Archive for non-consensual

The Parking Lot

The elevator doors opened and revealed Cheyenne standing in the hall outside Dr. F______ office.

“Ms. B______,” she said. “Welcome back. The doctor will see you now. Allow me.”

She stepped into the elevator, inserted a key and pressed one of the basement buttons. Once it lit up, she straightened herself and looked up at the progression of floors.

She was wearing a heather gray wool jacket and straight skirt. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. She did not look at me or address me beyond her initial instruction.

The elevator arrived at the specified floor after what felt like hours and when the doors opened, I turned to Cheyenne, who did not step forward. She motioned simply into the darkened parking lot with a hand.

I rolled my eyes and stepped out. As predicted, Cheyenne keyed the doors shut and disappeared in the silver tube, leaving me alone in the creepy basement place. I looked at my mobile phone. No reception. Of course not. I lit a cigarette and began to walk across.

There were few cars. Most of them were covered, but all of them were good looking cars. I know nothing about cars, but I do know about aesthetics and these cars were very visually appealing. I touched one with my fingers: dust. An old man’s abandoned toys–as depressing as a teddy bear lying on the side of the road.

I lifted one of the covers and looked at a gorgeous machine, the sort of thing in which a treacherous, villainous woman would have herself chauffeured, which I would later discover was a Bucciali TAV 12, of which only two are known to exist in the world, one in France and one in the United States. Right here. Somewhere under Los Angeles.

I took a long drag of my cigarette before crushing it under my heel and began to pull the cover off the car. Its body was black and square. I ran a hand over the red line that ran across its side and my eyes focused on the peculiar image of a silver bird with gold wings on the side near the grille.

A sudden burst of force suddenly knocked me into the car, the impact of which caused a series of alarms to go off around me. In a motion, my hands were behind my back and I was motionless, pressed against the long hood of the car, my face staring into the empty windshield of the Bucciali. My focus on the reflection of my assailant in the vague reflection of the dusty car prevented me from going into a panic.

I was so focused on it that I didn’t realize he’d tied my hands until I felt him working the rope around my fore-arms. I pressed my pelvis against the car, trying to manipulate myself out of his grasp.

Dr. F______ put one hand on my back and flattened me into the car again.

“Do you feel trapped?” he asked.

“No.” I responded.

He put a hand under my belly and flipped me over so I was looking up at him. He pushed up my skirt a bit and began to bind my thighs with a rope with such dexterity, I was unable to react in a way to prevent it.

“Do you feel trapped?” he asked.

“No!” I said, obstinately, though I could not move my limbs from the knees up.

He took me by the front of my coat and threw me to the ground.

“Do you feel trapped?” he asked once again, the alarms still echoing around us.

“You can tie me up all you like, Doctor,” I said with a smile. “But you can’t keep me.”

He knelt beside me. His face came close to mine.

“I can’t keep you,” he repeated. “And why is that?”

“Someone would notice. Your office is the last place on my planner. They would know it was you.”

“And who is they?”

“The police.”

“What if I don’t mean to keep you?” he asked me.

What is he going to do? I wondered, feeling my impertinence shrink and fear begin to take hold. What good was the police after the first forty eight hours? If he doesn’t mean to keep me–would he dispose of me?

In the dim light, Dr. F______ looked like the perfect serial killer. Well-kept, in black lambswool sweater rolled up almost to the elbow, showing impressively shaped forearms. The stuff of Bret Easton Ellis’s twisted mind.

F_____ looked down at me and smiled, it was almost a kind smile. Except, well, you know, he’d tackled me, tied me up and thrown me on the ground. F_______ nodded and then he placed a blindfold over my eyes.

Darkness. I don’t know how long I lay there. With the sound of alarms fading fast, the cold pavement smelled like the silence of the forgotten.

A movement suddenly pulled at my shirt and I felt the cold harden my nipples. I tried to sit up, but was met with the force of his sole.

Oh, my god.

