Fun in the Forest

Imagine me. I'm dressed in black, all black, from head to toe. Black boots, black jeans fastened with the black belt, the belt with which you're quite familiar. A black jumper that fits tightly and fills out my physique, a black mask that covers the whole lower half of my face - one solitary advantage of Covid is that masks are totally normal now. Black-framed glasses surround my hungry hazel eyes, a black woolly hat covering my hair so that only a slither of my pale skin can be seen around my cheeks. Black leather gloves are on my hands, and in your mind. Those gloves have explored every inch of your body, hurting you, choking you, groping you. And I only wear them for you. Tell me, do they turn you on, or do you fear them?

Can you see me well, can you picture it? Imagine how I look - the lust in my eyes, the scowl on my face. You remember that look, don't you? The look you bring out of me so easily. I'm sitting next to you in my car, the engine is turned off and the silence is beginning to become deafening. It's been a fun drive up, away from home, out into the woods, but that's over now. How are you sitting? Are you shuffling on the leather? Squirming? Or are you frozen with fear? The heated seats have been on, you're warm, you'd be cosy, usually. But you're not. You're uneasy, you know what's coming, don't you? The car is parked on muddy gravel, facing the trees. Picture the scene. Take in your surroundings, it's important that you remember them.

"Are you ready to begin? We won't start until you are." My voice is... you know how my voice is. "Pick a path through the forest, memorise it. Do you know which way you're going to go?" Before you continue, hold the image in your head, make sure it's strong. Make sure you know where you are, and where you're going. Are you ready to go?

"Good. Ten... Nine..."

You're up and running, not even bothering to slam the car door behind you. Do you remember the scene that was in front of you? Do you remember the path you picked through it? You're running on it now. Run into the fog, run, run little kitten. I'm coming, your ten seconds are up.

Clunk. Clunk. The car doors thud as I close them behind me, the headlights flash as I lock it, illuminating the woods for a brief moment. Their light illuminates what's in front of you, what do you see? Is your path still clear?

Because the lights illuminated the misty night just long enough for me to see your silhouette against the otherwise empty and still background. I'm coming now, I'm on your trail. Can you picture that? You're being chased now. I'm coming for you. The hunt is on.

You're running, your heavy timberlands crushing branches and kicking away pebbles in your panic. The air is cold, it's damp against your skin. You're shivering. Is it from the chill? It shouldn't be, you're wearing a thick black jumper. Is it from the fear? Yes? Yes, it should be, you should be scared. You wouldn't be running if you weren't scared. But you are running. You are scared. You're running deeper into the woods, along the path that seems to be disappearing beneath your feet. Bring the image of the forest up in your head, keep it in your mind's eye.

Can you picture the path in front of you? Run along it, follow it. Quickly. Go quickly along it, deeper and deeper into the woods, deeper into the dark. Deeper into the unknown. The unknown can be scary, but so can the known. You don't know what's out there in front of you, does that scare you? Picture it, picture what's in front of you, what you're running into. You know what's behind you. You know the path you've taken, and you know who's taking it now. Me. I'm tracing your steps, not running fast like you, but pacing. My long legs carry me swiftly, calmly, as I stalk after you. You can hear me, hear the branches snapping under my feet, not getting any closer, but always there, not going away.

Suddenly, as you glance around trying to spot me, you tumble. You tumble into the muddy ground with a thud. Panicking, you fumble to your feet and as you get up you realise you lost your bearings in the fall. What do you see around you now? Can you recall the image you took in, is it still in your mind's eye? Which route are you going to take? Quickly, you pick one. One that leads away from me. But I'm closing now, getting nearer.

You break into a sprint, your heart pounding in your chest. The forest seems to close in around you as you run, and I close in from behind. The space should feel wide open, the woods and wilderness are nearly infinite. But they don't, they feel tight, they feel claustrophobic. You feel as though the trees have tendrils which are reaching out to you, pulling you down, slowing you. Slowing you. Slowing you. Your legs feel tired. Your boots feel heavy. Your knees are sore from your fall. Your thighs are aching. Your muscles, burning. You're getting slower. You're slowing. Stumbling. You tumble over a prominent root and slam hard into the ground again, mud and leaves dirtying you from head to toe. But that's the least of your worries, because I'm there now. I'm close. And then I'm on you.

