The Veldt

He said he had something special planned. This immediately set off alarm bells in my head. It also made me excited. Excited in that way that is thrillingly close to fear.

When I arrived home, he was already there. He using his key made me feel both invaded and captivated. Captivated in the archaic sense of the word.

I'd been swimming; my hair was curly and still damp. My scent was of sun and chlorine. "You smell like come," he told me. I winced at this crudity, but felt my nipples grow tight. "Get into the bedroom," he said.

I shook my head. "Not until you tell me what you have planned that's so special."

He laughed. "Move!" he ordered. He swung his arm and slapped me on the bottom. It stung; it was meant to. I walked ahead of him to my bedroom.

***************

It was difficult to understand how things had come to this between he and I. How we had gone from a casually dating couple to... this. Is it that something within me, something dark, something secret, was somehow visible to the polar magnetism of his own hidden vice? Did I put out a signal, a kind of scent, that only a man such as he would immediately recognize? Intrinsically know and respond to?

It was as though he was a predator surveying the herd, instantly aware of the vulnerable one, the weak one, the one who's need cried out, the one begging to be made prey. How could any predator fail to oblige? Perhaps this thing between us came down only to instinct and the mesh of needs.

I remember the first time. The first time he tested me, as a tiger would test potential quarry. Would the prey flee? Would it fight? Or would it accept its fate at the claws of the beast?

During sex, tame, early-dating sex, vanilla love-making in a dim-lit bedroom, he seized me by my hair. Wrapped his fist in my long curls, held me down as the tempo of his thrusts turned suddenly brutal and fast.

"You're hurting me!" I gasped, but my tone was not one of indignation, affront or outrage. Instead, my protest was tentative, passive. Perfect prey.

He tightened his hold on me, his blue eyes fixed upon my face, drinking in every reaction, reading me so well. He released my hair and I sighed in relief; surely this anomaly was ended. But didn't something shadowy, something furtive within me, also despair at his stopping?

When he grabbed my legs, flung them roughly up over his shoulders, I cried out in dissent, but inside something flickered and was fiercely, darkly glad. More.

"No, no," I moaned. "Don't!"

His cock was hurting me, shoving deeply, fully into me. But wasn't I wetter than the moments prior?

"Shut-up," he said brusquely, and I drew in my breath sharply in shock. How could he possibly be talking to me in such a way? "I'm going to make you think of me every time you sit down tomorrow."

My mind spun. How could this be happening? He was pounding in and out of me; my breasts were heaving with the force of it. But incredibly, I could feel that I was becoming increasingly slick, flowing with wet. I was horribly aware suddenly that I could actually hear how wet my slit had become, the shameful sluice of noise lubricating his invasion of me.

It was embarrassment at my own response that caused me to push at his chest, cry out for him to quit. Shame and fear at my own pleasure in this. I could not let this happen. I could not let myself feel these things. He must stop this.

He laughed at my efforts, an arrogant, cruel tone I had never heard from him before, and he easily captured both my thin wrists in one hand, pinning them above my head, leaning his weight into me so that I was folded nearly in half, my legs spread high up on his wide shoulders.

"You want me to stop, Beth?" he whispered, and I nodded mutely, desperate, my eyes wide.

"Then why is your little pussy so wet? Why is it squeezing my cock like you're just burning for me to make you come?" His free hand moved to caress my breasts and I couldn't help my hips from bucking against him. "Why are your pretty pink nipples so hard, Beth, if you want me to stop?"

Wordlessly, I shook my head, unable to tear my gaze from his hard blue stare. He caught my nipple, pinched me brutally. The pain was sudden, and I screamed. The pain was deep, it was intricate, and it seemed to follow some elusive pathway down through my body, down some stealthy road of forbidden fantasy, down to where it made me constrict around his hard cock, made me overflow with heated moisture, made my echoing scream one of climax and forced ecstasy.

