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Author Topic: One Night [May Contest Entry]  (Read 602 times)

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One Night [May Contest Entry]
« on: May 10, 2021, 05:51:08 PM »
Disclaimer: This is fiction. Do not interpret it as anything else. This is a story with themes of non-consent, rape, reluctance and sexual manipulation.  The acts depicted in this story are criminal and are only acceptable in fantasy. If you are not interested in this type of story, please look elsewhere. All characters are over eighteen.

Competition words: funnel, justice, sending

I wanted to write an alternating first and second person story, a new story approach for me. This idea aligned with the May 21 contest words. It is unusual in its structure and tempo, but I hope you enjoy it. It is very long, using just over 7000 words, which I hope is acceptable.


You float weightlessly in the bath, despite the heavy stone in the pit of your stomach. Gazing sightlessly at the remote city lights from the expensive penthouse apartment that your husband had bought because you so loved the view, the prestige, and the seclusion. The only sound being a hypnotic drip of the tap.

Traces of the bubbles you had put in much earlier, swirling around your brown nipples and red manicured toes, the only parts of your body visible above the still water, hardly moving despite your occasional deep sigh. The clips in your lush hair keeping it up and dry, even as you sink low into the soapy water.

The warmth of the water soaking into your flesh cannot thaw the cold feeling in your heart. Unsurprisingly, the gorgeous fragrance and the soft cleansing water are not able to lift your spirits, nor invigorate your muscles. And can do nothing about how horribly dirty and weak you feel.

I arrive, taking the lift to the penthouse after greeting the doorman. As always, he greets me with officious deference as I sign in, but he can’t hide the quizzical suspicion behind his eyes. This is the fourth time that I have appeared at this building on the same day of the month. I enjoy the enigma…

He is standing waiting for me by the open door as expected, having been forewarned by the doorman. The first time I came here, he’d made me wait after knocking, as if he was reluctant to let me in. I don’t like waiting for anything, not queues, not service, and definitely not here, where I am owed so much. He never made that mistake again.

I pause in the foyer, a glimpse of the lounge beyond, floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city lights outside. It is quiet here, immunised from the chaos of the world. I take a deep breath, relishing what is to come. I feel like a predator, confidently stalking, as if I can sense the fear of the prey within.

He follows me into his home and goes over to the drink cabinet to poor me a scotch, straight on the rocks, as expected. His eyes don’t meet mine when he brings my favourite, Lagavulin 16 year old, harsh peat integrated with subtle heather, reflecting my mood and my intent.

I recline comfortably on his pale beautifully upholstered couch amongst the scattered blood red cushions, amused as always at the overpriced original art tastefully placed on the walls, all abstract and selected to make a statement. All bought with my money…

I force him to engage me, asking about a deal we are putting together and the creative financing mechanism he is designing. He is a financial maestro… adept, innovative and unethical… the traits I need for my business dealings and the developments that make me lots of money.

He is clearly uncomfortable and anxious, but I’m enjoying myself immensely at his expense. I ask about his plans for the weekend, and whether he intends to play golf despite the forecast for rain, as if we are old friends just catching up. Which he thought we once were, before…

You eventually get out of the bath, wrapping yourself in a fluffy white bath sheet, drying yourself as you look at your figure in the full-length mirror. Tall, sleek and toned, with firm curves in all the right places, the product of discipline and effort in the gym, and what you eat. Your skin is pale, because you avoid the sun, burning too easily and disliking the heat.

Momentarily you see the young heavy girl from which this body emerged, a metamorphosis in your teen years that created the gorgeous creature reflected back at you. Looks that catalysed your self-assurance and sense of entitlement. But you also know that the insecure scared child hovers just beneath the surface, threatening to overwhelm you if released.

But now days there is no cellulite on your thighs, even though they have a tendency to being thicker that you’d like. Your waist is narrow, emphasising the swelling of your hips. Your waxed pubis neat and clean, the way you and your husband like, with only the hint of your neat labia peeking out from the narrow gap between your thighs.

