Sweet Danger (26 page)

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Authors: Violet Blue

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Anthologies (Multiple Authors), #Erotica, #Romance, #Contemporary

BOOK: Sweet Danger
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The blog was not secured. Strangers were welcome to read every detail of every filthy, whorish thing I’d let Sean do to me in all the thousands upon thousands of words Sleazy Slut Sara had posted. But people who knew me
weren’t
. Unless they were. I’d told a few—a very few—of my friends about my sex blog. If they could handle it, if they needed it…or I thought they did…I gave it to them.
Which was sort of my thinking when it came to Chloe. Though she was not a
close
friend, exactly, over the three years we’d run in the same social circle, we’d naked-acid-hot-tubbed and braided each others’ hair and shared tips on giving head and, far more important, tips on
getting
head.
Which is not to say I hadn’t basically done the same things with Amy, but Amy could be sort of a prude. Chloe had told me a few dirty adventures over the years.
So when I’d started the blog about four months ago, Chloe was one of the very few acquaintances I shared the URL with in my initial rush of creative energy. I’d all but forgotten I had… until now.
Chloe was breathing hard and giggling, desperately nervous. I frowned.
“Which one are you talking about?”
She made a shocked sound.
“The new one,” she said. “Of
course
!”
Oh, shit. The new one. The new one. I reddened deeper. I got so embarrassed I had to hide my face. I couldn’t look her in the eye. Chloe giggled. She tittered. She reached across and rubbed my arm and said, “It’s all right, baby. Here come our drinks. We’ll talk later.”
The whole exchange had taken like two minutes, if that. Amy is hot. She gets service fast at hipster bars. Besides, it was Burning Man. There was practically no one in the Mission.
Amy brought back a pitcher of beer and a tray with two double shots of bourbon. Amy filled her glass only half way. “I think I’ll be heading out, soon,” she said. We made small talk until she did, and then Chloe and I ordered another round… and another.
“Did you negotiate it first?”
“Um…in detail,” I said—not entirely true.
“Total
ravishment
fantasy, right?” She looked me in the eye, her face close. She formed her lips around the words, aiming them right at me, not a sound coming out of her mouth: “I mean… total
rape
.”
“Um, yeah,” I said. “Rape
fantasy
.”
“
Rape
fantasy,” said Chloe excitedly.
“Rape
fantasy
,” I said, feeling my temperature rising.
She leaned very close to me and repeated: “
Rape
fantasy.”
I shifted uncomfortably.
“
Rape
fantasy,” I said.
She seemed satisfied.
“You’re cool with that?” she asked desperately.
“Um,” I said. “Duh!”
“It was your idea!”
“Totally,” I said, feeling drunk. “Every detail.”
“But he takes over. He just grabs you in the dark and…
does
you.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Holds you down, bends you over, lets you struggle, lets you tire yourself out, and then…”
“Um,” I said. “Um, um, um, um—”
“And when he flipped you over and—”
“Um!” I interrupted. “Embarrassed much?”
“I’m sorry. I just never thought people really did stuff like that.”
I shrugged. “Yeah…we do.”
I nodded drunkenly. Our eyes locked into each other, and I could have kissed her then.
“Whew,” Chloe said. “Well, if you ever—” She caught herself and got very embarrassed. “I mean, I’m not…I know you guys are committed and all. I’m not saying…” She was red as a beet.
The trick was not to think about it too much.
“Sean would go for it,” I blurted.
Chloe breathed hard.
My cell phone buzzed in my jean jacket pocket.
I took it out.
Sean had texted me: COME HOME.
I typed back: I’M DRNUK.
Sean: SLUT. JUST ***ASKING*** FOR IT.
My muscles tightened. I felt the snugness of my jacket just a little more acutely for a moment.
I smiled at Chloe.
“Um, or not,” she shrugged, nervously. “I mean, our friendship—I wouldn’t want to—”
For fifteen seconds, Chloe’s mouth spewed a tangle of words making next to no sense: “commitment,” “single,” “while I’m not in a relationship,” “totally no strings attached,” “I’m not a homewrecker,” “just that, I mean, if you guys are—”
I stopped her with my hand on her shoulder.
“Chloe!” I said, laughing softly.
She stopped and stared at me, ashamed and nervous, breathing hard, excited.
My cell phone buzzed.
Text from Sean: *****BEGGING*****
My jeans felt tight. My insides felt tight. I wanted to crawl out of my skin, in both a good way and a bad way, all at once.
“We’ll talk,” I told her.
 