In time, the weight of his foot disappeared, but I didn’t dare move and invite it back. I wondered whether rolling would give me enough time to get up. Just then, I felt something cold, I thought it was a hand but it rolled between my exposed tits and down my side and I realized it was water. No, not water, water doesn’t move up a breast and circle a nipple. Ice.

I hate cold. I wasn’t joking when I told him Russia’s winter sent me running. It’s one of my least favorite sensations. My teeth clattered from my shivering.

“Do you feel trapped?” F______ asked.

“Yes!” I screamed. “Yes, I’m trapped! I’m trapped.”

“Do you think saying that will compel me to untie you?”

“No, but can you at least cover me?”

“Why would you like to be covered?”

“Because I’m cold,” I said. “Please.”

“You need to be cold right now.”

“Why?” I demanded.

“Because that’s what I want,” he responded. “From now on, we’re going to do what I want.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“What I want is for you to be cold and be still. Do not move until I give you express permission to do so.”

There was a pause, then the sound of footsteps fading away and finally the ding of an elevator and the swoosh of doors opening and closing.

Silence. Cold. I lay still for a long time. My lower back, which was resting on my bound elbows, screamed with pain. I couldn’t feel my elbows or arms. Every once in a while, a fit of shivers would send pain shooting up and down my arms.

Finally, when the silence convinced me no one else was there, I rolled on my side. Immediately, all the pain in my arms that had been numbed by the lack of circulation made itself felt. I winced and bit my lip, afraid to make any sound.

I shimmied, my face to the ground, trying to loosen the fabric around my face. Finally, it began to slip until it was around my nose. I looked around for him. He wasn’t there. He’d literally left me in the middle of the parking garage. Still on my side, I pulled my knees up and began to gnaw on the knot F______ had made. If I could free my thighs, I would better able to move, perhaps find an object against which to loosen the ropes holding my arms.

It’s amazing. The instinct that propels flight in creatures shoots such incredible quantities of adrenaline into the body that suddenly, every physical concern fades. No pain, no fear, no system of analysis. All I could think about was escaping.

I was at that rope forever, finally, it began to loosen. I wasn’t able to fully untie it, but with it loose, I managed somehow to slip a leg out of it. Getting up, I shook the rope off the other leg. I looked around. Not a sign of him. Not a sign of anything to help me remove the rope holding my arms. And certainly not any kind of fire escape.

Is that even legal? Shouldn’t every building have one?

I knew it was pointless, but I still ran to the elevator and tried to call it down. At first I thought I wasn’t pushing hard enough–hard to do with my hands tied, and certainly when I can’t quite tell after having turned around where the button is. Then I noticed the card slot. Of course. You need an access key.

So I’m stuck in a basement, tied up, by myself either with a psycho or a brilliant therapist.

Is it naive that I want to believe this is some brilliant form of therapy, of illustrating what it means to have no control?

The elevator made a ding and I jumped, my heart pounding like a chariot without a charioteer against my ribs. I quickly turned around and flattened myself against the wall.

I felt the swoosh zip through my body as the elevator doors opened. F______ stepped out and took a couple of large steps forward before he paused to pan the room.

I quietly inched along the wall and began to back into the elevator.

One of my coat buttons hit the mirror when I pressed against the inside of the elevator. I held my breath, but after a couple of quick steps, a hand landed heavily on the doors, causing them to open completely.

F______ peered in. He had a look of mild amusement on his face.

“I was hoping you would be a good girl and do as you were told,” he said to me. “But I was also hoping you would misbehave so I could show you what happens when you don’t do what I tell you.”

The doctor reached into the elevator, took me by the hair and dragged me back to the parking lot, where he threw me face-down on the dusty hood of a Bentley.

Holding me in place with his own body, he pulled up my skirt until it was around my waist. When he pulled a way, a hand remained tangled in my hair, holding my face down. What was he going to do?

Slap! A palm landed evenly on my ass. I couldn’t believe it. Was he spanking me? Slap! came the answer. Yes. Slap! He hit me hard, each sting searing through my body. He hit one cheek, then the other, then alternated again. I began to feel raw.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked me.