But nothing can prevent the imperceptible sag of your full breasts, the consequence of being in your thirties and not having had surgery.  You are proud of that fact, unlike so many of your friends or acquaintances. Being naturally well-endowed has had its advantages and you know how to flaunt your assets.

The younger version of this body successfully paraded at beauty pageants, in gowns and swimsuits. You’d hated the way they made you feel, displaying yourself for others’ entertainment, like you were selling your body. The pawing judges propositioning you in exchange for their votes, making you feel even dirtier than the meat market parade.

You had mostly avoided physically trading your body, although there were a couple of times when it seemed unavoidable, memories that you still supress with disgust and self-loathing. But it was the ticket to a better life and ultimately your husband… your wealthy, handsome husband. Flawed, but still your access to luxury and security, albeit at a price…

You’d grown to love him over the years, his intellect and quirky humour, together with his adoration of you and the gentle passionate way he made love, making you feel like his queen.  You love the way his soft hands, never calloused from having to do anything manual, caresses your sensitive skin and send shivers of delight throughout your body.

It was unfortunate that you couldn’t have children. His infertility. Your disappointment. But there were positives, because you were not trapped by childcare and your body was not ravaged by pregnancy and childbirth. Adoption was not an option, but you had each other, and you had accepted that this would be your life.

I glanced at my watch to see it was only 7:28, which meant we had half an hour. I let the conversation dwindle to an awkward silence, savouring the panicked despairing look on his face as the lack of conversation allowed a kaleidoscope of thoughts and images to encroach into his mind. For me they triggered the thrill of anticipation.

I relished his pain, because this was the least that he deserved. He owed me. He was my financial transaction advisor, paid well for his unique services. I’d discovered an anomaly in the returns from some key investments that he had structured. When asked, he told me I was mistaken...

I’d known him for years, to a time before his marriage. We came from wealthy families, his blue blood financial stock, mine more unscrupulous and opportunistic. My connections and his abilities, combined with our somewhat flexible principles, made a valuable arrangement for the company I’d established.

I’d been at his wedding, believing he was marrying a gold digger, but I realised that he had stupidly fallen in love. I’d watched with interest as his relationship blossomed, even as I noted that they spent money with reckless abandon. Using the significant wealth that I paid him for his services.

For someone who came from nothing, you have grown to appreciate the designer clothes and jewellery, ostentatious furniture and art, high-end restaurants and holidays, expensive cars and houses.  Living a luxury lifestyle provided by your husband because he wants to treat you, to prove how much he adores you.

You sit at your dressing table, a picture of you and your husband in a small frame, looking so happy. Your first trip together to a tropical island, a romantic getaway with lazy days and erotic nights, finding each other in ways you hadn’t in the hustle and bustle of regular life. The picture now reminds you of a blissful, more innocent time, which you no longer feel.

Slipping on the high cut French knickers that you bought earlier, feeling the silk brush up your thighs like a lover’s sensual caress. The flimsy transparent blue material snuggles into your crotch and creeps between your buttocks, but not like those thongs you hate, just firmly cupping your round cheeks, while not concealing anything.

The matching quarter cup bra is equally revealing, achieving an uplifted cleavage and emphasising your nipples and the dark crinkled rings around them. The fine lingerie you have bought is expensive and slutty as expected, making you feel like a cheap whore despite the cost. Regardless, you delight in the contrast of the dark lace against your translucent skin.

You recall the first time your husband bought you sexy lingerie. His slightly nervous eagerness and your hesitant response, starting out somewhat repressed because it reminded you of the pageants and the leers of those judges. But over time appreciating the sexual dynamic that such small props could engender in your budding love.

The single red rose in a long-stemmed glass on the other side of the dressing table, given to you by your husband when he returned from work the day before. A symbol of his passion, which you shared on your king-size bed, making slow tender love together, not caring about the dinner that was growing cold in the kitchen, nor the debt you owed.

I held up my glass, wanting a refill. Only fifteen minutes to go. He obediently leapt to his feet, as if he was relieved to be doing something, anything, as if the wait and the anticipation was wearing on his nerves. I smirked sadistically as he returned my glass with a slight tremble of his hand, the pent-up emotion clearly written all over his face.

