep, at least. Keep still, if you want. Or flinch if you want to be cut.”
And without a pause, he pulls the crotch of her panties out, away from her skin; two soft, sighing noises and, quivering now, not sure if she is terrified or exhilarated, she feels cool air on her still damp sex.
“Up with your buttocks now, arch your body up off the table — high as you can.”
The movement spreads her sex even more widely, and she sucks in a breath at the thought of doing this with his head so close to her, but there’s nothing to do but obey. He reaches under her, and two more cuts change the feel of her panties completely — reduced to just a waistband with scraps of fabric dangling, as far as she can guess.
“Relax now, girly — bum down. We’ll look at your pretty little cunt tomorrow — see about shaping these curls to bring proper attention to it.”
Now his hand is at her left breast, lifting the slinky fabric away from her flesh; deft, swift cuts again, and now there is a triangle of fabric missing from the upper part of the brassiere cup , and he’s on to the other side, doing the same, so that the each breast is now cupped below the nipple, but free from there up — lifted and shaped by the bra, but otherwise exposed.
With ten strokes of his blade, he’s transformed a pretty but ordinary enough bra and pantie set into an explicitly eye-catching ‘fuck me’ costume for a degraded slut.
She’s quivering heavily now, her belly rising and falling. Her nipples are hard, and her sex is blushing hotly as her breath judders, frightened and aroused both; unable, now, to resolve the wild mess inside her of clashing emotions, impossible to know what she actually feels — save that she is awash with intensity of feeling — raw, inchoate feeling; lost in his power, enmeshed, at his mercy, glorious and shaming; more urgently alive than she has ever felt in her life, completely unsure whether this is good or bad. Not caring; unable to do more than experience being this thing. This creature, which has no ideas of its own, which is entirely dependent upon his will.
The silence proves to her just how lost she is — for, despite the agony of waiting, the fear induced by the knife, the discomfort, the wanton shamefulness of the position, despite her terrible vulnerability, the raw urgency of the demands in her mind that she revisit the terrible experience of the bottle, the explosion of sexual heat in her groin when he had touched her sex, despite all the other million questions raised by the last half an hour, she can do nothing except wait — no thoughts, nothing – only waiting, straining to hear his breathing, to guess where he is, to consider, as if her life depends upon it, whether her knees are far enough apart, ber crotch thrust up as far as she can make it go, her arms tightly enough wedged into the small of her back.
And to wait.
It’s no better when he speaks. Just different. Gratitude, now — just to have words addressed to her feels like a precious gift — but also rising fear. For now he’s going to start actually doing things to her. Things she will let him do. Things that her body will respond to — her body — freed as it seems to have been of all notions of decency, of modesty, of restraint — her body which is so determined to offer itself to him, wholesale, without thought for the cost, just to feel — just to be used. So grateful to be useful to him.
“We’re going to play a game now. A game called ‘Paper-cuts’. It goes like this. I hold the knife — the sharp edge — ever so, ever so gently, against some part of your lovely body. Then it’s your turn; your job is to move, just a little, just a tiny bit, just until you feel a little, smooth warmth; that will be a paper-cut size slit in your skin — tiny, but real. You’ll have cut yourself on my knife, for my entertainment.”
“And then it’s my turn again, and I choose another place. Then it’s your turn again, and so it goes.”
“There’s only one other rule, but it’s an important one — otherwise the game might never end. There is a game like this, which has no end, by the way, but it’s a deathly game — one of the famous Chinese tortures — the ‘Death of a Thousand Cuts’. But we’re playing the fun version, where you get to choose when to stop. You do this by intentionally moving a little harder, a little faster — not much — just a little will be enough to end the game — by giving yourself a real cut — one which bleeds freely.”
“Do you understand, now? Just paper-cuts — little nothings which will smart a little, sting sometimes, maybe, but be forgotten this time tomorrow. Then, to stop the game, just a little cut that bleeds. And then I’ll rape you.”
She cannot manage anything beyond a loud whimper, it seems, but there is no stiffness in her, no resistance, no relaxation of her grip on her elbows — just an intensification of the quivers that pass across her body, and a shallowing of her breathing.
