Playing Missy

Playing Missy

This was my first erotic story, written many years ago, and some of the details date it.

It was written for a young submissive I was seeing at the time who did play the French horn.

I believe in taking some time to get to know characters, because that's how you come to care about them.

If there's not enough sex for you, fair enough, you're free to move on to another story.

All characters in this story are of legal age and participate in the activities described with full consent.

If you're offended or triggered by violent rape fantasies and/or water sports (i.e. pee play), please go elsewhere for your smut.

Otherwise, please take a moment to comment or even drop me a line.

I'll respond to all constructive comments and/or criticism.

Thank you.

~

She was trapped, and there was absolutely no way out. The light in the room was very bad, and she could only see a dim outline of the man who had trapped her here. She couldn't see his features at all, but this much she was sure of: he was big. Much bigger than she, and much stronger, too. His muscles bulged all up his arms and through his shoulders and chest. Hell, his

neck

looked bigger than her

thighs

! Even if he wasn't on top of her, even if her arms weren't pinned, even if he hadn't forced her legs up over his shoulders at such a drastic angle, she knew she still wouldn't have been able to get away from him. As it was, she was trapped. Helpless. Defenseless. And her rapist was clearly a man without compassion or mercy.

She was bent nearly double, her knees near her shoulders, her ass way up off the bed. Her arms were trapped at her sides, hopelessly tangled in the tattered ruins of her blouse. What was left of her panties dangled from her left ankle. He was looking down at her through the gloom, his arms holding her legs in place, his huge, calloused hands clamped over her breasts. Her hamstrings and lower back were screaming at her, and she was taking most of their combined weight on the back of her shoulders. She was in serious pain, and that wasn't even considering the actual rape itself.

In this position, her pussy was completely exposed to his cock. She was a small girl, all over, and unfortunately his cock was in proportion to the rest of his huge body. It seemed to her that it was at least eight inches long and as thick as her wrist. He had skewered her with it without even looking or using his hands. He just targeted her pussy lips, settled the golf ball-sized head at her entrance, and used his leverage to force his way inside her. She felt each millimeter of that weapon as it violated her, searing her insides, tearing her apart. As it turned out, he wasn't in a hurry, either. There was no reason to be. Nobody was going to find them here.

He pulled back out of her, slowly, making sure she felt each millimeter again on the way out. He paused at her entrance, the head just barely inside her, staying with her as she frantically bucked and swung her hips. He laughed at her then, laughed and thrust into her all at once, bottoming out, bruising her internally. She froze and screamed, and he laughed again and leaned in to snake his tongue into her mouth. She was so shocked that he had time to practically rape her throat before she snapped her jaws shut, trying to bite his tongue, trying to hurt him in the only way left to her. He pulled back just in time. Her teeth clashed so hard she saw stars. It was a moment or two before she realized that he was slowly licking her face. Her stomach heaved at the thought of it. She realized that he was marking her, marking his territory...his property.

She didn't know how much time had passed since it all started, but he certainly hadn't finished yet. He seemed to be tireless, and if anything, his cock had actually swelled. He just kept slowly violating her, over and over again, pulling his cock out of her battered pussy, pausing, and pushing back in. Of course, he had added some variations. He turned out to be a creative rapist, mixing things up a bit, adding a new twist here and there, all to keep her interest. Try as she might, she couldn't zone out, block him out, or retreat into a fantasy world.

For a while he was simply pawing her breasts, leaning his weight on them and mashing them. Suddenly he pulled back a bit, pinching her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, sending sharp pain lancing through tits that had become almost numb. He pulled her nipples out, stretching them, as he pushed into her. He had perfect coordination, she had to give him that. It was almost as if he was using her tortured nipples to pull his cock back into her tortured cunt on each thrust. Then he began circling his hips on each downswing, not just stabbing into her but fully reaming out her pussy, leaving no part of her untouched, spreading his filth into every part of her being. At last he began pausing on each down thrust, leaning close, and grunting. Not loudly, not because he was being carried away with lust, but just to let her know that he was taking pleasure in her and she couldn't do anything about it.