I was not mistaken about the money disappearing. I’d done some investigation, bringing my accountant and financial advisors in to assist. It turned out that there was a backdoor to some of the instruments, shaving off fractions of a cent on every transaction and collecting them through a series of dummy accounts.

It took a bit of sleuthing by a couple of my more dubious acquaintances to determine that the backdoor was a syphon that allowed them to funnel my money to an unnamed account in the Caymen Islands. The opposite of a pyramid scheme. It led it back to him. Or rather to his wife in whose name the account had been registered, hidden behind veils of secrecy.

I had considered what to do, not revealing my discovery. We were in the process of designing another ingenious financing deal and he was confirming his value as a financial wizard. I was so angry that the thought of sending them both to prison for embezzlement was very tempting.

But that would have doubly disadvantaged me, by taking away my financing virtuoso and hurting them without any benefit to me. I wanted personal justice, retribution that I could relish, being able to inflict the penalty myself and watch the effect of their punishment. I came up with an idea for their penance that I would truly enjoy.

I had presented him with the evidence and the possible alternatives, ruthlessly indicating that he would go to prison for a very long time if he did not accept my offer. I gave him three days to choose, to accept my proposal and return my money, or… He tried to negotiate, but I was resolute, and he eventually agreed a couple of days later.

That is why, despite everything, he still works for me in the same capacity. I did make it clear that if he ever betrayed me again or went back on his word, prison would not be the alternative. I promised him that my unsavoury friends would ensure his death was very long and slow, and his widow would find herself in a very disreputable establishment.

You release you long brunette tresses from the clips, letting it fall lusciously over your shoulders. You brush it out, long sensual strokes, teasing it and straightening it, before loosely plaiting it into a French braid that you tug carefully to test it, wincing at how even that mild action tears at your scalp.

The feeling reminds you of the young overweight girl, being teased and bullied mercilessly by the popular girls, often having your hair pulled and your skin pinched because they could. Even after you transformed into the pretty teen that those girls wanted to befriend, you never lost your distrust. You just learned to hide it under a defensive aloof mask.

Nor did you lose your early love of reading, novels being your sanctuary from a cruel world. You love nothing more than curling up on the couch in the lounge with a cup of tea, reading and escaping for a moment. Before summoning up the energy and glamourous persona that your husband and the rest of the world expect, the gorgeous socialite on his arm.

You begin your makeup, painting your already beautiful features into a striking façade, suggestive of an exclusive call girl. Your unblemished skin does not need the base you apply, but you do it regardless, making sure to vainly accentuate the natural beauty spot that you are so proud of above the left corner of your mouth.

The rouge overemphasises your high cheekbones, while the bright eyeshadow makes your hazel irises sparkle.  The heavy black mascara emphasises the almond shape of your eyes.  The red lipstick you select is the same tone as your painted fingernails, lined with a subtle outline that you know makes men want to do naughty things between your full lips.

With a deep breath, you finish your makeup, emphasising the elegant arc of your eyebrows with a pencil liner. You pout at the mirror, your perfect reflection staring back with a sad resigned expression, knowing that despite all this effort, you will look anything but perfect by the end of the night.

You apply the expensive perfume that you don’t usually wear or even like, dabbing it liberally behind your ears and between your breasts. It is required because you had once made a derogatory comment that another woman wearing the fragrance smelled like a ‘high-class escort’. The spicy scent will remind you of that comment, all night long.

It is approaching the top of the hour, so I take the opportunity to remind him about the adventures we’d had when we’d first met.  Building our friendship through shared experiences, whether for professional success or exciting leisure. I exult in the flash of misery in his eyes before he averts them to look down at his drink.

I steer the conversation towards trust, because the time is approaching. I recall the time when we first started out in business together, when I told him that I believe that loyalty was the foundation of friendship, that for me betrayal is unforgivable, that it would unequivocally end the friendship.

His hands were shaking as he started his speech, staring at them as if they would give him the courage he needed.  He said the words he had perfected over the past four months, telling me how sorry he was for what he’d done, that he had been wrong and foolish, he wanted to earn my forgiveness, and he would do what was required.