"Good girl," I heard him murmur through the treacherous spirals of my coming. "Good Beth." And he mercilessly caught my other nipple, squeezing hard. The hurt throbbed through me, mingling with my rapture in a dangerous alchemy. I was panting, moaning, and my eyes were damp with tears. I had crashed through some barrier, crossed the threshold into a perilous realm, an ominous veldt where the pleasure of the prey is to be that of the beast.

He growled as he shot his seed deep inside my body, grinding himself balls deep within me. After a long moment, he let down my shaking legs, rolled and gathered me into his the baking heat of his embrace. I shuddered and shook as a creature in its death throes, my hips convulsing in little involuntary jerks when my mind stirred to what he had just done to me. What he had made me feel.

He petted me to quiet. Caressed me to stillness. And I sank into a sleep more profound and serene than I could ever recall.

And thus this was loosed between he and I.

***************

I saw that he had prepared the bedroom. The waxen scent of candles assailed me as he opened the door, ushered me inside. Red candles, tall, short, large and small, burned all around the room. The quilt was pulled from the bed and lay in a colorful puddle on the floor. Tied to the brass bars of the headboard was a yard or so of soft rope divided at the end into two loops. For my hands, I thought.

My mind seemed to stutter; candles, bed, rope, his voice telling me to take off my clothes, take them off now.

My hands were unsteady; I unbuttoned my shorts, let them slide down my legs. I stepped from my sandals. How strangely reluctant, shy, I was to take off my tee shirt, reveal the heaviness of my unbound breasts to him.

My delay hung weighty in the air, provoking his patience. "Are you being disobedient, Beth?" he asked.

Mutely, I shook my head, pulled my shirt off over my head. My nipples stood out hard upon my breasts in some amalgamation of fear and arousal. I slowly pulled my panties down the length of my thighs, let them fall free, stepped out of them. Under his scrutiny, I felt exposed in a way beyond simple nakedness; I felt vulnerable, defenseless, caught in some awful jeopardy. I was never sure of exactly how much he was capable.

"Very good," he said. He deliberately walked around me. "Lovely as ever. Now, go lie down on the bed." His hand reached out, ran the length of my back, curved down to cup my bottom. "And Beth," he continued. "Lie on your belly."

I was frightened. I was excited. I was intensely exhilarated.

I walked to the bed, hesitated, knelt down upon the smooth sheets and then wavered again. My mind clamored at me, demanding to know what I was doing, where my self-preservation had gone. Was I really going to let this man, this man who was really still much a stranger to me, actually tie me down on my own bed? Was I seriously going to put myself in this position? Make myself helpless? At his mercy and at peril? What kind of woman was I?

His patience was ominous. Omniscient. He smiled slightly, waiting.

In the end, I did it. I lay myself down, arms extended towards the rope he would use to bind me, face hidden in the curtain of my hair, supine. Really, how could I not and never know what might have happened?

Meticulously, he bound my hands. I cautiously tested my restraint. The single rope was tied firmly to the headboard. It forked like an inverted Y to secure my wrists. I tugged at it under his watchful, satisfied gaze, and knew that it would not give or dislodge. There was ample length to turn, move about, but not leave the bed. I was entirely in his power.

"Lie still," he commanded. "On your belly."

Tentatively, I did so. What would happen now? Was it too late to call this whole thing off?

I turned my head to watch him as he came to stand beside the bed. I think that embarrassment was my primary emotion. Discomfiture that I should have allowed myself to be placed in such a shameful position. How must this look? What would he think?

I opened my mouth, spoke his name, meaning to tell him to untie me, that this entire thing, while amusing enough, was at end.

He reached out, his reflexes savagely quick, and caught me by the hair. His other hand descended sharply upon the bare curve of my bottom. The sound of the slap resounded through the room. Tears sprang to my eyes; his grip in my hair was brutal.

"Make no mistake," he growled. "This is no game. No little amusement. There's no Safe Word. Girls like you never have a Safe Word, now do they?" He eased his hold on my hair just slightly. "I'm going to do to you whatever I please. Use you any way I wish. Do you understand that?"