I didn’t know what to say. If I said yes, would he stop?

He slapped me again.

“When I speak to you, you will respond. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I responded.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” I said.

He paused.

“You want me to keep going?”

“Yes.”

“Spread your legs.”

“What?”

“Do it.”

I spread my legs slowly.

SLAP! His hand landed square on my pussy.

“OW!” I screamed, closing my legs.

F______ pressed down on me again, crushing my arms into my back. I could feel his hot breath against my neck as his free hand battled with my legs to push them apart. I fought him. I fought him with my hips. I fought him with the strength of my ass cheeks and thighs. But he got through.

And when he did, he found I was soaking wet.

There was a pause in his movements. Finally, a breath escaped his lips and rushed against my neck.

“Do you like this?” he asked me, in a different tone.

“I–I don’t know,” I confessed.

He said nothing, then rose. My arms were pulled this way and that as he untied the rope. When he was done, he turned me around so I was on my back. We looked at each other in uncomfortable silence.

I’m not really embarrassed by anything but this, somehow, was a bit mortifying. The man had been abusing me, teaching me what it was like to have no control and instead of understanding my situation and giving in to terror and impending death, I’d become aroused.

I’d ruined my therapy. Again. Fine. Whatever. It had its benefits.

“Fuck me,” I said looking directly into Dr. F______’s green eyes.

He simply stared.

Taking his sweater with a hand and pulling myself up so my face was inches from his, I looked at his lips before looking into his eyes and repeated, “Fuck. Me.”

He brought a hand to mine and I released my hold on his sweater. I could smell myself on his fingers. I brought his hand to my mouth.

I sucked his fingers, one by one and he watched, with no expression. Finally, when I had finished, I released his hand and he bent to pick up my purse from where it had slid during the first struggle and handed it to me.

“Cheyenne will contact you in regard to a next appointment once I review the conclusions reached today,” he said simply.

I dropped my purse on the ground and looked at him.

“What, that’s it?” I asked. “You assault me, you tie me up, you spank me, you feel my cunt and then you send me home?”

“It is enough for today.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “It is not enough. It is not even close to enough.”

I pulled him to me by his belt. He took both of my hands in one of his and looking at me with a small smile, asked, “do I need to tie you up to take you out of here?”

I sighed and pushed my skirt down. Three of my buttons were missing, so it was impossible to button up my blouse. I removed the blindfold, which was now around my neck, and buttoned my coat over my torn blouse. I pulled a clip from my purse and pinned my hair up.

If I had been a little mortified before, now, I wanted to die. As I followed him into the elevator, I began to freak out. Who the hell asks her therapist to fuck her? What’s wrong with me?

He said he’s going to “review the conclusions reached today”–what does that even mean? Is he going to have me committed? I hope at least he medicates me something decent.

We don’t exchange a word on the way up. In the lobby, he gives me a nod as I exit and that’s that.

When I look at my phone, I realize I’ve been “in therapy” for four and a half hours.

Scheherazade on IM

She’d been chatting with him on and off for a few weeks–or was it months? I suppose it doesn’t mean anything in internet time, where Einstein’s relativity rules (after lolcats, of course).

HIM: which i’d love to hear a story now before i go fuck my lover in her hallway.

HER: Against the wall or on the floor?

HIM: you can pick if you get me off.

HER: You should torture yourself and hold off until you get there.

HIM: i’m a baby, remember? i’m only happy when i come four times a day.

HER: If you insist.

HIM: i do, hottie

HER: The bar is packed, everyone is bumping into everything. The place is a mass of bodies, pulsing against a smoky background and already stale hits off last year’s Top 40 charts…

And so the story began, melting the 437 miles between them.

I’m trying to get the bartender’s attention. It’s open bar before midnight, but the fuckers charge for non-alcoholic drinks and I’m driving.

Before I can get my $15 Red Bull, I feel a hand go up my skirt.

