WARNING! You must be 18 or over to read these stories of rape and non-consensual sex. This story is all fiction and no characters in it are meant to resemble any real person. That’s the legal part. Here’s the important part to me. This is fantasy, by the author, to be shared with readers who share in such fantasies. That is the story’s sole purpose for being here. In the real world, this sort of behavior is simply not acceptable, period, by any of the laws or morals of any humane people. That means you too. If you actually hurt someone without their informed consent, just stop. Take a deep breath and stop right now. That’s not your right. A surprising number of subs exist out there, so take the time to meet one and make your corner of the world a better place. Don’t trash two lives letting your frustrations get the better of you.
Don’t Go
He spotted her sitting quietly on her front porch. Staring out at the world in her perfectly coiffed hair and anally retentive mannerisms. But she was a hottie, even if she was Miss Resting Bitch face. Or maybe just resting bitch. She reminded him of Miss Jenkins, the frequent substitute teacher from middle school, the one who made the kids pray for teacher’s health. Through her pursed lips she sat and surveyed the whole of humanity that she judged so self-righteously. And thus, he vowed to take her and break her. That was what he did with women like her. And it would be merciless in the extreme.
She had a car. She didn’t seem to use it much. In the few days he spent spying on her, she took only one trip out, to the supermarket, where she stocked up on cheeses, eggs, deli, and a ton of pharmacy. Strange, he had her figured more for a vegetable doter, doling out broccoli and cabbage as the cures to the world’s ills. The bitch even walked like a princess, as if her dignity came from posture. “Don’t you go anywhere,” he whispered from his vantage point. “Don’t you leave me now, princess.”
It was time. At least a month had passed since he took that plump little teaching ed student out to the river to make her cry for the weekend. This time at least the slut would provide her own house. He made a mental note, shove a stick up her ass. After he fucked it, of course. So that was that. He waited until night fell. He waited for the neighborhood to go dark. He waited for the town to sleep. And then he slipped into her yard, up to her door, and a moment later, into her home.
Nothing was as he expected it. Where were the doilies? Where were the knitting and quilting supplies? He looked around miss Prissypants’ living room and spotted an X-Box for Christ’s sake. How could someone that stuck-up have a gaming system. Maybe it was there for her nephews or something. A way to keep them occupied while adults conversed about cat shows and Miss Manners. It didn’t matter. He made his way upstairs.
Her gentle breathing led him to her bedroom. It was a warm night, and she had only a sheet atop her. She even slept ramrod straight. She was on her stomach, facing down. Everything was in place. He took his big knife in hand and pulled off his pants. This was going to be fun. And nothing would be more fun than to start by ass-raping the little princess. She was still breathing calmly, sound asleep. He whipped the sheet off her, revealing just a little nightie on her body, easily pulled up. She stirred a bit as he jumped onto her back, pinned her arms, and pressed the knife to her throat.
“Quiet, bitch!” he said, pressing the blade to her neck. “Get loud, and I might have to cut your throat. Got it?”
“Yes. Please, whatever you’re doing.”
“I’m fucking you is what I’m doing,” he hissed.
“No, you can’t! Please, listen. You can’t!”
“I am,” he replied. Her obvious fear was enough to get him hard. He was already poking at her buttocks. Ass first, he remembered. She was already positioned for it. “Spread those legs, princess! Spread them wide for me.”
“I, I can’t. I mustn’t!” she cried.
“Maybe you mustn’t get your throat cut!” he hissed at her. “Spread ‘em, bitch!”
With a whimper of distress, she slowly parted her legs. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Oh, my yes. Get ready to squeal, bitch! Get ready for it!”
“You don’t understand!” she cried as he lined himself up for the thrust. He spat on himself for lube. Her distress grew. “Listen to me!”
“Listen to this!” he snarled, driving himself forward, entering her, splitting her, owning her. She cried out in anguish.
Lying under him, anguish barely describe Clarice’s emotions. Terror above all. “Oh yeah, bitch!” he said, thrusting a second time. She gasped in pain and horror. “Yeah, good and tight, just like I, like I.” He was pausing. His thrusts, brutal and quick, now slowed. “Whoa, you’re really something, princess. You. Um. Holy shit!” he cried. She lay there, eyes clenched, wishing she could cover her ears. She heard him scream, trying to get off her. She put her hands to her ears, trying to block the sounds. He scrambled off the bed. She felt something on her legs. The man collapsed by her bed, falling into the dresser, shrieking. He coughed, a wet cough. Very fluidic. His voice warbled, and was cut quiet. She soon felt and heard nothing.
She lay there, quietly weeping, for what seemed like hours. She barely moved, only enough to take her hands from her ears at last. She was lying in a deathly quiet house. She closed her legs. It was all she could do. The long wait for daylight slowly ended with a morning day glow eventually. She looked to the dresser.
There he was, lying bloodied, lifeless. His death mask was puzzled. Despite his pain, he didn’t know what had happened to him. She couldn’t pretend to either. She finally dared to move, carefully rolling over carefully, slowly to her side. She grabbed a piece of cheese from her bedside and munched on it before looking at the carnage. She hoisted herself up and out of the bed.
Blood. Blood everywhere on him. And blood of another shade of red. Two shades of red for one body. One his. One?
She couldn’t wait. She had to try again or take even harsher pills. She waddled to the bathroom and sat down on the john. Gingerly, oh so slowly, she let up on her sphincter. She felt and heard the rumbling in her guts. She silently prayed. For a moment she heard nothing, felt nothing.
The sound came like always. A howling of air. And then the voice. “Thank you for the feeding, Clarice. Now let me out. You can’t hold me in here forever!” it said, echoing off the toilet bowl.
With a cry, she clenched back up. Tears sprang to her eyes. It wasn’t over. Two bloods or not, it was still alive. It taunted her. She stood herself back up, pulling herself upright without bending her legs. With a cry of anguish, she pried open the pill jar and popped several more oxycodone pills. Then she headed downstairs to take another day off from work and spend another day slowly eating just enough pepperoni sticks and string cheese to keep herself alive. Another day of fighting nature. And another day of fighting nature’s abominations.