I stared at him in uncertainty, dismay. Fright. He yanked my head back, pulling my hair, bringing fresh tears to my eyes. "Well?" he demanded.

My voice wouldn't come. Yes, I nodded. Yes.

He released me. I became aware that my whole body was consumed with a fine trembling. This was infinitely different than a bit of rough trade in bed between consenting adults. Is this where my curiosity, my attraction for avant-garde sexuality, my boredom with vanilla, had led me? Tied down with no Safe Word. My actual life at the mercy of this man.

He began to take off his clothing. Transfixed, I watched. Shoes, socks, shirt, neatly folded and set aside. He stood before my alarmed eyes, began to unbuckle his belt.

What is there about lying submissive, powerless before a man, caught under his gaze as he slowly loosens his belt? I felt reduced, diminished, to something craven, something weak, something terribly younger than the adult woman I was. Unbuckling his belt. To beat me? To take off his pants to fuck me? An ache tumbled through my belly, against the sheet my nipples turned pebble-hard. I hid my burning face against the bed.

I heard the slithering sound of the leather belt being pulled free of the loops of his pants. I shuddered, tensed up. No, no, no, I silently begged. Shockingly, I spread my legs slightly. Insanity!

I heard the sound, the whirr through the candle-scented air, an instant before the hurt suffused my senses. And he was beating me, his belt lashing a precise pattern of pain across my bottom, my thighs, up my back, across my hips. It hurt; it hurt worse than I'd imagined in my furtive fantasies. I ached, I shuddered, writhing beneath his belt, trying frantically to twist away from the blows. Even as I pleaded, nearly incoherent, with him to stop, please stop, part of my mind was stuck, utterly incredulous. Was this really me? And was this really happening? Tied down on a bed, beaten with a belt, the heat between my legs growing apace with the heat of my flesh's agony? Impossible.

When he was satisfied, when he had obtained what result he sought, he stopped. My quick, ragged gasps filled the room. I was afraid to look at him, afraid of what rapaciousness, what hunger, I would glimpse in his face. The skin of my back, my bottom, my hips and legs, seemed a kind of foreign territory to me. A heated veldt of sting and throb, a pulsating hunting ground of sensation, intensity, pain. I was marked. I was province. I was prey.

I cringed into the sheets as I felt his weight upon the bed. I felt his presence over me. I half shrieked to feel the touch of his long fingers over my flesh, tracing the stripes he had put on me. He hummed in approval, cool fingers following the hot pain of each weal. Sensation blurred, and in an instant, the raggedness of my breathing became inspired by arousal and not hurt. He trailed his mouth down my back, his tongue wetting a long line along my spine, dipping finally into the cleft of my buttocks.

I squirmed as he kissed me there, licking this cleavage damp and warm. It felt good, a guilty kind of good, and I tried to roll away from it. Instantly, his hand descended upon my sore bottom, slapping me sharply. I jerked against the ropes, my body strumming with pain, but then sagged back, submissive.

His mouth returned, avid, wet, licking and sucking on my flesh, his teeth lightly racking the curves of my cheeks. His fingers insinuated themselves deftly, spreading me, giving him access to me where I had never felt or imagined I would be kissed. I fought to be still. I fought against acknowledging this taboo pleasure. But I was shaking, quavering uncontrollably beneath the perversion of his kiss, and I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning.

Then he was pulling me up, his hands on my hips, tugging me to my hands and knees. I kept my eyes shut, wanting to hide, wanting to conceal from him the shame of my excitement. I felt him shove a pillow beneath my loins in front, elevating my hips and bottom. His hand upon my back lowered my upper body back upon the sheets. I felt him rise from the bed.

"Tell me, Beth," his voice came calmly from across the room. "Have you ever been fucked up the ass?"

My breath caught in shock. I was silent.

"Beth," he chided. "Answer me. Have you ever been sodomized? Anal sex? Tell me."

It was as though I was incapable of speaking.

I realized the meaning of the quick sound through the air, the second before his belt struck my upraised cheeks. Harder than before. Vicious. And again, wrapping in agony around my hips. Tears spurted from my clenched eyelids. I strained the ropes, drew my legs up under me, curling up against the hurt.