In an instant, I dive on you, my weight pressing down on the back of your legs, a strong hand grabbing a handful of your hair before you can get away. You feel it tugging in your scalp and squeal with fear as you realise you've been caught.

"Now, you're fucking mine." My voice is like an animal. A predator's growl, and you're my prey. You're mine.

"Please, no. No." You beg, but you know I'm not going to listen. You don't want me to listen, do you? You don't want me to stop. You want me to ravage you, to do anything I want with you. But you can't let me know that. So you writhe in my grip, struggling to break free, feeling your hair pulled painfully tight as you do.

"You're not going anywhere, you little cunt," I snarl, the angry lust dripping from my voice. "You're mine. Fucking. Mine." What does it inspire in you, when I speak to you like that? Fear? Excitement? Let it wash over you as my words sink in. I want you so bad. I want to hurt you, I want to take out the frustration that's built inside me as I chased you. You're mine. I'm going to take you. I'm going to have you. You are fucking mine. Your hands claw at my fingers, at the ground around you, at anything you can reach. You kick and struggle and shout but I'm stronger than you. I grab your wrists tightly and pull them into place behind your back, using all my strength to hold them in place against your desperate struggles. You feel the burn in your muscles as they're stretched and overworked. Then you feel the cold grip of a cable tie, ratcheting closed around your arms, binding them tight. Do you struggle against them, feeling the sharp edges bite into your skin with every movement? Or do you submit to the strength in those black loops? In either case, the result is the same: you're held tight, your hands immobilised.

Happy your hands are helpless, I roll you over onto your back and you can again see the look in my eyes. Look at my eyes, meet my gaze, see the lust, the hunger, the angry desire burning so bright behind dark-framed glasses. Can you feel it? How bad I want you? You spit an insult in my direction, and instantly my hand shoots to your throat, gripping down on the veins, crushing, choking. I dare you to say it again, to speak up. You try to say something, but the words are caught in your constricted throat. You only manage a splutter, a whimper, a pathetic rattle as the world closes in around you and your vision goes dark. Your head spins and your heart pounds. Your mind goes blank, your consciousness slipping, slipping, slipping away. At last, my grip relents and you gasp deeply and, as you fill your lungs, your vision comes back. As the black edges retreat, you see that you're looking up at the canopy of branches and the cloudy sky beyond. Then my face, close to yours, fills your whole view, my fiery stare all you can focus on.

"Don't. Fucking. Dare. Speak to me like that," I growl deeply, the bass in my voice reverberating through your whole body, piercing into your still-foggy mind. You don't answer, and I slap you hard with a gloved hand, the leather stinging your face as it connects.

"Or I swear I will hurt you like you've never been fucking hurt. I will beat you until you can't fucking stand."

You know I'm not lying, don't you? You know I don't make empty threats.

You go to whimper a pathetic reply, but even that deserts you when you hear the shwing-click of a spring blade locking into place. You fall silent, you lie still. You don't want me to cut you, do you? You hear me chuckle.

"Good girl, lie still, don't fight. I'd hate to cut you too deep..." My voice is evil and cold, as cold as the ground under your palms, as cold as the damp air that surrounds us. Can you feel the chill? Are you shivering? The tip of the blade is cold. You feel it graze the skin of your collar as it cuts into the fabric of your jumper. Does the sharp sting make you shudder, do you whimper as you feel it? It cuts swiftly down, splitting the threads of your top, bearing your skin beneath in one long motion.

You beg for mercy, pleading for me to be gentle with you, but that's not what you want really, is it? You want to feel the fire you can see burning in my eyes, you want to turn into an explosion of pain and pleasure, engulfing you. Sparks arc through your body as the knife's tip presses against your chest above your breasts, then down, down between them. Can you feel the gentle pressure of the sharp point? Not cutting, not even grazing, but unignorable. Just a little bit of pressure away from lacerating you. Don't squirm too hard, or it might slip.

It traces around the bottom of your bra, down the side of your abdomen, over your stomach, inching towards your navel before it turns and heads back up towards your chest. Your eyes dart from its tip, to my eyes, to my sick smile. My eyes are focused only on one thing though: on where the knife is going.

You pull your arms back and forth under yourself, trying to bring them over your chest to cover yourself. But you can't move, can you? You're bound tight, all struggling does it make the ties dig in tighter. Instead, you look up at me with pleading eyes as the blade reaches your bust.