“Now, of course, the temptation might be to get yourself properly cut on the first round, but that wouldn’t be any fun at all, so the first three rounds happen anyway, no matter what. Let’s start with an easy one …”
The cool knife blade touches down, so softly it is barely noticeable, on her inner thigh, on the right, a matter of inches below the join of her legs — close enough to her opened sex to make her shiver in alarm. He pulls the blade back;
“Easy now, pretty. Easy. Remember how sharp this thing is — one big movement and we could open an artery. Control yourself, lovely girl. It’s a cruel game, to be sure, but it’s just a game.”
He brings the blade back to the spot, and, not daring to wait, lest she lose her nerve, she moves, just a little, pressing herself, just a little, and;
“Ah! Aaie!”
“Just so — the first taste of blood. You can be much gentler than that pretty — that would be a game-ending cut, if it wasn’t now. You hardly have to move at all, remember — just until you feel the tiniest heat — that’s enough.”
“Let’s test your ability to learn, a little, shall we? Somewhere more fun.”
The blade comes now to her left breast, an inch or so below the nipple, running horizontally.
“Such a pretty sight! Gently now — gently — just a sting. There — that’s it! Done!”
“That’s right, you can’t even feel it now, can you? I guarantee, though, that it is there — a little lemon juice there would make you jump, believe me!”
“Time for number three. Let’s not leave this other lovely titty all left out. It’s just as pretty, and just as deserving of attention. but now the stakes are higher.”
And the knife is placed, vertically now, right on to the taut nipple, bringing a strangled gasp.
“Calm now, pretty, control yourself. Just a tiny … There! Brave girl, that’s it! Sore, that one, I imagine. Let’s see…”
And he leans over to take the stiff bud into his hot mouth, and she cries out at the intensity of it — not so much the sting — although it is sharp, but the emotional overload of it all, the increasing reality that he is going to be fucking her, fucking her without any context at all of a loving relationship — whatever the feeling she had had earlier has faded — and to be told she is to be raped has transfixed her imagination, even through this impossibly transgressive ‘game’ with the knife …
Not that she is not aroused — she hasn’t been so wound up since she can remember, but it’s just — just so very, very far from any idea about the few times when she has let men touch her, have sex with her before, that she is horribly confused. His mouth on her nipple is astonishing; electric, galvanising, and when it’s gone she wants it back — even at the cost of another cut.
But the knife has moved on, now, and she has to restrain herself strenuously not to over-react as she had with the first, as he has laid the blade in the crease of her sex, gently, gently, so that she can feel it touching, touching so lightly that it might almost not be there, but touching all the same, at the lower join of her labia.
It is hard — terribly, terribly hard, not to twist away, shout at him — No!, but she lets a beat go by, and then another one, and then another — and then she knows she is going to do it; trembling uncontrollably, moving almost without moving, needing to show him, prove herself again, she presses her sex upward and inward — and feels the warmth of it — knows that the knife is cutting her — at her sex, shaming her, but at the same time glorious in its infamy. As she emits a low wail — freighted with intense emotion which could be any of pain, sadness, fear, arousal, despair, even joy, without it being clear which, the thought sears into her; He has cut my pussy with a knife. I made him do it. That will always be between us, now. Always.
She is almost sobbing with emotion, now, unable to decide whether she is happy or sad, grateful or appalled, but he has simply moved on, and now a new and heart-stopping challenge forces her to move on, too; for he has grasped the meat of her tongue with his free hand and pulled it out of her mouth, so that he can, gently, unwaveringly, line the terrible blade up, horizontally, with the end of her tongue.
“This is the one to go for blood with, pretty — although it will hurt like hell. It will heal fast, without scarring, and, too, it will help you remember that your mouth is not for talking with, any more — at least not principally — your mouth is for me — for my mouth — for my cock, too, for my fingers, for my knife if I decide … Take my advice, lovely girl, do it this time, because I may not be able to stop myself from taking you beyond a limit if you don’t.”