I don’t move. I can see him barely out the corner of my eye, but I don’t turn to look. Imagine he was hideous?

Suddenly, I can’t decide if I want him to be hideous or not. There’s something delightful about the notion of being touched by an ugly man without your permission.

“Ha!” her friend interrupted the story on chat. “Is there?”

She ignored him and went on:

A hideous man. A bulging mass of sweaty, aging flesh. Oh, yes, it’s delightful, especially when you’re a beautiful woman.

I feel another hand on the small of my back. It slides around, gripping me around the waist, then runs up my chest and pulls me so I’m standing straight, just as the bartender hands me my drink.

I hear a voice in my ear, but I can’t make out what’s being said. The stranger pulls me against him–his torso doesn’t feel large or round against my back. Before I can feel disappointed, I feel his fingers hovering over my slit.

I’m wet. A man beside me elbows me. He’s talking animatedly with two other men, all of them with that boring emokid haircut that covers one of their eyes. Or both. Might as well. Sheep. Bahhh, say the sheep, bahh, walking blindly behind Brendon Urie.

A finger slides inside me. He pulls it out and and begins drawing circles in cunt juice around it. I sip my Red Bull and pull out a cigarette. I’m about to light it, when I feel his hand on my back again. He pushes me forward on the bar and leans close to me, “Order me a mojito,” he says and I can hear him clearly now.

A mojito. What a faggy drink. I am thoroughly appalled by the man, I can’t believe a Mojito-sucking pussy is fingering me at my bar.

I thrust my hips against his hands–I bet they’re manicured, too, that little bitch, and that he likes girls to finger his ass while they blow him. Or better yet, likes to borrow their dildos. Little fag, oh my god, yes, I thrust back against him.

He takes my hair in a hand and pulls me to him, “did you hear me? Get me a mojito.”

The fact that I man has me by the hair at the bar gets the bartender’s attention. (Mental note: employ technique later). I order the mojito.

I put it on my tab, what the hell.

Suddenly, the grip on me is released. I sip my drink and wait a few moments. Nothing happens. I’m still holding the unlit cigarette. The bartender slides an ashtray toward me. I keep waiting. Did the stranger leave? The mojito slides before me.

Did the stranger leave me with the fucking mojito?

I’m going to turn around, but I suddenly feel his breath on my neck.

“What would you do if I fucked you, right here?”

I feel something hot and hard against my thigh.

“At the bar?”

“At the bar,” he responds, pushing up my skirt. His cock is hot, pressing against my hole.

I pick up my lighter and light the cigarette I’d dropped on the bar. Inch by inch, his cock slides into me.

Someone bumps into me on the right. I don’t even bother to look. Everyone is so packed together, they don’t notice anything, not who they bump into, and certainly not who’s fucking at the bar.

I exhale. I can’t believe I’m getting fucked at a bar and no one can tell.

I suck on my cigarette, feeling kind of like a goddess even though I haven’t done a damn thing.

Just then, my eyes meet the bartender’s. He can tell. I can just tell that he can tell. Fuck. What’s he going to do?

He comes over, ignoring people trying to get his attention.

“How’s that mojito?” he asks.

The drink is still sitting in front of me, untouched.

“Great.”

“Need another one?”

I look at him. He’s older, worn, un-manicured hands. The sort of guy you see in dives around this part of town. Interesting.

We don’t verbalize anything more. When you serve people at decibels like these, you learn to guide yourself by other signs. He knows what I’ve in mind as well as he knew I was getting fucked right here.

I reach back and grab Mojito’s cock. I straighten up against his back and, turning so my lips are near his face, say, “we’re going outside.”

He pulls out. I give him a moment, then motion for Bartender to meet me in the alley. I don’t know if Mojito is following me. I don’t give a fuck. I notice the expression on the face of the woman manning the other side of the bar. The place is too full to take breaks. Oops.

I’m out the door. When he steps out, I push him against the garbage–

“Oh, darling,” she paused, making her friend fall out of the story and land back at his computer. “What’s it called?”

