NOTE:
This story does not reflect the author's views. The author does not claim to endorse, encourage, or practice the actions or attitudes depicted in this story. Look, it's totally fine to masturbate to fantasies. It is
VERY MUCH NOT OK
to actually do anything in real life. In real life, people have personalities, pasts and futures, mothers and fathers and families who love them. Actually doing anything you fantasize about is likely to get you jail time, castration, or worse. Much worse. Keep fantasy fantastical and always,
ALWAYS
get consent. Now you know. And of course everyone in this story is at least 18. That should go without saying. If you the reader are NOT well over 18, stop reading this! You might instead raid your parents' porn stash. I guarantee it exists. Anyway. Enjoy.
I didn't want this. Who would want this? But it was happening.
The room is dimly lit. My head is on a slight incline - like a pillow but harder - so I can look down at my body and consider myself. I can see my breasts jutting up under my shirt and over my flat stomach. My hands are bound by soft cloth ties and stretched out. My legs are similarly bound and stretched out. I have a good amount of give in the bonds holding my legs but not enough to roll over or bring my legs back together fully. I am wearing my favorite skirt/blouse combo, the one that shows my figure but is otherwise quite conservative. It goes down to my ankles but now it's spread out on the bed I'm lying on. My favorite strappy sandals are gone. Under my clothes I am wearing my standard a thong and an everyday bra. Coincidentally, I shaved yesterday. I had a date with Frank tonight and I had decided this would be the night I'd lose my virginity. I'd even shaved my "area" to make it sexy for him.
I don't remember everything that happened but I do remember leaving my house for for my crappy job as a "research assistant" (ha, glorified printer jockey) for a small law firm. (It was the best first job I could get with my "fun" cross-disciplinary major (mythology and bioethics) but I had high hopes for my "next" job, whatever that would be.) I turned right as I left my house and walked past the small copse of trees in the vacant lot towards the subway station a few blocks away -- a normal Friday. Next thing I remembered I was in this bed, with my hands and feet pulled and stretched to the four corners. I felt a stinging pain in my mid-thigh and I was able to focus on the area, drowsily lifting my head to see. I saw a syringe leaving my leg, held by a blurry figure. The sting faded quickly but before I was fully roused, the figure left and I was alone for some time.
I drowsed for a while but eventually my consciousness returned fully. I realize that my leg hurts. Not because of the straps. It hurts like I was in the middle of getting a blood test. Why did it still hurt so much? Did they take my blood? Why would do that? No, it makes no sense. Something must have been injected into me. I'd never taken hard drugs, was I high?
I take stock of my senses. I don't feel high. I feel...
EVERYTHING
. I feel the exact location of the shot. I feel my bra strap. I feel the straps on my wrists and ankles and I can feel that they are made of a stretchy fabric. I feel the snaps down the side of my skirt. I feel the way my glasses sit on my face. I feel every hair on my head. It's wild. But it's also terrifying - what will I feel when they do whatever they are going to do to me? Is this a kidnapping? But then why the drug? Is it some kind of torture? Should I be scared for my life or my money or... maybe I should be scared for my virginity.
And now that's the only thing on my mind. Who'll be fucking me and when will it start? I am pretty sure at this point that I won't be a virgin by the end of the night, if I even survive it at all.
I love my trim midriff. But I'm ovulating - that's why I was horny enough to finally take the plunge with my friend Frank. That's why I had selected my one friend whom I was sure would use a condom. I don't want to have a baby. But can I stop it?
I lose my mind. I start screaming, begging to be released. I scream and yell and holler and all the versions of yelling. My rational thoughts watch me, telling me to relax, that there's nothing to do, but it takes a long time to convince myself that the room must be soundproof or I must be somewhere where there is nobody to hear me. I don't know how long this goes on, maybe 20 minutes? I trail off because I can't do it anymore, I have screamed myself hoarse. Now I can only whisper.
The room is quiet. I am tense and scared. My stomach hurts. I don't know if I'm going to die or I'm going to be fucked and then killed or what. I don't feel like I'm in one of the rape scenes from the stories I've read.
The door opens. A man walks in. He is about my age - early twenties. I don't recognize him from school...but he does look familiar, like I've seen him somewhere before. His shirt has no sleeves. He must have been wearing a long-sleeved shirt when I saw him because I might would have remembered those basic arm tattoos. His body and head are shaved bald. He's vaguely handsome, in a classical kind of way. I notice his nice nose. His eyes are lined with something...a mix of amusement and arousal? He says nothing.