"Be still!" he snarled, and the force of his voice froze me. "Lie still, keep your ass in the air, and answer me."

Shaking, I straightened out my legs, swallowed hard passed the lump in my throat. "No," I answered. "I tried it once, but it didn't work."

"Didn't work?" he said, dark amusement in his tone. "Tell me."

"My first boyfriend," I began haltingly, "wanted to try it." I almost choked. "Anal sex. So we tried, but it didn't work."

"And how didn't it work, Beth?" he pressed, and I could hear his barely suppressed laughter.

"It... it wouldn't go in," I whispered. "It wouldn't go in and it hurt, so I told him to stop."

"And did he?" he asked. "Of course he did. Quite the gentleman, right Beth?" I heard him move closer, his hand settled upon the nape of my neck, his voice hissed in my ear. "And how did you feel about that, Beth? Did you secretly hate him, for giving in to you? For stopping? For being unable to get his pathetic excuse for a cock shoved up your tight ass?"

I gasped and shook my head, trying to rid myself of his hand, trying to rid myself of his words. He laughed, pulled at my hair to raise my head.

"Look at me," he demanded. "Open your silly eyes and look at me."

Reluctantly, I obeyed.

His blue eyes crinkled around the corners in grim mirth. His face was lean and lined, weathered with odd whimsy and cruelty, honed by a ruthless depravity, a kind of anarchistic degeneracy. A sadist with a sense of humor.

"And you know, don't you, Beth," he said with a terrifying tenderness, "that I will have no such problem, show you no such good manners?"

"I know," I breathed.

He released his hold on me. Trembling, I pressed my flaming face against the cool cotton sheets. I heard his movements in the room. The drapery of my hair about my face was a comfort to me. My heartbeat seemed to reverberate through the mattress. He was going to do this to me. He was going to shove himself into my ass, regardless of what I said, how I pleaded or begged. Regardless of how it would hurt me. My breath hitched at this thought. Uncontrollably, my hips jerked against the pillow beneath them. I pressed my thighs together tightly; they adhered together with the slickness of wet skin. I was soaked, thinking of the him sodomizing me, thinking of him forcing his cavalier way into the tight sanctity of my untried ass. Thinking of the pain. Knowing I was helpless, beyond any will but his.

I shivered. I pressed myself furtively against the big pillow beneath me, ground my fluff-covered mound hard, tried to disguise my small sound of pleasure.

But he knew. He would always know, and he chuckled as he smacked me on the ass.

"My little whore," he laughed.

I should have been affronted, I should have been ashamed. The word whore had always seemed so despicable, so insulting. Why did his words make me clench my puss, flow with moisture, rub myself against the pillow even as he slapped me again?

He spread my thighs as I lay over the pillow. "What a naughty girl," he crooned, stroking me, parting my labia with his fingers. "What a bad, wet girl you are. You're just dying for it, aren't you? Aching for me to fuck your ass. I'm going to make you scream."

I quaked in fear, I writhed in pleasure. He was right; I was aching for it. I wanted him to use me, force me, punish me if I resisted. I wanted nothing less than utter subjugation. I wanted to be out of control.

He found my clit and my whole body jumped. He leaned onto me, his weight bearing me down. I could feel the thrust of his cock against my leg. He fingered me, pinching me there, pulling at me with his fingertips, riding the frantic thrashings of my heated body. He laughed at the noises I made, my beseechments, held me down as I struggled and grew damp, slick with sweat, slowed his manipulation upon me each time I drew close to climax. He sank his teeth into my shoulder and I wailed in pain even as I pressed myself harder, faster against his hand, his teasing fingers. Then, to my anguish, he rose off of me, taking away the torture of his caress.

This in itself topped any pinnacle of sexuality I had ever come close to. And he had barely begun with me. I didn't know how much more I could take.

I lay upon the bed, shaking, strands of hair adhering to my damp face, watching as he took up a candle taper, it's flame wavering as he moved back towards me.