She was exhausted now, covered in sweat, lying limp and praying that he would finish sometime soon. He didn't show any sign of slowing down, though. And that was the purpose of the grunting, she supposed. It wasn't about his pleasure. He wasn't even

trying

to cum. It was about possessing her, about owning every part of her body and soul. And the worst part was that she was wet. She prayed with the last part of her strength that it was blood. She prayed to God to please let her pussy be torn and bleeding, because she didn't think she would ever be sane again if she was lubricating. And the more it went on, the wetter she was getting. And the wetter she got, the closer she got to (

please, God, no

) ...

She suddenly realized that her rapist was muttering something, something under his breath as he thrust and screwed and grunted and possessed. She couldn't hear him, and she needed to. She mustered herself and tried to concentrate. What was it he was muttering, what was this conversation he seemed to be having with himself?

"...clouds today giving way to sunshine later, the high reaching 54 by late afternoon with a breeze steady at ten miles-per-hour.

Tonight will be clear, and that will allow the warmth to bleed off and lead to a chilly low of 35.

Look for scattered frost throughout the area.

Tomorrow's looking nicer though, with plenty of sunshine and a high breaking 60.

Currently the temperature here in Syracuse is 43."

Groaning, Missy Harand groped in the darkness for her clock. She hit the alarm button just as the blue LED readout switched from 4:00 to 4:01. Disentangling herself from her crumpled sheets, she took a deep breath and brushed the hair out of her face with her fingers. Her pony must have come off during the night, and she had no hope of finding it now. She hopped out of bed and hustled to the bathroom, making her way across the blackness that was her apartment's living room from memory. As difficult as it was to get herself going after a dream like

that

(for the third time this week, a worried voice tried to tell her), she had too much to do today to spend time playing Dr. Freud.

Ten minutes later she emerged from her apartment building's lobby onto the streets. Her long, hastily-brushed honey-blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail. Despite the chill in the air, she was only wearing her RRS outfit: low-rise black running capris with a white scoop tank top. Gooseflesh stood up all along her arms, making fine, blonde hairs stand on end. Anybody else would be freezing their ass off out here dressed like this, but she gloried in it. It was a challenge, and going back in to get a warmer running outfit would not only put her way behind schedule, it would be an unforgiveable act of weakness. She'd be warm enough once she got into the run, she told herself. She always was.

While she stretched her hamstrings on the railings of her apartment's sidewalk, she got a good, close look at her Mizuno Wave Riders. She had discovered them just last summer and they were the best running shoes she had ever owned. This was her third pair, but she could see that the soles were getting worn down. She'd need another pair soon. Sighing, she completed her warmup, dialed up Back in Black on her phone (she had a serious AC-DC jones this morning), put in her earbuds, and set out.

She loved running at this time of day. The streetlights were on, of course, but the streets were utterly deserted. It was a bit too late for the night owls and a bit too early for the early-birds. She ran past houses and apartments and small shops, all dark except for the occasional blue flicker of an insomniac's television. She managed to startle one or two cats out on the prowl, which quickly vanished as if they had never been there at all. Two police cruisers sat side-by-side in the otherwise-deserted parking lot of a 24-hour convenience store, and a delivery truck or two rumbled by. Aside from these, she was alone in her own little world.

She did a quick ten miles, pushing herself to the limit for the last mile so that she got back to her building soaked in sweat and with her breath rattling around a serious stitch in her side. Grimacing, she did her cool-down stretching and walking and then strode past the elevators and climbed the eight flights to her floor.

She hung her running clothes on the drying rack in her room and then headed to the bathroom. She'd have to be quick, as it was already 5:15. Piling her hair on top of her head, she stepped into the shower and wet herself down with tepid water. Turning off the water, she soaped herself quickly from head to toe. She preferred military-style showers because they saved time and cut down on her utility bills. They also drastically decreased her carbon footprint, and she liked to be as green as she could. Once she was done soaping, she turned the cold water on full force and stood under it, turning slowly to rinse off all the soap. Her shower complete, she wrapped herself in a plush towel while she brushed out her hair and then pinned it neatly back on top of her head. She paused only briefly for deodorant before jogging back to her room. There she dressed in the outfit she had laid out the night before - a long black skirt and flats with a nice, white button-up blouse - before heading for the kitchen for a quick breakfast.