He was following the script that we had agreed was the basis of his atonement, humiliation and despair resonating in every word he uttered.  He then looked up and stared at me with moist eyes, saying that he deserved anything I wanted to do, that I could have anything, including what was most precious to him.

You slip on the open-toed high heels one at a time, buckling the thin black straps around your ankles so that they won’t come off, regardless of how much you shake your legs. You feel the tension in your calves as you stand up, knowing how they accentuate your toned legs, causing your panty-clad backside to round more and your exposed breasts to perk up.

You drift over to the walk-in closet, over the thick pile beige carpet, contrasted dramatically with the stylish charcoal of the bed linen, accented with pale trimming, and the cushions and the ottoman at the foot of the bed. Portraits of you and your husband look down from the wall above, commissioned the year before from a renowned artist.

Taking the elegant dark blue gown that you had purchased earlier from its hanger, you step into it, so that you can wriggle it up your legs, sliding over your hips, to hook the straps onto your shoulders. Despite the expense of the garment, you are relieved that you have no attachment to it, because is unlikely to end the night intact.

Finally, you put on the refined sapphire-diamond choker and earrings, gifts from your husband to match the eternity ring on your right ring finger, signs of his devotion to you when you found out that he could not sire children. You find putting those items on to be the most difficult part of the pantomime you are playing, at least up to this point in the evening.

You take a final look at yourself in the mirror, seeing what you feel, a beautiful stylish woman dressed up as a high-class whore. Holding back the tears that threaten to leak and prematurely wreck your makeup, you reluctantly go and sit at the end of your marital bed. Forcing a vague smile onto your ruby lips, your face otherwise expressionless, waiting…

You know the time is approaching. You will suffer this ordeal with stoicism, for your husband, your marriage and your freedom. You are determined not to plead or cry this time, accepting the punishment and abuse without complaint. Unlike the previous occasions when you were overwhelmed and broke down. You clench your jaw, willing yourself to be brave.

At eight o’ clock precisely, I stand and without another look stride out of the room, leaving him to his desolation.  My anticipation grows as I stalk, like the predator that I am, down the passage to my destination, the closed door at the end. My prey is behind that door, waiting to be devoured.

My senses are heightened by the expectation of what I will find and what I will do. A waft of that perfume hits me as I open the door, taking a deep pleasurable breath, knowing the meaning contained therein. The lighting is subtle, except for the downlighters above the bed, spreading a pool of light… illuminating you.

My eyes meet yours. Despite the frozen expression and slight crooked smile on your lips, I can see the frightened woman inside. Eyes are the window to your soul and your soul is afraid and uncertain, and I think I see some shame. Those are the emotions I want from you and will force you to acknowledge. Not just in your soul, but in your mind and body too.

You are gorgeous as always, but this time I think you have outdone yourself. I tell you to stand as I saunter confidently across the few yards between us. Your heels make you as tall as me, stretching you out, shrouded as you are in the elegant blue gown, except for your left leg which is exposed by the slit, a pale gash that almost reaches your hip.

When I proposed the agreement, I had you sign an affidavit that you everything you did would be consensual. But not before I told you and your husband in fine detail what I would expect and what I would do. You signed, but with such a shaking hand and tears dripping onto the page, that I had to make you sign a second one for my records. I kept the first…

I stand there unmoving, a quizzical raising of my eyebrow, waiting for you to play your part in this unfolding drama. Like your husband, you follow your script, telling me that you are sorry for what you did, that you deserve everything, that I can take my justice with your body. The quiver in your voice is almost as satisfying as hearing you say the words.

That you don’t believe the words is irrelevant, they have to be said. Even though you knew that your husband was doing something involving funnelling money to look after your future. That no one would know, because he was making an absolute fortune for his boss. You didn’t realise you were implicated, but that didn’t make a difference to the evidence and your culpability.

You had yelled and protested your innocence, that this did not involve you and so you shouldn’t be punished. That it was your husband’s fault and that he should pay. You had thought about leaving him, but what options did you really have? You would have nothing, and the law would catch up with you. So, you stayed with him, your lifestyle and your love.