She is trembling, terrified, but astonished to experience nothing inside her that can challenge her soft but determined wish to please him, to be what he wants her to be.
She has spent weeks imagining violent and perverse sexual assaults, crude whippings and spankings — the stuff of crappy B-movies and bad porn — but nothing this sophisticated, this formalistic, this intimate and personal, nothing combining this intensity — working with him to help him cut her with a lethally sharp knife, in her softest and most sensitive erogenous zones — with this level of care and — bizarrely — gentleness.
For he has used no force, he has moved slowly, he has been extraordinarily careful, steadying her when she has trembled, making certain that her over-reactions have not brought disaster and — most amazingly — she has suffered almost no pain. Knife notwithstanding, almost everything that has happened in the last minutes has happened inside her mind; what she has been wrestling with there has had a thousand times more impact than these almost imperceptible grazes. Sting as they might, she knows that the tiny cuts will be gone in a day or so; while she is certain that she will remember these few minutes with extraordinary clarity for the rest of her life. That for good or ill, she will never forget this, that he gave her this memory, this astonishing experience. Never.
Almost happily, then, flexing her body — somehow relaxed again — she slides her tongue, sideways across the razor edge he has presented to her — feeling the pain, feeling the almost electric tang of iron reacting with the small, sudden flood of blood into her mouth — and feels it cut into her, that noise coming from her again, stronger now, almost triumphant, grateful, happy now, and when he kisses her, and it hurts, really hurts, she opens herself to him — opens her thighs to his hand at her sex, too, arches her back for him, offers herself to him, helplessly, knowing there is no way back for her now — not without pursuing this wild madness to wherever it may lead her, because it is like nothing, nothing she has ever known — even tasting of blood and pain, it is like the sweetest cool water of a hillside stream after climbing in the hot sun — her whole body welcomes it, as if realising for the first time what water is, having been dying of thirst her whole life.
She wants to hold him, release her arms from behind her back, and grab him, hold him tight to her, let him know how precious this experience is to her, but she knows she cannot.
Frightening he may be, savage he may be, cruel even — certainly unafraid to cause her fear and pain and real, physical harm — but she sees him as a timid deer, suddenly — his repeated attempts to make her leave not just (perhaps not at all?) care for her, but fear — fear of what — she’s not sure, but she knows that should she try to hold him now, there will be a strong reaction — and that, even if this reaction is calm, measured, forceful — even if he should treat it as disobedience — however it might play out — there will be that in him which has been frightened.
Her passivity, then, her self control, her voluntary limiting of what she can express to him, is not just something he wants, it is something she wants to practice. Practice for him — to hide the intensity of her feeling for him — whatever it consists of. Because to be made to leave now would be terrible.
It’s hard, this, but she wants to be good at it, good for him, with an urgency that grips her fiercely, inside.
And so she responds to his kiss by opening herself, softening herself, inviting, but not imposing or demanding, trying to let him know with her body that she wants him to enjoy her, to make of her what he wishes her to be.
And perhaps she manages to convey something of this to him, for, almost speaking to himself, in a low and incoherent growl, he says;
“This was going to wait, you gorgeous fucking cunt, but you’re not getting off so lightly, after all.”
Up on his knees beside the table, he manhandles her, impatient, hurting her, uncaring, swivelling her on the smooth top — she, confused, uncertain, yelping in surprise, doing what she hopes he wants, re-establishing her pose in this new orientation — her head now close to him, although she is facing away from him as she lies there, heart pattering, belly tight, fearful but committed to accepting whatever it is — happy, once the wrenching is done, to realise that he is inflamed — sexually inflamed — for her. For the mousy cello girl that no-one ever even wolf-whistled at.
He’s growling again;
“You’ll learn to take it deep, but I’m not waiting for that. I said I would rape you, and I will — but your throat, pretty girl, not your pussy. This is going to be awful, perhaps, for you, but I haven’t fucked a woman for a decade or more and I probably will shoot my load quickly — after that, I’ll go again, in your arse, and that will be awful for you — hurt you badly — and there’s no stopping me, not now, so you’d better do what you can to relax through all of this.”
