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Dear Literotica readers. Here's a new experiment. I'd like to thank proof reader Kurokami here, who has incredible patience with me and my almost-finished stories. If you are familiar with some of my other work, a warning might be in place: this one contains no bdsm-undertones, this is just straight up noncon/reluctance. Dark and dramatic. If that is your thing, enjoy. If not, please skip this one and find something that does do it for you. -- Allyourbase
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As you stroll down the dark alleyways you remember how much you promised yourself never to walk home alone like this. That last beer had been one too much, though, and that familiar feeling of being immortal, the one you had as a teenager, had pushed away all worry. But you're worried now, alright.
You try to distance yourself from the fear you feel inside, focusing on the random sounds of the city, but they feel like distant threats, trouble waiting to happen. You're drunk enough to be glad you don't have to navigate traffic riding your bike. Biking is fast, dangerous, it can get you into painful situations in the blink of an eye. You're drunk enough to wish you were on your bike, in stead of walking. Walking is slow, dangerous, it can get you into trouble way too easily and not out of it fast enough.
Where is that bike anyway?
You feel the skin of your hands against the inside of your pockets. Soft, warm, hidden. It's a sudden moment of comfort. Caressing your leg through the fabric, the ache returns in your consciousness - the paradoxical cold and hot sensation of a cunt in wet, sticky shorts. You hate your cunt. It's always wet.
None of your lovers got it, mostly because you didn't tell them, but if there's anything that makes you hate your cunt, it's how sweet they've treated it. You think of her fingers, caressing your labia, and of her mouth kissing your clit, softly licking it, like she loves the ugly thing. Maybe she does.
And you thought men would be better, but you can still feel his hands sliding over your body appreciatively, carefully fondling your tits, caressing your ass, way too gently for the clumsy, large hands he has, turning your outside into a curvy princess like a gold cage. You can still see his face between your legs, eating you out with this disturbing patience like he's giving you a gift.
You just wanted to kick him in the face and scream.
No sex at all is preferable to the kind of sickly sweet luvvin that makes you feel like this. Dirty and ugly and hungry, because someone insists you're not. Locked up inside like this, with your cunt screaming for it.
Your hands have balled up into fists inside your pockets.
Goddammit. You need to be hurt.
You cross a large street, there's just a few cars driving through at this hour. For some reason you have to think of some manifesto you read by Italian futurists of a century ago. They had a thing with car crashes and sex that you never understood when you read it. Not that you remember enough about it now. They were fascists anyway.
What would it feel like to be hit by a car?
Really, it must be
extremely
painful,
not
something you want, you
know
this. But your drunk mind has a will of its own. Drastic measures. Anything to satisfy the hunger inside. An elaborate surreal fantasy plays behind your eyes, about a hard blow, splitting open on the concrete, letting out whatever it is that is pent up inside, roaring, like the Hulk. You wonder if it would be better than sex. If it would be like cumming unlike ever before. How you'd feel so, so O.K. when the nurses take you away to get fixed up again. So alive under all the pain, so clean. So satisfied.
Maybe that's why you liked skateboarding so much. The bruises. You loved those bruises.
That time you broke your wrist was crap. Even though, with the increasing recklessness your friends started to worry about, you were asking for it by then.
Heh, you skateboarded to fail at it, and you secretly want to be hit by a car, because there's a masochist inside of you that wants to break out like a comic book super hero. Great. This night is going well again.
Oh well.
Nevermind.
Your fantasies are fucked up.
In your fantasies you always end up getting hurt or used. Or both. It's bad enough that that's what you use to get off on. Alone. It's even worse you end up using them while your lovers fuck you. You're a bad person. But no need to think about it now, with this amount of beer in your body.
At least you're not afraid anymore.
You take a deep breath. You smell the greasy smell of deep fried food lingering in the street. Some people spill out of an Irish pub. Stifled music behind the door. The warm air from inside smells like Guinness and cider. It follows them, hangs between them as you brush past. They walk beside you. Their bodies are close.
God, you're horny.
Somewhere in the back of your mind you feel a painful memory stir, like a bruise you forgot you had until you accidentally touched it.
An evening like this. An alley like this. A long time ago, when you were very young. That boy and his friend who wouldn't leave you alone.
That night in bed, afterwards. Fingering the sore spots on your body. Not feeling the right feelings about it. Not the right feelings at all.
This body didn't feel like it was yours anymore. It had gotten a mind of its own.
Yes, you were young, but you should never have let it get out of hand like that. Now you're fucked up, if you weren't already. It's something you've wondered about so often: how much of it was already there, just waiting to be triggered, waiting to take you over?
You turn a corner, leaving the group on its way. This street is too big, you feel too exposed, the world is too open here. The sky looks down on you and it makes you uncomfortable. The darkness of alleyways is what you need right now.
You turn another corner. Your darkening mind gives ever more power to your yearning body until your center is nothing but an aching cunt. It drags you through smaller and smaller streets.
You turn another corner, and another one, choose street after street, winding through the city maze.
There be monsters here. You know this. You're looking for them.
And then you see them, four of them, like they've waited there for you to arrive. Waited, since that first time in that alley years ago. You walk through your memory, through the dark street, towards them. They close in on you, casually. The past has caught up with you. You shiver. You have a knot in your stomach. A fire in your crotch.
"
Hey gorgeous, where are you heading?"
You expected this. He is the alpha boy. He always starts.
[Here.]
"
Nowhere."
He is way too close. Good.
"
Nowhere? Then why don't you come with us, hm?"
All four of 'em are close now.
"
Why would I come with you?"
[Why don't you do me here.]
"
Because we could have... some
fun
...," he says.
"
Fun, hm? What kind of fun."
[Bring it on. Motherfucker.]
Very casually, his hand touches your lower back, like you're very, very close friends. You are not.
"
You know, just harmless fun. Come on..." He looks at the others, now is the moment to support him. "Don't you trust us? We're nice guys."
"
Yeah," one of the other boys says. The other two chime in as well. "We're nice guys!" "Do we look dangerous to you?"
[Yes, yes and I hope you are. I hope the only nice part of you is in your pants...]
"
Dude, are you going to keep touching me like that?"
[Keep touching me like that.]
Your tone is defensive, you've raised the stakes a bit.
"
Why, do you