What is it that you fear? Is it me revealing your breasts? Is it the worry that I might slip and cut them? Or is it the knowledge that seeing you topless will fuel my lust and push me further towards... It doesn't even bare thinking about, does it? The thoughts consume you so deeply that you don't even notice that the blade is slicing into the fabric. It cuts easily, I hardly have to push to part the lace before I move to the straps. One, then the other, the elastic no match for steel, before my hands hungrily pull the scraps away from your body. Your mind is suddenly refocused as the cold air washes over your sensitive, newly bared skin. Does it make you shudder? Shiver? Whimper?

Quickly I fold the blade away. I want you with my hands, I want to feel your skin with mine. I pull off my gloves, and stuff one deep into your mouth before you have a chance to clench your jaw. You can taste the leather, can't you? Filling your mouth, pressing down your tongue.

"Shhhh," I laugh mockingly back at your protesting whimpers and grunts. Grunt all you want, nobody will hear you, nobody is going to disturb us out here. Nobody will interrupt what I'm going to do to you. Nobody will fucking save you.

Hungrily, I grope your breasts, my strong hands savouring every inch of them, squeezing them, caressing them, running my thumbs over your nipples and tugging at them. They're getting hard under my touch, swelling and becoming even more sensitive. Is that from the cold, or from my touch? I don't care really, I don't care if you enjoy this, I love it. Can you see the bulge in my jeans growing? Can you feel me getting hard where I'm pressing down on you with my weight. I hope you can. I hope you realise how much hurting you excites me, I hope you know how fucking bad I want you.

I need to feel you. Every part of you. I need it. I need to have you. I can't wait. I shuffle my weight down your body and hastily my hands pull at the fly of your jeans, greedy for what's beneath. But, in my hurry, I give you a chance to move and you snatch it, pulling your legs from under me and kicking me hard in the stomach, sending me reeling backwards with a guttural groan as I slam into the ground, winded. Seizing your chance you squirm in the mud and manage to pull yourself to your feet, breaking into a stumbling sprint before I can drag myself back up.

"Fuck you!" You hear me curse as I pull myself up and start my pursuit, casting my mask aside to breathe better. If I fucking catch you this time, I'm not going to be gentle. I'm not going to squeeze your tits and tickle you with the knife. I'm going to grab you, cut you, and pin you down to fuck you as hard as I can.

Run. Run as fast as you can. Run through the muddy trees, ignore the fact your arms are bound behind your back. Ignore the nearly-freezing air on your exposed skin. Ignore the tatters of your jumper flapping in the wind. Run. Run. Because if I catch you, you're fucked. You know that, don't you? You can't let me. Not again.

My shouts are getting closer now, we're both hurting, both shocked, but I'm taller, stronger, fitter. I'm closing in. Can you feel me getting closer, without even needing to look? Can you feel my presence behind you? 10 feet away... 6 feet away... I can almost reach out and touch you, as we slalom through trunks and branches.

Almost, but not quite. You duck and I jump, you go left, I go right around, trying to outplay each other, trying to outsmart each other. You can imagine it, can't you? Predator. Prey. A hunt. Like wild animals in the woods, fueled by primal instinct. At last, finally, a long arm reaches out and grabs you, pulling you down.

We both slam into the ground with a thud and a groan. I lose my grip, and you struggle away, getting to your knees before I can get up, but no further. Again I grab you, my claws digging into the skin of your arm, drawing blood as we grapple, my nails dragging down as you desperately pull away. But you're in my grip now. You're coming down with me. Back to me. Under me.

You can feel my breath on your neck, hot and hoarse as I pant, from anger as well as exhaustion. You feel my hands dragging you into me, pinning you down into the mud, my weight and strength immobilising you. You feel my teeth sink into your skin as I bite down on you. You feel me manhandle you into position, pinning you down on your back and beating the fight out of you with hard hits and strong grip. My hand grips your throat tight and you stare up with terrified eyes. I'm crushing you, constricting your neck. Can you feel the pressure, the spin in your head, the darkness in your sight? Can you feel that you've lost the fight? With my other hand I slap you, back and forth, striking you hard across the face. The impacts bruising your cheeks, busting your lip. Is that blood you can taste, mixed with adrenaline and the taste of my glove which you managed to spit out?

