Looking back, Isha was the tipping point. Maybe it was some strange toxic reaction to the guilt. Maybe it was just that all of this was becoming normal for me. But the fact of the matter was that I had an endlessly changeable, endlessly mutable world that I could use nightly as my own personal sexual playground with anyone I wished to draw in. It was a near-infinite engine for erotic fantasies so realistic as to be indistinguishable from the real thing.
It wasn't enough for me.
I drifted for a while, entertaining myself with a dozen women. No one night dips anymore- well, no more than a handful- but no attempts at forging anything like a relationship either. I settled instead on a set pattern; relentlessly dream-corrupting women before abandoning them once I had 'conquered' them in the real world.
Three of them stand out.
***
Tracey was a friend. She and I got along. At least until Isha.
Tracey was a little closer to Isha than I was, which meant that when her friend began to act oddly, she noticed. And when Isha vanished, she knew who to suspect. Who to go to with questions. I still remember how she looked as we sat in the coffee-shop. Her short red hair, her modest breasts in her green T-shirt. Her blue eyes soft as she spoke to me in soft, earnest tones.
She was polite at first. Invited me to share anything I might know. As a friend. If I knew anything. If there was something that I might want to talk to her about. She waited for me to comment.
I didn't comment. I didn't really say anything. Maybe I gave of some signal, some smug little twist to my mouth, some glint of amusement in my eyes. Whatever it was, she began to be less polite. Demanded to know what had happened. Snapped at me. I remember her eyes narrowing with disgust. With condemnation. She began to call me names.
Insults are more of an art but a science, but if you really want to hurt a person- if you want to pierce their armour of self-regard and strike them deep- then the general rule is that you accuse them of something that they deny to themselves but know, deep down, is true. Something they cannot in their heart defend against. And so it was that scattered alongside her vague insinuations and flat-out misfires there were a couple of direct hits:
You were meant to be her friend. You betrayed her. You're not really a nice guy.
If she'd never have met you she would have been okay.
And it bothered me. It made me react. Just not in the way that she hoped.
I slithered into her dreams that very night.
***
Tracey blinked.
Barry stood over her. One hand was on his cock, slowly pumping his erection; the other gripped her by the shoulders, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. They were both naked in the middle of an empty classroom. His eyes were full of an ugly fury as he stared down at her. "Look at this."
She looked down crosseyed at his erection, turned an angry red from his violent fisting. "You want this. You want this more than anything."
"I don't underst-"
"You want this. You want this. You need this. Do you understand, you uppity bitch? You're addicted to my cock."
She couldn't believe the words. But a throbbing rush of pleasure filled her mind as the stared at that angry erection. She sat there, her mouth open, as he kept talking. "You want my cock. You need my cock. You're addicted to my cock."
All at once he thrust it forward, filling her mouth in one smooth motion. He began to pump it down her throat and Tracey struggled as his words continued to hammer like blows down onto her ears. "You want my cock. You need my cock. You want my..."
The pleasure kept building and building inside of Tracey as she began to bob her head back and forth...
That first night was an impromptu foray but it was one that I decided to build upon.
Tracey moaned through her gag and struggled in her restraints. She was bent over onto the cold table that she had been chained to. Hands pinned her down further, capturing her arms while behind her...
She could feel it. Rubbing back and forth in a slow, gentle, maddening motion. Back and forth, back and forth, its length sliding on her hot cunt's lubrication. Sometimes the flaring head would get caught and nearly slide in and she hoped- hoped more than anything, more than life itself- that he would take pity on her. That he would fuck her.
And all the time he whispered in a dark voice, the words seeping into her brain. "You want my cock. You need my cock. You're addicted to my cock." Over and over again.
He'd been at this for what felt like hours, edging the both of them, never stopping, never crossing the threshold and slipping into her desperate, needy pussy, easing back whenever she was on the cusp of release. It was torture. It was a nightmare. She was going to go mad with need. She might already be mad.
"You want my cock," he kept saying in that horrid slithering whisper. "You need my cock. You're addicted to my cock..."
I surprised myself with my cruelty. With my vindictiveness.
"Tell me," he said. "Tell me."
"Please!" Tracey's body trembled with need as she knelt before Barry. "I need it. Please." She licked dry lips, desire like a physical pain inside of her. "I need it bad."
He sneered at her. One hand rested on his belt buckle, fingers gently toying with the metal. She moaned at the sight, aware he was playing with her, tormenting her, but utterly unable to stop herself. "What will you do to get it?"
"I'll fuck you."
"More."