It wouldn’t happen, not that night, because it hadn’t yet been written down. What did happen was a cab ride to my place ten blocks away, the two of us leaning slightly closer together than we might have otherwise. Then a kiss, on the lips, and a tiny hint of Chloe’s bourbon tongue. Her hand on my stomach, then up, touching my breasts.
“We’ll talk,”
“Promise?”
“Yeah.”
I got out, went in, and huffed up the stairs as the cab took Chloe on to her condo in the Haight.
My skin felt alive as I unlocked the door. Every part of me felt alive. I was dizzy with liquor. I was high on adrenaline.
I tried to act normal, not knowing what was coming. I did what I’d normally do. I slid off my jacket. I dropped it to the floor. I kicked off my clogs. I unzipped my jeans and pulled them sweat-soaked to my knees and shins and ankles and danced around struggling for a bit trying to get out of them, never turning on the light, because I wouldn’t have, normally. This drunk and this late and this horny, I’d climb right in bed and masturbate so fucking hard I’d break furniture.
I finally got the parasite jeans off my feet and headed into the kitchen for the water filter, in my T-shirt and panties.
That’s when he took me from behind.
He was hard. Not his cock. His whole body. It was as if, making love to him constantly for six delicious months, I’d never felt the total hardness on his broad-shouldered, powerful frame. His muscles were hard. His hand was tight across my face. His knife felt cold against my collarbone. Fresh from the freezer.
Cold makes it sharper. At least, it feels that way.
The knife was very, very important. Otherwise, why wouldn’t I scream? I’m not stupid. I’m not cowardly. I’m not some weak, meaningless, useless, helpless girl, just waiting to be given the gift of forcible ravishment, granted by Man the tender gift of rape. I’m not just
asking for it
.
No one ever is, is she?
“Don’t make a sound,” he said, drawing the knife down my throat.
But I did make a sound. I couldn’t stop myself. It was a whimper of arousal and of pleasure and of terror.
Then the knife was gone. I never saw it again, but it was always there, keeping me silent except for the moans.
He bent me hard over the counter. He
shoved
me. He yanked my underwear aside and entered me
fast
, without time for me to get used to the idea that I was being taken. He didn’t need to say what we were both thinking: “She’s wet. She’s so wet she’s dripping. She’s so wet she’s pouring on his cock. She’s a slut. She’s a victim. She wants this.”
And she did, but
she
didn’t. The girl I was playing was helpless and ravished, which is why I fought against the pleasure building in me. And why when I emitted a deep dismayed yell and climaxed on his violent thrusts, he wasn’t finished with me. He came in me. Whether he seeded me actually or just put on a really good show, I’ll never know, and at the time I didn’t even consider. All I knew was a stranger was coming inside me and I was being
soiled
, while my pussy still pulsed from my own orgasm, against which I’d struggled.
He pulled me off the counter. He propped me up with one hand across my mouth and one hand in my hair. He shoved me into the bedroom. I walked funny.
He threw me on the bed and held me down.
I struggled anew, my fear refreshed. Sean is big. He overpowered me. He pulled my panties off and shoved them in my mouth, tore my T-shirt to shreds, and covered my face with it so I was blinded and could smell the scent of my fear. He held me down naked under his big, muscular body and let me fight and fight and fight. He let me tire myself out, just like in the story. He let me fight until I was panting and whimpering and on the verge of tears. Then he let me fight some more, and I did.
Sometimes he laughed. Sometimes he mocked me, saying, “Fight, fight, yeah, go ahead and fight. I’ll fuck you however I want, whenever I want, and I’ll come back for more tomorrow night. Fight all you want. It makes my dick hard.”
The sound of it scared me and broke me and shattered something deep in my soul. It made me see my lover like I never had before: as a man, the kind of man part of me always feared any man could be.
I fought him desperately. Sometimes when he had me pinned really good with one hand and his knees and his body, he ran his hands all over me, over my tits and my hips and my thighs as I tried to hold my legs together, even though I knew, as Sean knew, that as soon as he wished it he would forcibly spread them.
Then he did.
He held me down and forced my legs open.
I fought, but there was little left in me.
He held me down on the bed and entered me, sharp and hard and brutal in a single thrust.
I moaned.
Pleasure was overcoming my resistance. Every instant I’d resisted had amped my desire up to a fresh new level. Now that he was in me, I was helpless—not just because he had me completely under his physical control, but because I wanted it so much it obliterated every other aspect of my psyche.
He had broken me.
I still resisted, as much as I could. But he took me at a leisurely pace, fucking me slow and deep and making me feel every stroke. He took his time. He used me well on my back, for twenty, thirty minutes, missionary position, until I was good and sore. Then he flipped me, my struggles renewing as he held my face in one pillow and shoved others under my hips. He raised my ass high. He entered me again.
I felt the buzzing.
He had a vibrator.
This part was improv. It could have spoiled everything. What kind of a rapist uses a vibrator on his victim?
The
fantasy
rapist, of course. Which was Sean to a
T
.
I swear I didn’t even feel it approaching. I don’t ever come in that position. It’s far from my favorite. The reason I wrote it into the story is that some part of me still thinks it’s humiliating to be fucked on my knees.
It was far more humiliating to come on my knees, even harder than the first time.
I was over on my back again, forced open wide and pinned tight beneath Sean before the spasms stopped. Soaring high on my orgasm, I felt him enter me again. Then the pounding started. Not thrusting. Not stroking. Not fucking. The
pounding
that says, “I’m going to cum, bitch.”
He did, and fast. I had a whole complicated section where I begged him not to cum in me and…well, you can read the blog someday, maybe.
He didn’t care. He did me fast. He did me hard. He shot his load in me as if I was a tissue.
And the fact that he came so fast was more gratifying to me than anything he’d done so far.
A minute later he was out of me, his soft cock dripping come like my pussy.
He said, “The End.”
I buried myself in his arms. I drowned myself in his scent. We both stank like holy hell after what must have been two hours of struggles and fucking. We both smelled like heaven.
He held me and let me heave and pant and gasp and tremble and say, “Thank you, thank you, thank you” to the point where it was stupid. I felt like a dork. He held me anyway.
 
It had all been spot-on, well, yeah, most of it. The grabbing me, the knife, cold and sharp. The bending me over. The quickness of his taking, without even bothering to undress me, without even pulling my panties off. The shoving me into the bedroom. The struggles, the letting me tire myself out until I was helpless. The panties, the shirt, the turning me over.
The vibrator? Fine, I would give him that. A director can’t quite script
everything
. Right?

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