Your jeans are pulled down roughly, and again you hear the flick and click of a knife. This time, I'm not gentle. This time, I don't care if I cut too deep. I stick the blade into the waistband of your underwear and I shred it, pulling the blade through quickly and leaving deep bloody scratches in the skin beneath. And, as they fall away from your groin, I ball up the tattered fabric and stuff it deep into your pleading, cursing mouth. Can you taste yourself on them? Your own flavour, your sweat, drops of blood. You can feel the cold breeze on your cunt. Is it wet, does this excite you, are you that fucking sick? I hope you are. I hope you're turned on by being chased and hurt, because I love sick little cunts, and because it's going to feel so much better when I force my cock into you if you're ready for it. But I'm going to anyway. I don't care if you want it, I don't care if it hurts or even if it fucking tears. My cock is aching for you, swollen and desperate to be released.

At last, it is - I unfasten my jeans and pull down my underwear releasing what they contained. Through watery eyes you can see it standing immediately upright, hard and swollen for you. It's all for you. Every lustful thought, every drop of blood in my swollen shaft, every hit and every thrust. Everything is because I want you. Because I'll do fucking anything to have you. The hand with the knife reaches up and holds it against your throat as the other grasps my cock, wet with my own saliva, and pushes it deep into you in one forceful motion. With every thrust, the knife bounces back and forth in time, always threatening to slip too close to you, always threatening to cut as I fuck you. Not letting you move an inch, not letting you so much as squirm for fear of the sharp edge cutting into your neck. So you lie, you take it, every thrust, every inch of me. Does it feel good? My thick, hard, hungry cock pounding into you, my lustful gaze locked on you. When was the last time someone looked at you like that? When was the last time you felt someone wanting you this badly? Do you even care that I'm taking it by force, do you even mind the blade, or are you just happy to feel how bad I want you, you sick little fuck?

As I get closer, I move the knife away from your neck, throwing it aside so I can grip you properly and use a choking hold on your neck to pull myself deeper and harder into you with every thrust. The pressure on your neck only adds to the pleasure, doesn't it? Does it feel good yet? Are you so twisted that you're enjoying it, being fucked hard and rough amongst the leaves and mud? Are you getting off on being fucking raped? Because I'm getting off on taking you. I can feel it building and building, I can feel my cock swelling and beginning to twitch. You feel so good. You feel incredible. I explode, deep inside you, still thrusting as I twitch and pulse. Still holding down on your throat, keeping you just on the edge of consciousness as I pant and moan your name.

"Fuck, you feel so good you little whore. Fuck. Fuck. You good little fucking rape-slut. Holy shit. Fuck."

At last, I'm spent and exhausted. At last, I pull out of you and you're left lying on the chilly, muddy ground, your cunt aching, your mouth stuffed. The cable ties burn your wrists, stinging scratches cover your body from your neck to your hips. And I let out a deep, evil laugh, grinning, knowing I've beaten you. Knowing I've taken you. Knowing I've won. Knowing that now, you're fucking mine.

As you lie Infront of me, I again pick up my knife and admire it, the steel glinting in the moonlight, drops of dry red blood speckling the silver blade.

"The whole world is going to know that you're mine. The whole world will know I've fucking taken you." My voice is pleased and proud, the smile on my face is a cruel grin, the look in my eyes is hot and intense. And it only grows hotter as my gaze switches from the blade to your body.

With the tool in my hand, I grab you like the slab of meat that you are, and flip you face down, laughing at your protests as mud covers your face and stings the cuts that cover your front. "Hold fucking still," I warn you, pressing my hand into the back of your neck and my knee into the small of your back. And then the blade digs in, picking a spot bared through the tatters of your jumper. The tip pierces your skin and you squeal, a sick smile growing on my lips as I bask in your pain. It pulls through your skin, not cutting deep but leaving long scratches that drip with tiny claret specks. One line, and another, and another, until my name is carved crudely into your skin, marking you in deep red as mine. As my victim, as my prey, as my fucking toy. It stings, doesn't it? The cut of the blade, the drops of warm blood. Does that hurt more than knowing you've been beaten and used? Does it feel worse than being violated? What hurts more, the pain in your body, or in your mind? And which do you love more?