"If you disobey me in any way, Beth," he said warningly, "I will hurt you more than you've imagined even in your most masochistic fantasies. Do you understand?"

Part of me was stuck, shocked and ashamed that he should guess at my fantasies, label them with that shameful word. The other part of my mind believed him utterly, and was afraid. I nodded shakily, my eyes mesmerized by his visage in the candle light.

"Lie still. Completely still," he breathed, and I felt his weight settle upon the bed behind me.

I was scared. Suddenly so scared. I froze, muscles taut.

At first instant, my nerves did not recognize the sensation. It was oddly like those instances when your hand touches boiling water and your nervous system cries cold! before it recognizes hot! Then I knew. Small trickle, burning pain, on the small of my bare back. The slow abatement from scald to sting. Then again, molten hurt, liquid pain, dripped slowly over my flesh.

I cried out. I shrank against the bed, afraid to do more, afraid of disobeying him.

"Be still," he hissed. "Be quiet."

I lay trembling, my eyes shut. A single burning drop fell down upon the cheek of my bottom, slid its thick, slow way over my skin. He took his time; his torture was languid. I lay in the torment of suspense, not knowing when or where the next trickle would fall. It seemed as though my senses were too acute, heightened to an uncanny degree. My focus was utterly concentrated. The heated spill of pain, agonizingly intense, burning in a tiny stream of hurt, cooling gradually, so slowly, to a glowing warmth. Then the terribleness of his pause, his silence, my anticipation, until the candle moved, tilted over a new area of tender, cringing flesh, and spilled its anguish anew.

Where did it hurt the most? Each new area seemed to shriek a fresh testimony. My heart was thundering, my mouth was dry. I squeezed my eyes shut so tightly that behind my closed lids everything was a red savannah of pain. I imagined how I must look in the flickering candlelit cave of my room. The red wax dried and drying in trickles over my skin must look like horrible wounds. The claw marks of some savage beast. I must look bloody, bleeding, dying in the lair of some brutal carnivore.

I shuddered at this image. Shook as his hand parted my legs. I couldn't subdue a moan at the hot fall of wax on the wet of my inner thighs, burning through my moisture, skirting the line of my swollen labia. I was terrified that the next drops would fall where I was so tender, where I throbbed and pulsed. I was afraid to move. I was afraid I would move involuntarily. I gasped as the small lava of the candle splashed down my other thigh.

"Tell me again about your first lover and his attempt to sodomize you." His voice came through the candle-smoked air.

I swallowed. I didn't think I could speak. Wax splattered down the cleft of my ass and I shivered in pain and the dread that it would flow without cooling to burn me down lower.

"We were at his mother's house while she was at work," I hardly recognized my own voice. "He had been talking about it for awhile. He had read about it in magazines. He wanted to try it."

I froze as a single droplet coursed down my inner thigh. The pain was so intense, so intricate. It was as though I had never been so aware of sensation.

"Tell me," he prompted.

"He got cooking oil," I whispered. I was somehow amazed at how sharp this memory had abruptly become. "He put it on himself. He was all pink there. His penis." The first penis I'd ever really seen. It came to me as I lay there, cringing in anticipation of the next driblet of candle wax, that I'd really been appalled back then at the horrid fleshly protuberance. Pink as an Easter ham, a stubby stalk of meat, never really hard. The thing he was obsessed with, always wanting to stick in some orifice. My horrified mouth, eventually my poor disappointed cunny, and finally in the taboo of my ass. The contempt I'd never quite acknowledged for him, surged full-blown in this retrospection.

"He wanted me to lie on my side, him behind me," I said, then pulled in my breath sharply. A thin river of heat edged down between my spread legs. My nerves were fixated so acutely that I could feel the course of wax slow as it ran into the copiousness of my wetness.

"Did you want to try it as well?" His voice seemed to come from far away.