He had been going to take it gradually — he really had — but she … she has been so … so helplessly inviting, at every stage, that now he won’t stop. He has ceased to be able to plan. She is here, hot, open, offering herself, so soft, so compliant, so eager, that he’s just going to do her, ravage her, get rid of this thing that is like rage inside him that requires wildness to be released, and not bottle it up any more.
Improvising, he cuts strips from a small table mat, rolls the thick fabric up into a fat sausage, which he cuts in two with the knife, then wedges one part into each side of her mouth, jammed in between the rear-most molars, dry fabric sucking the moisture from her gums, her inner cheeks, so that the wads are quickly set, as if glued in place, jamming her jaws open; and then he’s at her, almost immediately, something she’s never felt before — never done before — a man’s cock is in her mouth — coming at her as if from behind, from above her, having pulled her back so that her head lolls off the edge of the table — it taking all her will power, all the remembered promise to herself of docility, to keep her arms behind her back, not to fight him off, not to turn her head away, not to try to bite him as the terrible shock of him plunging himself directly into her throat assails her, convulses her, electrocutes her.
Her belly arcs upward again — not so much offering herself this time, but perforce doing whatever she can to ease his passage into her, responding to the force he’s using, his hands, having reached over her body and hooked themselves under her knees, pulling her body back onto him, even as his hips thrust into her face — he’s literally fucking her face, jackrabbiting, rapid, grunting thrusts, louder and louder and she hears his climax coming — as quickly as he had suggested it might, and is then appalled by the flood of hot, salty, sticky stuff, tasting like nothing she has ever tasted before, strong, animal, filling her mouth, her throat, now her nose, her whole body racked with convulsions as she is consumed by fear that she will not be able to breathe, that she will choke, that he is killing her.
But still, somehow — still, she keeps her arms behind her, wrists locked with a death grip to her elbows, her mouth working, but not working to reject him or cause him pain — trying to live through this, but not to deny him his use of her, hot tears spurting from her eyes as he pulls out of her, almost coughing to breathe himself, so powerful are the aftershocks of his most satisfying orgasm in years.
He’s surprised and pleased to find himself as hard as ever, feasting his eyes on her body, chest heaving as she catches up on oxygen, noticing with a feral grin that her arms are still as he had required them to be, laughing with pleasure as he spins her round again, rougher than before, now, uncaring, enjoying the thought that she will bear bruises of this tomorrow, that he will be able to see where his thumbs had gripped her soft flesh without restraint in his hurry to get his cock into her tight little bottom. First time for him, too, this — he had ever done anything like this with his wife, and could hardly remember the girls before her, save that it had all been very constrained. But he’s read so much about using a girl this way, watched so many videos, enjoyed the idea that for the girl it is a joyless, sexless experience of usage and now, now, come what may, she’s going to get used like that.
He’s no lubrication, nothing at hand, and so he simply pushes her knees back to either side of her face, bending her in half, and aims his cock into her gash, finding it slick and hot and sodden, grinning again at her anguished moan at such a direct and casual invasion, and then he’s out again — another, different wail, and now, now to push his way in …
It hurts. It hurts both of them. Hurts badly; but he’s determined, and she, despite her cries and moans, is soft, unresisting, crying out softly, sad, hurting clearly but not resisting or even complaining, as he gradually, painfully, works himself deeper, gradually finds her opening up, loosening, learning how to accommodate him, learning how to live with the shock and the shame and the pain and the strong feeling of having been degraded, degraded permanently. Having accepted this treatment now — right at the outset of this new stage in whatever this relationship might be — accepted what he has claimed as a rape, not fought him, not screamed, not even asked to be spared, this — to be fucked like this — will be what is normal, ordinary — expected.
And with that thought comes the realisation that she has a choice now — she can retreat into the pain, the shame, the degradation — no reason at all why she shouldn’t; all of modern womanhood in fact expecting her to take this as the worst possible imposition, the least forgivable, a life-changing moment — she can let it go that way — or, and this is frightening to her — or, she can attempt to embrace it, attempt to serve him, now, serve his abuse of her — make it good for him, if she can, be a slut for him, deserve that astounding phrase that he had said with shocking force — be a ‘gorgeous fucking cunt’ for him — at least try to be.