“What?” he asked.

“Oh, the dumpster,” she said.

“Mm-hm.”

I shove him against the dumpster and unbutton his pants. Inside there’s this big, fat cock. Not very big, but fatter than anything I have ever seen. It’s so fat, I get down on my knees and kiss it. I was gonna suck it, but I can only lick it because it’s so fat.

I’m on my knees licking him and he’s looking down and laughing, watching me lick his cock like that. He picks me up and pushes me against the dumpster, facing it so I can smell the sweet scent of rusting metal mingling with the rotting garbage inside. He rolls up my skirt so my ass is exposed to the cold, wet night.

Finally, I feel his fat cock slide inside me.

As his dick goes in and out, he brings his a hand on my hip, pulling me into him as he pounds me, and places another on my head, flattening the side of my face to the dumpster. From this view, I see the door open again. A shortish guy steps out, probably 5’10”, with reddish brown hair, clean cut, an all-American face. I assume it’s Mojito…

HIM: god gonna comw

The story stopped again and both were spun back into the reality of the pathetic glow of their laptop screens.

HER: Oh! Are you finished?

HIM: yes. wow. head, as always, spinning

HER: I was just about to get fucked in both holes, what a shame!

HIM: apparently this will be a two-volume story

HER: Have fun fucking your girl-thing.

HIM: i will. and i’ll be picturing you.

HER: Getting fucked in both holes by strangers?

HIM: mm, possibly.

He logged off, but you can’t stop a story once you’ve started it. When another IM opened on her screen, she picked up right where she’d left off.

I’m pressed up against a dumpster in the back of a bar, getting fucked by the bartender when the back opens and another man steps out. He walks decisively toward us and instead of stopping, the bartender begins to pound faster.

HIM: the typical thing would be for the other guy to like tag in for the bartender. but that’s boring. i think instead he would come up behind the bartender and put his hands on his hips and nuzzle his neck.

HER: Come on please me, don’t get all homo.

HIM: maybe he has a camera then–not some bullshit amateur camera. this guy is either a serious hobbyist or a pro.

The only light in the alley is a flickering neon 7-Up sign over the bodega on the corner, so the man with the camera moves in a disconnected sequence, as under a strobe. While he films, he unfastens his belt with the other hand.

He removes his belt, a thin leather one, and slips it into a noose around my neck. The bartender lets go of my head as Mojito begins to pull on the belt, directing my body toward him. I bend at the waist and reach for his dick in his unfastened pants.

When I pull it out, I see it’s smaller than the bartender’s. A perfect dick to suck off. I take hold of Mojito’s hips and begin to fuck his dick with my mouth.

Mojito hands the bartender the belt and I feel the direction of the pull change. Suddenly, I begin to feel light-headed as the oxygen supply diminishes. All I can feel are two cocks pounding into my mouth and cunt as the world starts to fade.

As with all stupid erotic asphyxiation n00bs, the bartender doesn’t know how to properly regulate the pull and I faint and fall to the wet asphalt. The cold wetness brings me to in seconds before the bartender is on me, his dick back inside me after half-slipping out during the fall.

My shirt with the plunging cleavage has opened, leaving my breasts exposed to the dirty, wet asphalt. Every time the bartender thrusts into me, I can feel the dirt grind against my nipples.

Mojito has the belt again, he’s slipped it around my mouth now and is pulling on it while pushing down on my neck with his foot.

The bartender’s cock is throbbing inside me, I can tell he’s about to cum. Sure enough, withing a few seconds, he’s pulled out and, having pushed Mojito away, he rolls me over with his boot and cums all over my face.

“Suck it clean,” he says, his gorgeous cock standing at attention, still dripping cum. I rise slowly and get on my knees to lick him clean. As I do, Mojito comes behind me and pulls me up, pushing me down so I’m bent at the waist again, with my ass in the air.