You would be the sacrificial lamb, once a month for a year. You thought you would be able to do it, that it wouldn’t make a difference, but you had never considered just how difficult it would be, how shameful and painful. This was only the fourth time, eight more after this. You didn’t want to think about that now, because the next few hours had to be survived.

I lick my lips in delight, at the low-cut ruffled cowl that accentuates your cleavage and the delectable orbs underneath. I hear your soft intake of breath as I reach up possessively and slip the dress off your right shoulder, letting it drop down you arm and reveal your breast, naked and presented like an offering by your flimsy bra.

You stare back fierce but silent, while my hand traces down your shoulder onto that perfect heavy globe, groping gently at first as if testing its texture. But then more firmly until I squeeze a sharp gasp of pain from your pursed mouth. I continue mauling you, enjoying the chaos of conflicting feelings flit across your face as you steel yourself against the pain.

Your nipple receives my attention next, pinching it between thumb and the palm of my hand, as I continue to crush your flesh. It is already hard from the cold and the fear, but I feel it swell even more with my attention, knowing from previous experience that it is very sensitive and forces unwanted response from your defenceless body.

Without releasing your nipple, I take my tactical knife from my inner jacket pocket and flick it open. The knife that I am never without and has saved me on various occasions, especially in my youth when I was proving myself within the family. I know how to use it and have... The blade is razor sharp and meant for much denser material than your clothes.

You blink in fright, not moving, even though you’ve experienced the blade’s tender touch against your skin. You hold your breath as it sides between your breasts and with a flick of a wrist slices the front of the gown. You notice my gratified smile with the rending sound as your dress is violently torn down the middle, causing it to fall in a puddle at your feet.

You shiver in fear and the sudden cold with the exposure of your skin to the airconditioned room and my lustful pitiless gaze. Your eyes close involuntarily because you know what comes next, but a growled command and an agonising twist on your nipple makes you open them again and look down at your chest.

You never realised just how cruel and brutal I could be. But you have come to understand this fact, through things done to your own body. You are honestly terrified of what could happen to you, and what you know will happen to you. And that there is nothing that you can do to prevent it, other than obey without hesitation and to the best of your ability.

The tip of my knife traces the puckered skin around your nipple, making the hard nubs become even more pointy with your natural response. I am pleased that my action elicits your panicked hyperventilation and paralysis, even though you are not really in danger, or at least not from my knife.  I fold it away, not wanting to play like that tonight.

I’m in a generous mood and thus far you are being obedient, so I don’t strike you on your face or your tits. But I’m not finished with them yet and continue to grope, one in each hand. Seeing you bite your lower lip trying not to scream, makes me want to hurt them even more… such soft vulnerable mounds of tender flesh.

I don’t stop, even when I extract a despairing moan. Instead, I instruct you to undress me and am pleased with the shimmer I notice in your eyes as you try not to cry. But you do as I have said, taking my jacket and shirt, and folding them onto the ottoman, before kneeling before me to remove my shoes and socks, and lastly my trousers and briefs.

You remain there submissively, hands in your lap and eyes downcast, until I grab your braid like a handle and tell you to suck me hard. The previous times have ensured that you immediately do as you are told, looking up at me like a good slut should, not using your hands at all, just your luscious lips and talented tongue.

You hate this intimacy, believing that after your marriage you would only ever do it for your husband as a loving gift. This act makes you feel like the young inexperienced beauty queen again, kneeling before those judges when no other option seemed possible. The humiliation of sucking the penis of a man you don’t love, making you feel like a whore.

You loath yourself, for your weakness and your lack of options. For your husband having been caught and for you having to suffer the consequences. He claimed that this was devastating for him as well, but he is the one sitting in the lounge while you are here almost naked on your knees, with a disgusting swelling thing in your mouth.

It doesn’t take long for me cock to harden, poking hard up into your mouth as you worship it, despite the humiliation and revulsion written all over you face. I let you continue for a while, wallowing in the tingling sensation that floods my balls and warms my gut, resting a hand on your head and occasionally plunging your face into my crotch, making you gag.