From the looks of things her roomie, "Princess" Anne, and her newest boyfriend had been up late. A half-empty bowl of popcorn sat by the sink, next to an empty bottle of chardonnay, and the toaster-oven stood open with two cold slices of pizza inside. Missy gritted her teeth to resist the urge to clean up. It wasn't her mess, there was no reason she should clean up after her roomie, and besides, she didn't have the time. She quickly downed her vitamin along with a protein shake and a power bar and then sprinted back to the bathroom to brush her teeth. She got out the door at 5:35, just in time to get downtown for work.

La Pâtisserie was the finest pastry shop and bakery in Syracuse, hands down. It had been in the same prime location for almost thirty years. Across the street was the county courthouse, and the art museum, the justice center, the convention center, a park, and several apartment buildings were all within a short walk. It was even close enough to Syracuse University for savvy students to drop in, pick up something, and still make it to class on time. Missy felt tremendously lucky to have found a job there.

When she knocked on the back door at 5:50 the owner, Janelle Canon, peeked through the small window and then let her in. The older woman, neat and tidy as always, gave Missy a quick hug. Although Janelle wasn't quite five-and-a-half feet tall, the younger girl still only came just up to her chin. "Good morning, Cherie, how are you today?" she asked.

"Just fine, Mrs. Canon, thank you," Missy said as she put on her apron and cap. "How are you?"

"Worn, tired and worn," the older woman sighed as she re-locked the door. Missy smiled to herself as she hurried up front to get set up. Mrs. Canon was up at 2:00 AM every day to get to the shop and begin the baking. She had more energy than anybody her age that Missy had ever known, yet she felt "tired and worn" every day.

"Hey, Missy, what's up?" That was Travis Monahan, Mrs. Canon's assistant. He was crouching behind the counter, loading the display cases from a truck containing several trays of pastries, muffins, and croissants.

"Not much, Mr. Monahan, and how are you?" Missy asked as she checked on the coffee and began counting out the money in the register.

"Me? I never had a bad day in my life!" The old man smiled, showing pearly white teeth, as he went back for the trays of baguettes and rolls.

Once the doors opened there was a steady stream of customers. First were the cops, the early-bird lawyers, and the night shift people from the hospital on the hill. Then came the real rush as the downtown workers came in on their way to the office. Students and downtown dwellers filled out the tail end of the rush, and they gave way to the coffee-breakers.

Missy loved it. The two bakers wrapped and bagged while she poured coffee, rang up orders, and made change. She smiled, called the regulars by name, laughed at their jokes, and tried to cheer up anybody who looked stressed or downhearted...all without missing a beat or slowing down the line.

During a rare slow moment, Travis caught her frowning and humming to herself while she refilled the coffee urns and started new pots brewing. He paused, empty pastry tray in hand. "Girl, you're really wound up today. You okay?" he asked.

"Oh, it's just this piece that we're rehearsing. It's one of the most difficult pieces for French horn. There are so many different moods, tempos, and textures, and here I am in my first year with the symphony! It's my chance to prove how good I am; that I belong with them. But it's driving me practically crazy..." she trailed off.

"Yeah? What's it called?"

"Africa: Ceremony, Song, and Ritual."

The old man grinned and moved on into the back room to drop off his tray, "Man, that sounds like my kind of music! Maybe I should buy one of those over-priced tickets and come to see you play."

"Oh, would you?" she exclaimed, ignoring his teasing. "I know you'd love it. In fact, I'll send you an mp3 of it as soon as I get back home. The first thing you'll notice is the percussion. It's the first thing everybody notices, but the horns provide the heart of the piece and it's incredibly exacting."

Travis poked his head back around the corner, grinning, and said, "Of course I'll come and see you play, Missy. But I don't know what the heck I'd even do with an 'empty-three'."