And as soon as this thought has formed she is doing it, trying — relaxing herself as best she can, trying to feel how his thrusts pace themselves, trying to meet them, meet him, with her body, hurt and shame her as it might; to put herself at his service, humbly; offering, offering him her cooperation in his rape of her virgin backside, in whatever small way she can manage; feeling the tears on her cheeks, not fighting them, letting them roll, hearing her own voice grunting in pain, deliberately softening the cries, making them breathier, hopefully sexier, not hiding that he is hurting her, but removing any possible trace of anger from her tone, timing her body’s recoil to match his pace, making it easier for him to thrust deeply into her, as he clearly wishes to do, wailing at the sensation, but no longer seeking to make him stop, but instead urging him to take his pleasure with her.
And again, it softens her, moves her to tears of gratitude, now, as she gets his rhythm and works for him, with him, opening herself, letting the sharp pains of his increasingly wild thrusts wash through her as evidence of his arousal, his enjoyment of her, staying with it until, at last, he speed up rapidly and begins to buck at her, gasping out the words; “Dirty. Fucking. Whore. ” again and again, faster and faster until with a cry it seems that he is done.
And she’s a girl who has been raped in the backside, and who has moved for her rapist so that he will enjoy it, and, amidst the pain and the confused shame, she knows she is pleased, that the idea of being his dirty, fucking whore is not as terrible as it ought to be. That it probably means she’s a girl who’s going to get fucked a great deal, and that this prospect is shockingly welcome, and she is crying and laughing at the same time, until he slaps her hard, and with a hand in her hair drags her head over her body — she having to scramble to rearrange herself or get twisted or broken, until her face is in his groin;
“You lick it clean. You don’t wait to be told. You beg to do it.”
She feels tiny, then, stupidly young, stupidly innocent, stupidly ignorant, terribly naked, terribly shamed, pathetic.
She is quivering, nearly unable to control herself, awkwardly crouched, her head held low by the handful of hair in his fist, her hands still somehow behind her, although she has lost her grip on her elbows.
He keeps her in that position, silent, while she struggles with herself, as her so recent acceptance of all this is thrown in her face as she quivers, breath coming in short, desperate gulps.
She’s losing it — can’t … can’t continue … can’t keep absorbing all this …
A great wave of pity and despair washes through her at the thought of having been through all this, not only this night but the weeks beforehand — the endless internal debates, the unanswered questions, the unlooked for sensations in her body at all time of day or night, and all of it for nothing, because she can’t …
She just can’t do this.
Blackness begins to engulf her, then — she simply cannot imagine what can come next if she cannot move — but at the same time, she simply cannot.
And then he does something, something so simple, possibly not even on purpose, so offhand is it; the hand in her hair relaxes, shakes itself out — as if it had experienced a cramp, then, incredibly briefly, two fingers stroke a tangled lock back from her forehead, and the hand strokes its way back across her head, absent-mindedly, without purpose.
And that’s enough — enough of what is not clear, but enough to do two things — first, it ignites a shocking wellspring of desire at her sex, and second she is able to smoothly move towards his softening, slimy cock, and gently, softly, open herself to even this, almost laughing, so ridiculous is it all. That she, a girl who has allowed so much this evening, invited so much, shown herself to be such a slut, to be so lacking in morals or correct feelings or self respect — that such a girl should have made a fuss over simply one more thing,
And it’s not so bad, after all — somehow it’s just a taint, not really gross if she doesn’t dwell on it, and then she surprises herself by finding the idea of having his cock in her mouth to be, frankly, wonderful. It’s warm, not too hard, and it responds, a live thing, to her attentions — it makes her laugh, and it makes her want to learn what it likes, and it makes her wish he had taught her, already, how to live with it in her throat, to have him so transfixed with her and be — even a little — in control must be a wonderful thing,
When he pulls her off, hand in her hair again, hurting her again, she simply lets him, watches him looking at her breasts, wants him to touch her there, hears herself asking him;
“Hurt me. Hurt my nipples? Please? Make me cry?”