But this is not what I enjoy the most. I pull you up by the hair handle that your braid provides and spin you around so that I can push you onto your hands and knees facing away from me on the bed. Still holding your hair, I wrench your flimsy underwear down over your ass to mid-thigh, revealing your bare snatch, your pouting pussy lips and your winking anus.

I smile in satisfaction when I slide my thumb between your legs and find the slightest trace of moisture there, like I have the previous couple of times we’ve played out this routine. I taunt you about being a slut, spit on my two middle fingers and continue to softly stroke your silken labia, causing your body’s natural response to add your fluids to mine.

You hate this part even more, not because you know you are about to be raped and you are helpless to do anything about it, but because you cannot believe your treacherous body’s response. Not only do my fingers cause you to lubricate unwillingly, but you can’t prevent the pleasurable shivers that it causes from running up your spine and through your loins.

You’ve read the theories of why women respond to rape as a genetic response to eons of male brutality, to make it less painful and damaging.  And while you intellectually understand the concept, it does not quell the deep emotional sense of betrayal by your own body, nor make it feel any less humiliating and confusing.

Especially knowing that this is in fact rape, but being forced to facilitate it, accept it and even participate in every degradation you will endure. That compounds the destruction of your self-worth, reducing you to a helpless victim, tapping into all those feelings of insecurity and inadequacy that were ingrained into the very young version of you.

I’m not going to wait any longer, because I too know this is rape and I will have what I came for. Not just the physical enjoyment, but the power I have over your mind and how you feel. I intend to batter you into submission with my respectable eight inches and penetrate your mind, so that I will remain in there long after I have spilt my seed in your body.

I’ve positioned you so you are looking across the bed towards your dressing table at just the right height for both you and I to watch your expression of utter despair. My hand on your hair ensures that your head is pulled back, so you have no option but to watch yourself and me. The contrast between my excitement and your reluctance is sublime.

I feel no compassion for you. You have wronged me, and this is my justice. Vengeance exacted through exquisite retribution, with the advantage that I get to extract every ounce of deviant pleasure from the act, relishing in your shame and degradation, reluctantly letting me do what I want, because you are trapped like a fly in my web.

I plunge into your tight passage, simultaneously yanking back on your reign-like braid, forcing you to push yourself onto my invading shaft. Still, it only gets halfway in on the first thrust, but two determined pushes of my hips while pulling your hair, and I am seated balls deep in your instinctively clenching quim, your folds and walls massaging me delightfully.

I continue with a serious fucking of your warm wet hole, first in the position we started in, and then pushing down on your shoulders and making your spread your knees wider, so that you arch your back like a bitch in heat and I pummel you like a rabid dog. You grunt and groan under the assault but take it all with hopeless acceptance.

While your pleasure is not my intent, your mortification is, so I angle my thrusts to stroke your inner sensitivity.  The tightening of your twat and the moans escaping from your mouth tell me I am forcing your arousal. But that is enough, I don’t need you to cum this time, having forced your quivering orgasm on a previous occasion. This is just to remind you…

There is something poetic about fucking you on your marital bed, under the watchful eyes of both your portraits. I use that idea to taunt you even more, asking when you last got fucked by him and was it as good as this. All while penetrating as deeply as I can, holding there and revolving my hips to make sure you feel me in your very core.

Eventually I cum, driving deep and pulling you back onto my hips as I feel the pulses of my ejaculate deposited deep inside you, poised to enter your womb. I callously wonder if you are fertile, which would be a great irony, because I know about your husband’s inadequacy in that department. But I don’t care.

You feel nauseated with the flood of warmth into your womb, horrified that conception could be a possibility, if not likely. You had done the numbers and believe you are safe but know nothing is ever certain.  You had decided not to take birth control, because there was always the morning after pill. But none of that makes you feel any less appalled.

You already feel bruised and sore, your vagina battered, your hips held so tightly that you are sure there will be marks tomorrow, your scalp feels like your hair has been partly ripped out. But you know that the ordeal is not over, not by a long shot. In fact, from previous experience you know it will only get worse.