"Yes," I said. Yes, I remembered, I did. I had read of this in the more explicit bodice-ripper novels of my teenage years. I had been excited, stirred, by the dirtiness of it, the forbidden factor of this act. And I had been aroused, intensely aroused, by the implicit submission of being fucked by a man in this way. The idea of being taken from the back, dominated, broken into and used in this way, had fueled many of my fantasies. I wanted the hurt, I wanted to be subjugated, I wanted to be made to yield.

"It was Wesson Oil," I said, again surprised at the depth of the memory. Wax over my ass. Burning sting of pain. "He kept pushing and pushing. He said I was making his penis bend instead of going in." I heard his dark laughter as he spilled another hot trickle over my throbbing flesh. "I was getting annoyed. I thought he was doing it wrong. And I was embarrassed. I had agreed to this, and now it wasn't working. He seemed to be blaming me somehow, like it was my fault that he couldn't get in."

I couldn't believe I was telling him this. I shivered as wax dripped over me. I heard his breath, smelled the smoke as the candle he held was blown out.

"It hurt," I continued, and drew in my breath sharply as he tilted the blown out candle, let the last of its hot wax drip slowly over my ass. I imagined the drips would look like the red puncture marks of sharp fangs. "He was hurting me, jabbing at me, trying to get himself in when he wasn't very hard. I was mad. I was angry that I had agreed. Angry that he couldn't do it. And I was ashamed that I was disappointed, that I had been turned-on by something like this, something that Good Girls shouldn't want to do."

I felt his fingers slide down, insinuating themselves between the lips of my slit. It was as though he touched me through thick warm oil. I was so wet. Turgid, swollen and soaked.

"My bad, beautiful little girl," he breathed, and found my clit with his long wet fingers. "I'm going to make you come like you've never come before."

Circles on my clit, rubbing, rubbing while I shook and moaned, arching my hips up at him. I was consumed with sheer sensation. The throbbing weals from his belt, the stinging runes of candle wax, the swollen wet heat between my legs that ached for satiation.

"And then," he continued, his finger swirling faster, pressing me closer, closer, "I'm going to break into your tight little bottom, open you up for my cock. I'm going to push my cock into you, slam you, pound you, fuck your ass and come deep inside you. I'm going to fuck you so hard you'll feel it for days."

His words, his dirty, invocative words promising pain, promising my submission, promising to fuck me sore, pushed me over the edge his knowing fingers had brought me to. And I tumbled into a climax that made me scream, made me fight the ropes like an animal, made me gush with wet, and beg him, beg him rawly, hoarsely, to fuck me, fuck me, please.

I collapsed, shuddering over the pillow. I felt his weight leave the bed. Weakly, I tried to shake my hair from my face so that I could see where he was. I felt as though I had somehow swooned into a surreal kind of world. Nothing seemed quite real. Candle flames flickered through the room like hot, tiny tongues. My only sure context was the bed beneath me, sheets rumpled, damp with my sweat, the big pillow elevating my hips from underneath, the tightness of dried wax adhering to my body, as dark as old blood in the uncertain light, and the pain and desire that had fused as one throughout me.

"You know I'm not done with you," His voice beside me. And I twisted to try to see him. "Be still!" he commanded, and I was.

How shameful is it, to admit my relief to hear that he was not done? How humiliating, to realize that I craved more. More pain, more sex, more of the awful union of the two.

Behind me, between my spread thighs, his hands cupping my ass, squeezing me, kneading my flesh. He was smoothing lubricant on me; it felt cool; thick oil on the heat of my skin, the welts and small burns.

And I knew. I knew what the lube meant, that he was preparing me, getting near to doing it, to fucking my ass.

Trepidation filled me, vied with arousal as my belly spun with aching for this, as I felt my soaking pussy constrict. There was something so darkly, dirtily exciting about being tied, being bound helpless, having him smear me with lube, make me accessible to his impending incursion. I writhed under his hands, writhed with the sure knowledge that he was going to do this and as I could in no way stop him.

His slippery finger found me, circled and pressed where, had I not been tied, not been beaten by him with his leather belt, I would have felt compelled to indignantly deny him. And it felt good. I bit at the sheets to smother my groan of pleasure as he inserted the tip of an oiled finger.