And he does, instantly, harshly — not playing — twisting until she squeals and cannot stop her hands flailing and flapping, even if she can just manage to keep them low and back.
It isn’t that she wanted to be hurt — not at all — the idea of having her nipples hurt was horrible — why she chose it. She needed to atone for having delayed cleaning his cock for him — not for her own sake, either — but to show him that she knew, that he wasn’t supposed to be kind to her if she fails him.
And so she needed to be making amends.
He lets go then, and starts slapping her nipples with his fingernails — hard, rapid flicks, and it’s awful and the paper-cuts sting like hell and she’s crying bitterly, freely, sobbing now, and he carries on and on, making her crazy, ending by gripping both nipples tight — terribly tight, then wrenching his hands away with a powerful flick of his wrists, at which she screams and, at last, cannot help herself from covering the burning nubs with her hands, which earns her a slap in the face that knocks her sideways and has her hands once again behind her back.
“Be careful asking me for pain, little cunt.”
Is all he says … and he watches her then, for the ten or more minutes it takes her to get herself back under control.
For another five minutes she is simply there, on her knees, all but naked, looking at his feet, too ashamed, drained, empty to even move, too scared, also; feeling his eyes on her, crawling with shame and fear. Is she too disgusting, too weak? Has he simply had his fun with her — and will he now discard her? Who would want a stupid little cunt around that can’t stop crying, that can’t suck him, that squeals whenever it gets a penis put into it? He won’t want her now, surely — not now that she has proved herself so ignorant, so unable to be sexy …
The silence extends for far too long as she sits with these terrible thoughts following themselves around in her head, feeling her nakedness increasingly as shame, her stickiness as evidence of her dirtiness, the taste of everything in her mouth turning sour, full of fear and doubt, hair-trigger self-disgust and despair.
When the low table, beside her, suddenly squeaks as it is dragged toward his armchair, she jumps and gasps, then finds herself softly crying, all hope lost.
His voice comes as a surprise, then — and a blessing — as calm as normal — the growly, harsh tones disappeared as if they had never been;
“Come, girly, up on the table, please — on your knees, facing me, hands behind you again, then, face down onto the tabletop — right near me — but keep your ass right up in the air; face down, ass up, knees spread, cunt open, hands useless — got it?
It’s terrible, she knows to receive such demeaning and degrading instructions and feel happy — but that doesn’t stop her sighing in relief, or following his request with speed, eager to oblige.
As soon as she has her head down on the tabletop it hits her just how degrading and vulnerable this position is — but its too late now, one of his hands rests, lazily, on her bum, the other grabs her hair again, twists her head and pushes it down, hard onto the table; more pain, more humiliation. His voice sounds then, close, very close — soft and relaxed.
“I took you a long way tonight, pretty. And we’re not finished yet. But I want to talk to you — make you understand a few things — although you’ll never know everything.”
“First is this; I said I’d rape you before. Technically, I don’t think I did — not that I care. I’m calling it rape, though, because I want you to think of it that way — think of yourself as a girl who lets herself get raped every day. For another reason, too — because I will never ask permission; because I will not stop if you ask me to, and because I don’t care whether you are in the mood or not. This is fine, according to me — and I’m the only one that matters — because you’ve already given your consent by not leaving. I think that gets called consensual non-consent these days. An oxymoron if ever I heard one, but maybe they mean it that way — as a joke.”
“Anyway, that’s you, getting raped a lot from now on. In all your holes, as you’ve just been taught.”
“Raped, and loving it, if you reactions earlier were anything to go by.”
“Next is this. However fast we went tonight, that’s where we are. I will never step back from anything. Not by a millimetre. So you either accept, and like it enough not to piss me off, or you leave. This is a high-risk strategy. Deliberately so.”