As I lick the bartender’s dick and balls, I feel the Mojito’s less impressive cock on my slit again, rubbing around it, spreading the juices all over. When he plunges, he doesn’t go into my pussy, he goes right into my ass. My sphincter tightens immediately, but it can’t hold against the power of the thrust.

Meanwhile, the bartender has taken the belt and removed it from around my neck. With Mojito deep inside me, the bartender pushes me so I’m standing up straight. Mojito holds me by the arms as he fucks me, and the bartender runs the leather against my exposed tits, dirty from being on the ground.

He doubles the belt and makes it snap, then brings it down on my left breast. Mojito plunges deeper.

Snap!

The belt lands on the right nipple. The pain flashes through my body, shooting down my spine and causing my ass muscles to tighten around Mojito’s cock.

Snap! Under my ribcage. Snap! My left nipple. The bartender comes close and reaches for my pussy. I’m dripping again. He brings his hand up and lifts my chin. I can smell my cunt on his fingers. He kisses me.

Mojito pulls out slowly then fills me with his cock again. I moan into the bartender’s mouth.

The bartender is getting hard again. I can feel his big cock pressing against me. And now that I’m upright, I can also feel the blood running out of my nose from where it was bloodied when my face hit the pavement in the fall earlier. In fact, the whole side of my face is throbbing. Oh, fuck, I can just tell it’s gonna be black and blue in the morning. Jesus, everyone is going to think my boyfriend beats the shit out of me. Random women are going to come up to me on the street and give me the phone numbers to battered women’s shelters.

The bartender hands the belt to Mojito, who uses it to tie my elbows together behind my back. Mojito then takes his free hand and grabs my throat and pulls me against him as he pushes his cock up into my ass. I realize that he’s leaning back over the dumpster in order to give the bartender a good angle on my cunt.

The bartender pulls my shirt and the top tie becomes undone, exposing my body completely. Her steps forward and grinds the head of his cock against my pussy, he’s working it against my clit, trying to get it hard enough to put it in again.

He’s stroking himself, just outside my cunt, all the while looking at me. I see him reach into his pocket with his free hand. At first I can’t see what it is–a condom? A little late for that, I’d imagine, I think feeling a sliver of guilt.

The bartender brings his hand to my face and I see the straight razor. He runs the edge of it over my lips and I can taste how sharp it is. He drags it down over my chin and down my frame, pressing it here and there just hard enough to make a little nick.

When I don’t struggle to get away, he gains some confidence and draws a long, shallow cut across my clavicle and abruptly thrusts his cock into me and so I’m suddenly completely filled up, ass and pussy, the two cocks almost touching inside me with just a thin layer of flesh between them.

The bartender puts the blade up against my throat where I can feel it, pushing just hard enough to break the skin a little.

“Cum for me, slut,” he says as he and Mojito pound into me.

A drop of bloody sweat lands on my lip, it stings. My whole face is throbbing. The bartender kisses me as he thrusts again, and my lips become alive with pain.

I can feel both their cocks now, moving out of sync, pummeling in their own way, one fast, the other slow, one hard, the other in gentle strokes. Then as they become aware of one another, it’s like they’re racing. I can’t take it. I realize I’m screaming and my knees buckling. They give, but their two cocks hold me up. With Mojito breathing into my neck and the bartender biting my lip, I cum.

The strength of my sexual response cycle makes my ass tighten around Mojito in a powerful sequence and he shoots into my ass, filling me with his searing cum. He’s followed by the bartender shortly after, who shoots his load into my cunt.

After a moment, the bartender pulls out and buttons up is pants. I step off Mojito and I feel the belt loosen around my elbows.

The familiar noise of zippers and buckles and a lighter as I light a cigarette, wondering how the fuck I’m gonna get my coat from the bar looking like I do.

“I’ll get your coat,” the bartender says. I hand him my ticket and he disappears inside the bar.

A few minutes later, I’m in a cab home, with a cab driver asking me if I want to call the police. People are so nice.

As for the video the guy shot? It got 1,276,430 views on Youtube before they took it down.

Not too bad for a typical Thursday night.