"The first girl I fucked like this," he said, his voice low, yet seeming somehow to fill my head, "hated my guts. She was a friend of my sister, a stuck-up little cheerleader type. She came to me, wanted to cheat her way through Geometry. For doing her homework, for letting her copy off me during exams, I wanted her ass. That was my condition, my payment." His finger entered me, crossing that tight threshold, twisted within me slowly, working the lubricant into me. "And I think that right up until the moment I settled my cock in her," he continued, "she thought she'd somehow coerce me into letting her out of her end of the bargain."

I couldn't control my breathing. I was panting audibly when he entered me deeper, his finger parting me, pushing slickly into my ass. I thought of him with the cheerleader, imagined her blonde, blue-eyed, stuck-up. I wondered if he had made her keep her uniform skirt on while he sodomized her. I knew somehow that he had.

"I think she thought she had everything under control until she saw the Vaseline on my nightstand. She wasn't too worried even then, thinking that her plan to have my sister interrupt us was still in the works. When she realized my sister wasn't home, she tried to offer me a blow job instead." He laughed, probed me deeper as I squirmed beneath him.

"She called me every foul name she could think of as she bent over the bed, but by the time I worked the head of my cock into her, she was mostly just whimpering."

He had two fingers inside me, fucking me slowly, in and out. It hurt. But did it hurt? Wasn't I trying to press my swollen clit, my wet pussy against the pillow?

His other hand slid beneath me and he rubbed his palm over me, feeling how swollen, how drenched I was. "I remember at some point," he mused, fingertips adroitly finding my clit, "suddenly being flooded with guilt, wondering if I were sick, deviant, for being so turned on by the way she was begging me to stop. The way her body trembling under mine made me want to fuck her harder, faster. The way I felt watching her little cunt get wet even as she told me I was killing her with the pain."

A fine sheen of sweat covered my body. I rose, balancing on my bound hands and knees. I was rocking back, wanting his fingers shoved deeper, harder in my ass, needing his other hand rubbing my desperately aroused clit.

"I loved making her cry," he whispered, fucking me with his hands, his long fingers. "I loved it. Loved the way it felt, slapping her on the ass as I fucked her. Loved that she screamed when I finally lost it and came inside her. And I loved it the most when after all her curses and tears and pleading, she tried to talk me into going down on her, getting her off, after I pulled my cock out of her ass."

"Did you?" I gasped, barely able to speak. But I had to know. He laughed, pushed deeper. I could hear the squish of the lubricant.

I could sense that he was smiling. "You should know I don't go down on girls I don't care about."

I closed my eyes in pleasure, knowing the many times he had tasted me there.

"You're ready for me, Bethie," he said then. "You're ready for my cock in your ass."

"No, no," I protested, suddenly afraid, suddenly reluctant. I tried to rise up, I tugged frantically at the ropes binding me.

"Oh yes, " he said, his fingers dragging out of me.

Panicked, I twisted, watching him over my shoulder, yanking desperately at the obdurate rope. He caught my gaze, baring his teeth in a smile, his hand anointing the thickness of his hard cock with lube. Then he was bearing my upper body down, pulling me up by the hips, pushing my thighs wider with his knees. He seemed so strong, so much stronger than me. And I found myself whimpering too, as had the long ago cheerleader, when he eased the big head of his cock into my ass.

And it did hurt, and I couldn't stop him, as he worked his way into me. I was moaning, grinding my flushed, perspiring face into the sheet, feeling his hands holding me where his belt had marked me, where I was encrimsoned with waxen trails. Feeling his cock stretch me, fill me, lay claim to me.

"That's my girl," he groaned, pushing his full length into me.

He bore me down under him, his body heavy and heated. The stubble of his chin chafed the sensitive skin of my shoulder as he ground himself into me. He pulled out nearly his entire length, before shoving himself back in. I screamed, the sound smothered into the bed. He grunted his pleasure at my cry, at fucking me this way, pulled out and thrust deeply again. I felt his balls hit my pussy.