At that, Mrs. Canon delicately cleared her throat and they both went back to work. The door swung open and a gaggle of secretaries came tumbling in.

When Mary Pat and Joella came in just before lunch, Missy got to take her break. Mrs. Canon had learned that her morning cashier would not eat if left to her own devices, so she steered her to the small table in back before she could make it out the door and presented her with a small lunch she had packed herself. There she fussed over the younger women until she was sure she'd eat. When Janelle went back out front to get her afternoon baker and cashier settled, Missy unpacked a pear, wedge of brie, and half croissant and quickly ate. Then she went out for a power walk.

Travis left at noon, and Mrs. Canon stayed on for a bit to do paperwork in the back. Missy moved over to wrapping and bagging while Joella took over the cash register. She was just as quick as Missy, but much quieter. Mary Pat, a thick-bodied blonde who had kids at home she had to look after in the mornings, helped with the wrapping and bagging when the lunch rush got heavy. Otherwise she stayed in back working on the soups and bread that made up the bulk of the "take home" business. Missy went out the door at 2:00, leaving the other two to finish with the afternoon customers and then clean up.

This was the time of day that she treasured the most: the three hours she had at home, alone in the apartment, while her roomie and most of her neighbors were still at work. It was the real reason why she loved working at La Pâtisserie, despite her good rapport with her coworkers and customers. She didn't even bother to hang up her hoodie, instead tossing it over the back of the couch as soon as she walked in the door. She rushed straight to her room and emerged in a moment with her music stand and her horn. She set herself up in front of the big bay window, where the afternoon sunlight flooded in to drench the room. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment to settle herself, and then began to play.

Missy felt enormously lucky to have gotten a position as the fourth horn with the Syracuse Symphony Orchestra right out of college. Sure, she had attended a very prestigious school of music. She was very accomplished and she had impressed all of her professors. Yes, the SSO was not a major symphony. But it was one of the most respected of the smaller city symphonies, and you just don't ever expect to get such a position at such a young age. She absolutely lived for her music, and for the next three hours she immersed herself in the difficult piece she was hoping would prove that she belonged. Over and over she played, driving herself to get every nuance of the piece just right. Although the heat in the apartment was turned down for the day, Missy was sweating freely by the time Anne came home from work.

Anne Marie Testa was the polar opposite of Missy. Taller, louder, and brassier. Her hair was so dark that it shone almost blue in the light, and her breasts were so large and firm that when she wore something low cut, as she did almost every day, Missy almost got vertigo. She took over rooms as soon as she entered them, and she felt no shame in marking her territory with discarded clothes, half-empty glasses and dishware, or scattered papers. She attracted men, and women, like nobody's business and Missy had learned early on to be very careful when leaving her bedroom late at night. She never knew what, or who, she might find in the living room or the bathroom.

Despite all this, Missy liked her roommate a lot. She was never lonely when Princess Anne was around, and the bigger girl did look out after her. She was also very respectful of Missy's need for sleep, keeping herself and her visitors quiet after 8:00, much to Missy's continuing amazement.

"What a day!" Anne exclaimed loudly, leaving her shoes in the middle of the entry way and shucking her coat and throwing it, along with her purse, over the nearest chair. "Five cancellations and no-shows, can you believe it? The Doc nearly went crazy, ordered Donna to bill every last one of them, and then of course changed his mind once she had everything set up and told her to forget it. I swear, she's going to quit on him one of these days." She wandered into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stood staring into it. "Still, I got takeout from Clark's again. The afternoon bartender is soooo into me, I can tell. She just stares at me whenever I walk over to the take-out counter, and she practically spills her drinks all over herself whenever I turn around to look her way. Cute little blonde, a little older, with a ring. Wonder if her hubby knows how much his wife wants me?''

Anne was a dental hygienist. She almost always came home with some sort of exciting or hilarious story about something that had happened to her that day. Still, Missy had no time to stop and chat with her roomie now. She hustled to clean up her music and then shot into the bathroom. Staring after her, Anne yelled, "What's the matter, you got a hot date or something?"