“Imagine it like this; we’re balanced on a knife edge, you and I. Which is OK for me, I’ve got big thick boots and some handrails, and I’m facing forwards. You, on the other hand, are naked, barefoot, with nothing to hold on to but me — and I keep pushing you backwards — making you step into nothingness, hoping you’ll find the knife there, knowing that it will cut your feet, that it will hurt you if you do. Either that, or you’ll fall. Fall left and you end up screaming and shouting at me, telling me I’m a bad person for doing this to you. Then you’re gone — leaving. Goodbye for ever — that’s one way to fall off.”
“The other way is worse, maybe. If you fall off to the right you lose the plot — lose control — the pressure, the cruelty, the intensity sends you mad, and you cease to be a proper person — become some sort of gibbering nympho bimbo. That way you’re gone, too — as soon as I can find someone who’ll look after you in that way to take you off my hands.”
“Because I want you, really you — right here, experiencing this — letting me walk you backwards along the knife edge, watching your fear, your suffering, your gradual degradation. I want to know that you know what’s happening.”
“Sick, eh?”
“Well, I am sick. and so are you, I might add, for asking to stay.”
“But that’s our lot: here we are. We’re in this now. And I’m not going to stop — or let you stop, unless you fall apart.”
“I’m telling you this, not because I care what you think about my plans, but because I could see you there, getting all paranoid, thinking black thoughts. That’s a sure way to go crazy. So I’m telling you this, now, so that you can know that you have a guarantee. I’m not going to give up pushing you. You’re mine. Which doesn’t mean I’ll be kind to you. Far from it.”
“But I am greedy for you — and don’t you forget it.”
She’s quivering by the end of this, eyes leaking tears again, horrified and relieved at the same time, with relief the entirely inappropriate winner.
The wry line forms in her mind; It’s going to be alright — he’s promised he won’t stop raping me, hurting me and degrading me! But she can’t get rid of the little bubble of lightness that has formed in her, however mad that seems.
But as usual, he’s not letting her think much — he’s speaking again;
“Right now, pretty, it’s time for you to come for me — have an orgasm with me watching. It’s not going to be nice. You won’t have many happy, simple orgasms again — not while you’re mine at least — for a start, you won’t have any orgasms not permitted by me — and for seconds, I’m going to make sure that when you do come, it’s mostly in awful circumstances.”
“Just so you can get an idea of what that means, you’re going back in the corner now, with your friend the champagne bottle, and I’m going to make you come with my fat crude fingers. Of course, the longer you take to come, the longer you have to live with that terrible bottle fucking your throat. Your problem’s going to be that I was never very good at getting my wife off like that, and that was when I had a chance to practice. So you’re probably going to have to get yourself off, really — with only my hand as a sex toy, and with every jiggle making the bottle worse. But we’re not going to stop until you come — however you manage it, so you’ll just have to find a way.”
It was indeed, an awful orgasm. Painful, shaming, frightening, at the same time as it was devastatingly mind-blowing — like nothing I’d experienced before. It took ages, as he’d predicted — for the longest time I couldn’t stop crying — the bottle hurting my sore throat, him standing so close, watching me, me unable to watch anything but the bottle and the ceiling, unable to speak, legs split wide, hands flapping uselessly, shamefully, his fingers pawing at my pussy in a way that was not deliberately crude, but as he had said, made it clear he was neither good at pleasuring a woman that way, nor in practice.
But there was nothing to be done except try, and by thinking about moments in the evening when jolts of lust and desire had been provoked in me despite everything, I managed to get myself first wet, and then hot, and developed a technique of writhing my hips that produced some effect at my sex without disturbing the bottle much.
It was nothing but hard grind though, and when I came I was in tears, even as my hips suddenly began to buck uncontrollably, and I began to cry out, urgently, past the neck of the champagne bottle, my hands wiggling madly as the wildfire ripped through me. He took the weight of the bottle, then, lifting it away from me, or I’d have done serious damage to my throat, or worse, and I yelled with the intensity, my thighs clenching like a vice around his hand and my whole body writhing like some fish on a hook as the sensations shook me.
I cried for some while afterwards, naked, in his arms, on his lap, a pathetic wretch of a raped and destroyed cello girl.
A cello girl who revelled in the fact that his hand was between my legs, that I was his, that he was not going to stop.
