Note:
This story features a heroine with a passive rape fetish, and for its raw material it draws on direct accounts of this kind of fetish from a valuable and interesting source on another site. The plot, setting, characters, and errors committed are my own. It features anonymous group sex and "preeving"—men satisfying said fetish—along with traumatic non-con incest, sex under duress, and depictions of drug abuse and racism. The treatment of these themes may be disturbing for some readers.
1. Wicked Game.
It was three o'clock in the morning, and room fourteen of Wicked Hostels was still mostly empty, wrapped in a quiet stillness. The muffled sounds of music and drunken partying in some of the nearby rooms sounded somehow faraway, but the bars down the street were in the process of disgorging their drunken rowdies into the night. This little island of quietus was not meant to last.
At least, Hanna hoped not. She could hear her own heart thumping with anticipation even as she pretended to sleep. She and Nomi were the room's only occupants at the moment, the two friends curled intimately into the bottom bunk of the beds furthest from the door. They faced each other, their right hands intertwined, the shared warmth of their young, naked bodies keeping the place's seemingly perpetual chill at bay.
Nomi, nearest the wall, seemed on the edge of genuinely falling asleep. Maybe more than on the edge. Her breaths were deep and regular, her lovely dark eyes having fluttered shut half an hour ago. Hanna watched her, marvelled at her, still unable to stop herself from drinking in the details after months of knowing her. The Jamaican girl was insanely pretty no matter how closely one looked.
Her mahogany skin was lustrous, so smooth that it looked almost as though she was some kind of living airbrushed photograph, and her snub-nosed features and high cheekbones held a symmetry verging on the eerie. That petite, willowy frame could easily be pin-up worthy with its narrow waist, washboard belly and rounded hips around which their shared think blanket gathered in cream-coloured folds. The nipples on her small breasts were stiff in the cool air, hard little chocolate-coloured nubbins. She smelled like vanilla, and like clove cigarettes.
Her breathing didn't change as Hanna stroked her smooth-shaven scalp gently, feeling its flawless surface with a sense of wonder. In the light, she knew, it would shine. Hanna was struck by a desire to kiss her. To taste her tongue and lick her way languidly down her body and bury her face between those graceful thighs, to swallow her honeyed nectar and reprise the sweet, writhing passion with which they'd fallen into bed. But she resisted that urge. It wouldn't bring the relief she needed.
You're getting it tonight,
she told herself.
It's can't-miss.
Hanna was entirely uncovered, deliberately so, her taut flesh goose-pimpling in the chill. She knew from experience that she would draw male attention like a magnet. She had all the tools. She itemized them carefully.
The main attraction of course would be her ass, carefully arrayed and out-thrust toward the room by her posture: big and round, soft and enticing, it would practically glow in the dark thanks to her milky complexion. It sometimes seemed as if it had wandered onto her slender frame from another girl entirely; times like these, though, it more than came in handy. As of course did the rearward peep of her shaven sex, and the tattoos decorating her arms and back with Nordic runes and pagan symbolism.
She had been told by both boyfriends and girlfriends that her porcelain-doll features reminded them of some porno model called... Emily something. Green? Grey? She could never remember, but there was no mistaking the lust in people's eyes when they said it. Sometimes she wished for bigger breasts - although since meeting Nomi she'd also, refreshingly, found herself wishing from time to time for those kinds of cute little bee-stings - but her B-cups were delightful handfuls and mouthfuls in their own right. Their large pink nips were as stiff right now as Nomi's, albeit for different reasons. Her petite body as a whole tended toward a soft, supple femininity that complemented her friend's lithe athleticism, that often made people want to touch her just to see if her skin was as soft as it looked.
Even things she would normally have called imperfections might work in her favour. She pulled her hand away from Nomi's head and feathered her fingers through the minimal fuzz of dark hair on her scalp, wondered abstractly for the fifth time in half an hour if she should razor it again. Maybe, maybe not; there was something about this buzz-cut look that seemed to mesmerize guys, she had seen it earlier that day in the eyes of the room-mates for whom she now lay in wait.
Her mind roved in restless circles, cataloguing and re-cataloguing all these factors. Trying to build reassurance.
Had she set the scene carefully enough? She felt sure the half-dozen discarded cans of Pilsner and the empty mickey of vodka by the bedside should sell the illusion of her being passed-out drunk.
Was she presenting her ass at just the right angle? She arched her back a little more just to be on the safe side.
Her pussy was wet and swollen, molten desire churning in her belly in ways that try though she might to relieve on her own - or with the aid of Nomi's long tongue and agile, knowing fingers - had only one true remedy. And yet she knew perfectly well that despite everything, there was no guarantee that she was getting what she yearned for tonight. That was the hell of it: the waiting, the uncertainty.
Suppose they're too drunk when they get back?
They had looked like sturdy enough lads who'd hold their liquor in the light of day, but you never knew who might prove to be a lightweight.
Suppose they found girls while they were out at the bar and aren't coming back?
They were handsome enough guys that it was possible, though they'd all had a touch of hipster-edition clueless boorishness about them that suggested they would under-perform in the hookup sweepstakes.
Suppose they're too uptight or upright or whatever and just refuse to -
She curtailed that train of thought savagely.
Just wait, Hanna,
she told herself.
Just wait.
She squirmed around the yearning ache in her hot, slick cunt. Knew now her friend wasn't actually sleeping by the way those clever fingers tightened comfortingly in hers. Nomi looked out for her when the urge to seek a certain kind of thrill grew unbearable, but she could only keep on eye on things when and if they began. She couldn't
make
them happen.
"And even if I could,"
she had told Hanna candidly once:
"I don't think I would. I love you, kid, but all this - it's pretty fucking weird, you know?"
Yeah. Hanna knew. She just couldn't help it.
She waited. Random bits of flotsam drifted across her mind. That line from
The Shawshank Redemption
dripping out in Morgan Freeman's rich molasses tones:
"I had some long nights in the stir. Alone in the dark with nothing but your thoughts, time can draw out like a blade."
She always liked that line. It spoke to her at times like this.
And there came bits from that old poem, the one they'd been studying in her English class just before she'd dropped out and gone nomad.
"To-day we have naming of parts . . . The blossoms are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see / Any of them using their finger."
That one had always made her sweetly sad. Sometimes she wished she would have stayed to learn that poem better.
She waited. The moments ticked by so slowly that she felt like screaming.
But then she heard them. The familiar voices of their room-mates coming down the hallway outside, loud and raucous and clearly quite smashed but sounding good natured. Closer listening disclosed that it was all six of them. Hanna licked her lips, felt her heart begin to race. Nomi's dark eyes flickered open, meeting her own grey gaze as they shared a look of communion, a silent promise. The friends exchanged a nod, a slight peck of a kiss.