And it does immediately, because your head is pulled around by your hair to clean the foul member that is coated with sperm and traces of your juices. You baulk at putting it in your mouth, but a firm tug ensures your compliance, so you shamefully taste the earthy flavour of yourself through the salty cloying smear of my residue, making you heave.

I leave you lying there panting from the exertion of what you have endured, going to the dressing room to find one of your husband’s ties. Not any tie, but the one he wore to your wedding. After the first time you had hidden it, but your ensuing punishment was so severe that you always ensure that it is there waiting for me, hung neatly on his wardrobe door.

I return to find that you have not moved, grabbing your wrists and binding them with his tie, behind your back using a figure of eight and then wrapping around the middle before tying it off, ensuring that you will not have the use of your hands. You know that pleading will not help, but only increase your next punishment. However, screaming and crying is allowed.

I retrieve my belt and position on your stomach with your hips bent over the ottoman and your tits pressed flat into the bed linen. Your face is turned sidewards, and you watch me with fear out of the corner of your eye. You don’t try to resist this time, unlike the first time, because it will only be worse. You are resigned to your fate.

The first lash lands on your delicate pale buttocks leaving a bright red strip. I’m impressed that you only grunt before counting ‘one’ and thanking me. This is my show and I have written the script for you to follow. While it’s taken four visits for you to learn and recite your lines, you have become somewhat proficient.

I pace the next strikes to let each one sink in and the pain suffuse through your body, the endorphins coursing and starting recovery before I apply the next. Unbearable, searing agony that shoots from your wounded skin throughout your torso. And on each one after the third your shrieks get louder, as your courage and resistance crumble.

I relish this opportunity to subject you to this suffering. My girlfriends find out quite early in our relationship that this is the price of dating me and my wealth. They either leave soon thereafter, not willing to take the abuse, or I kick them out once they get to used to it and it no longer has the same impact. But you can do neither and that truly excites me.

You cannot believe the pain, nor that you could or should be subjected to it. This is not your fault, but that makes no difference to the monster dishing out your punishment. Why is your husband so pathetic that he cannot stop this, cannot defend you like he should? At that moment it feels like you hate him… and you begin to hate yourself.

You were never beaten by your parents or teachers growing up, so have no point of reference for this suffering. It is not normal nor is it acceptable in any world you are aware of, but you have signed an agreement and for so many reasons it is binding. So, you continue to suffer, screaming the ridiculous words you have to repeat.

At least this time it is only ten. Although fibre of your being makes you want to resist, you cannot face twenty… the consequence of disobeying with the tie, or struggling, or not counting. So, you take your punishment and act the part, hoping that it will soon be over, and the next awful act will begin. But at least you will be closer to the end, this time.

Your ass is bright red by the time I am done, faint beads of blood where the edge of the belt cut particularly deep. I love the look and it is just what I desire for the finale. But first I must get hard again, or more accurately that is your task. I’ve been gracious enough to assist by taking a little blue pill and your submissive screams have already helped start me off.

I jump onto the bed, leaning back against your pillows and pull you by the hair towards me, wriggling flat on your stomach, your hands still incapacitated behind your back. It is easy enough to lift and drop your head onto my cock, using your braid as a handle to guide the depth and tempo. I’m so pleased to have added that instruction to your script.

You gurgle and choke around my organ as I feed it into your throat. This time I am not as gentle as before, treating your mouth like a fleshlight and pounding your face down into my crotch.  You should be grateful that I am making you cough up saliva and bile to provide lubrication for your final act.

By now your makeup is ruined by your tears and spit, rivulets of mascara down your cheeks, your eyes red, your chin full of slobber. To my eyes it just makes you look more damaged and beautiful, like a living work of art that I am creating with your despair. Enjoying your mouth cunt and the visual and audial results inspires me to abuse you more.

You think you are about to lose your mind, the relentless blocking of your airway preventing adequate oxygen from reaching your burning lungs. But you also know that you need to leave it slick, to make it less painful when it goes up your backside. Because you know that is what happens next. The deep, degrading, dehumanising rape of your rectum.