If I had yearned sexually to be dominated, to be controlled, this was the requiting of that longing. My arousal vied with my fear, my excitement with panic. I could barely move, much less resist. The dim room wavered eerily with candlelight; the air was warm and heavy with the scent of wax and smoke and the musk of sex and sweat. He drove into me brutally, reveling in my panting cries. His hands held me hard; we were both slippery and perspiring. His mouth found the side of my throat, sucking and biting at my flesh, making me sob and twist beneath him.

My mind careened from my current anguish and ecstasy. My thoughts turned to the cheerleader, to him sodomizing her. Her little skirt pushed up over her round teenage ass, her panties torn away, him holding her by her ponytail of blonde hair as he guided the Vaseline-smeared head of his cock to her tiny puckered bottom. Pushing ruthlessly in as she shook and cursed him. The little tears - how that must have aroused him! - sliding down her flushed face as he settled his length fully inside her. And then fucking her, making her silly ass his, pounding her without mercy, spurred on by her cries and glimpses of treacherous moisture dampening her pink puss. Slapping her. It would have been good, slapping her, seeing his livid handprints on her soft pale bottom.

Oh god. I was soaking the bed beneath me. I was aghast that I was reacting so strongly to thoughts of him abusing some girl in his past. What was wrong with me, that the vision of him brutally fucking her, making her scream and cry, made me ache and flood the sheets?

Dismayed, appalled, I tried to resist. In a frenzy I sought to rise, push him off of me, and I heard his laughter as he easily held me down.

I couldn't see; my hair was all over my hot face. His whole body was sliding against me, riding me, slick with sweat and lube. He was fucking me harder, making it hurt, and I knew that he enjoyed my struggles, my pain, his dominance. And didn't I, too? Wasn't that the lure that had brought he and I together in this infusion of violence and carnality? Wasn't this the secret sin I had tried well to hide? The furtive hunger he had spied with his crafty old predator's eye? My shame was fodder for his own craving. He was the marauder I wanted most. This was the dark debauchery of my dreams.

He hauled me up, his hands hard on my sore hips. He held me immobile, began thrusting forcefully into me. I whimpered in hurt. I tilted my hips up so that he could penetrate me deeper. He's going to come. He's going to come inside of me, I thought, almost disbelieving.

The wet sound of flesh hitting flesh filled my ears. He groaned, a barely human sound, as he got closer. His hands tightened savagely on me. Bent over, bent submissively before him, feeling his cock swell, feeling the hard shove of him as he sought his pleasure in my body, reality seemed to slide into something more intense, more powerfully tactile, something brutally primitive, cruelly passionate. A microcosm in which there is only the quintessential predator and prey and the awful synchronicity of their wants.

Flooding me with his seed, marking his territory, he came in my ass. After, groaning, he lay upon me, panting, pleased, nuzzling my humid neck to comfort me as I whimpered and shook.

I gasped in pain as he pulled his spent cock from me. He was right; I was going to be sore for days. He turned me over to my back. I was limp in his hands, my muscles aching, my bottom throbbing, the lash marks covering my back stinging. I let my eyes close and I murmured weakly in pleasure as his mouth found my breasts, warm, wet, suckling at my nipples. The tingle spread down my body, glowing through me, tweaking my clit.

I was so tired. Exhausted, raw, yet I kindled to the stimulus of his tugging mouth, the comfort of his hands smoothing and stroking me. He licked a slow wet line down my belly, and I felt his breath through the short curls of my mound. I was too lethargic to do more than sigh languidly as his mouth found my clit and took me there, laving me gently, swirling me with his tongue.

I closed my eyes as he stalked my orgasm. My hips languorously rolled against the heat of his suck. And then I was arching, arching up against his devouring mouth. And my cry resounded through the jungle musk of the room. A cry in this hot veldt of desire where pleasure is indistinguishable from pain, where we glutted the ferocious beast within us both and sated our savagery to indolent slumber.