"Let me go!" I try to yell. It comes out as a croak.
Maybe the croak is good news. It's more than I'd been able to manage just a few minutes ago. If I can scream, then maybe they won't hurt me. If I scream, then maybe I'll live. Maybe I'll get away. I scream. Nothing emerges from my pained throat. I try again and again. I realize if I talk low I can make noise, but I can not yell or scream.
The man removes his pants. He was wearing no underwear. Now I know exactly what's coming. He's the kind of man who definitely means to fuck me without protection. I am terrified but still hopeful. Surely there is a way to stop this. Surely there is a way to prevent pregnancy. I writhe on the bed, trying again to dislodge my bindings, again without success. The ties don't hurt at all but I feel the persistent tugging from them. The fabric they're made from has some give to it but I can't pull hard enough with any limb to move more than a few inches.
He steps closer to the bed, removing his shirt as well. Now he is naked, his chiseled body a few feet from my eyes. I see the hair on his unshaven testicles, the only part of him that is unshaved. But most of all I cannot stop looking at his penis. It's long - longer than I think is normal. It droops. He isn't aroused. But my gaze brings it to life, and it lifts up, up, up, at least 7 inches. Maybe more, my perspective is not great. I've never seen a penis in the light before -- my previous fumblings had been in the dark - and I never thought I'd actually see one this size. My mouth is dry and I hold back a sob. But I'm also having feelings that I usually only get when I fantasize. I want to rub my thighs together but can't. I want to touch myself but I am bound. How can I be having these feelings from someone I just met, someone who has ultimate power over me? Sometimes I hate my hormones.
He touches my face. I feel every ridge in his fingerprint. What is this drug?? I feel a callous on his thumb. It's so much information, flooding into me. I almost cry. It's so overwhelming.
He opens the drawer of the nearby bedside table and pulls out a knife. It looks sharp. He doesn't look angry; perhaps he will release me! I plead with him with my eyes. Instead he slowly moves the knife to my chest. Does he plan to kill me after all? No, uses it to cut my blouse, putting it into the neck hole and cutting straight down, through the material, between my breasts, the sharp edge pointing away from my chest. I feel the vibration of the knife as it cuts. When he gets to the bottom of the blouse he slowly pulls it away from my body. I feel every crinkle in the fabric.
I shake my head violently, disturbing his slow movements. I feel my long hair whip from side to side. He looks up into my eyes and shakes his head, putting his finger to his mouth to quiet me. "I won't hurt you," he says softly. "I only want what you need."
My eyes widen. Could he know I am aroused? Is the smell that obvious? "I don't need anything from you," I whisper/wheeze. Talking still hurts. My hormones tell me that I'm totally lying. I do need something from him.
His knife isn't idle. He moves it to my skirt and then notices the snaps. He grins and puts the knife down on a bedside table before slowly, so slowly, pulling the snaps apart. As he does, he caresses my stomach, my side, then my leg. The undressing is so slow. My heart pounds loudly in my ears. I can hear it vibrate in my throat. I can almost see my chest move as it beats. This feels extra real, as if everything were in some heretofore unknown super massive high definition. The feel of the snaps coming undone explodes through my body, targeting my clitoris.
When he gets to the bottom, he carefully folds back my skirt, then effortlessly lifts me with one strong arm to slide the back of the skirt out from under me. I feel the hairs on his arm as he holds me. I feel his fingertips as they press into my abdomen. His bicep presses into my side and I can feel how hard it is. When he gently returns me to the bed, it is cool under my legs and underwear-clad butt. The exact location of each spring in the mattress makes an imprint on my brain.
He picks up to the knife and moves it to my bra. Goosebumps rise all over my torso as he lightly cuts the straps and then unhooks the bra in the back, removing it slowly from my body. My breasts are a bit more than a B cup, and they sit proudly on my chest, pointing straight at the sky. My areolae immediately pucker and my nipples harden in the cool air. He gently strokes my left breast once and his thumb circles my nipple for just a moment. I gasp. I felt that through my whole torso. He isn't done; he moves down to my thong, considers the knife, and shakes his head. Hope rises again - maybe he will stop before he goes too far?