Not only does it hurt so bad, but it strips away your femininity and takes everything you are as a woman. In some ways you feel you can cope with the rape of your mouth and your vagina, but this is something more and leaves you feeling much less. An empty broken shell that has to be rebuilt every time.

You have never let any other man, including your husband in there, and swear you never will. But that is not a decision you make under this agreement, so you have to endure, suffer and accept. Including the most horrific words you could imagine having to say… “Please rape my asshole before you finish.”

That has to be the highlight of the evening, watching the utter degradation and humiliation on your face when you croak the required words through your hoarse fucked throat. I grin with satisfaction and spin you around, not releasing your hands but thoughtfully placing a pillow under your hips to raise your ass enticingly.

Your tightest hole is just that, the ring of your sphincter feels like it is trying to throttle my shaft as I ease inside. You admitted the first time that you where an anal virgin, screaming and pleading for me not to do it. But now we have an understanding that this is your role and I’ll get what I want, one way or another.

Your tears drip down onto the sheets as you cry out your agony and disgrace. The depraved pleasure I feel from every awful thing you are experiencing is almost better than the physical sensations caused by your most secret place. Corrupting the innocent is without doubt one of my favourite hobbies, and you are just so deliciously naïve.

You are a shivering wreck by the time I’m finished taking my enjoyment and leave another load deep in your bowels. I happily withdraw, wiping my soiled cock on your thigh and bedsheets, before nonchalantly getting dressed. My time is up, and my fun is over for tonight. Sending you a little bit further down the path of justice that I have planned.

You have nothing left as you lie sobbing and curled in an agonised ball on your bed, a little bit more of your soul shattered through the ordeal you have just survived. Your insecurities resurfacing and your distrust of the world re-emerging. Your belief in your husband and the safety he can provide further eroded. Where will this end and why do you have to suffer so?

You know you will recover and rebuild yourself tomorrow, but you also know that you will never be the same. Because you didn’t fully recover the previous three times. These trials change you and you don’t know how you will survive another eight. You worry that you are like the beautiful gown on the floor, torn asunder, never to be fully repaired.

I stride contentedly from the room, not even glancing back at the broken doll I have left behind. I feel no empathy for you nor him. Understanding my psychopathic tendencies has released me from the doubt and constraints of other people, allowing me to explore my base instincts and dark desires. I am the prosecutor, judge and executioner wrapped in one.

I knew that money was being skimmed from the beginning but let you and your husband dig yourselves into a deep hole from which there was no escape, no redemption other than through me. And I intended to use that control to destroy everything that you thought you once were and once had. And then cast you away when you are used up.

Your husband is still sitting on the couch where I had left him a couple of hours before, head in his hands in defeat. I think I can see a trail of spittle on his chin as if he had thrown up, hopefully from the despair of hearing you suffer. Either way, the helplessness on his face and the tears in his eyes are like an elixir to me.

He was never a friend, just someone who was useful to me. He is still of use, both for his financial acumen and now because I get to play this game with you and him. All because you betrayed me, crossed me, thought you were smarter than me… and because I can. I walk out the front door saying I’ll see him tomorrow and reminding him I’ll be back next month.
"Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darkness of other people." Karl Jung.

Offline Shocker

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Re: One Night [May Contest Entry]
« Reply #1 on: June 02, 2021, 12:42:54 AM »
This story was cruel and exciting at the same time. You paint masterfully the picture of the wife destroyed bit by bit.

Offline vile8r1

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Re: One Night [May Contest Entry]
« Reply #2 on: June 02, 2021, 04:54:23 PM »
One of the best "revenge" stories I've ever read!  Leave it to you seeker to craft such an original tale.  :fap:

Offline LostInWonderland2

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Re: One Night [May Contest Entry]
« Reply #3 on: June 10, 2021, 10:30:19 PM »
I adore the ‘monster’ you’ve created. Love how this is written and can tell the amount of pleasure that went into writing it. I would really like to see a few short stories about other encounters and victims he’s had. Great story!


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