Close to the Edge

Close to the Edge

This is a style of fantasy I have that I call “fight to the end.” In it, I’m not the submissive service-oriented, pleasing, easygoing person that I am in my real sexual life, but rather a bitch, playing games, getting hurt, and trying to hurt back. In my fantasties, besides getting off, I like to try out being people and doing things that I’d never dare to in real life. This story is a good example of this sort of “what if.” Much as I’d like to, I couldn’t carry off this sort of personality in real life. I’d be laughing too hard at my drama, for one thing! Still, the story is hot if you like male-female struggle, so enjoy.

:: : ::

Preview of Sensation

I want to be known in a way that I haven’t been known before. I want you to observe my start of surprise, my gleeful merriment change to frozen shock, as I realize what is in store for me. I want you to see the fear break over my skin like surf against the rocks, causing my eyes to roll up and reveal their whites. I want you to hear the sounds my feet make when running at top speed, splashing through puddles, crunching on gravel, taking stairs two at a time. I want you to hear my labored gasps, feel my heart beating hundreds of times a minute and my aching, trembling limbs trying to be still, when I stop to rest in a shadow. I want you to sense my steely resolve to somehow, someway, stop you as I try to bind my terror and contain it safely.


I want you to remember every detail of how I taunted you, sometimes subtly, sometimes more directly, and how I thumbed my nose at your warnings, ignoring the scent of your hunger, treating you as “just” the “friend” that I insisted you were. I want you to realize how I pigeon-holed you in my mind: as a fascinating weirdo, whose brains could be picked for my personal entertainment and titillation. I want you to know that you were _used_ for this purpose.

And then, after months of what you may once have thought of as relationship-building or friendship-cementing or some other such nonsense, I want to meet you and watch you watch my look of triumph as I tell you the truth in a manner that stops all denial and observe, for the first and the last time, the look of shock run it’s path across your usually cool and collected features. I want to observe that first tiny hint of rage, which you’ll quickly (but not quickly enough)obscure with polite, hearty laughter, as if I’ve told you the most wondrously funny story. I’ll widen my eyes and laugh with you, of course, long and hard and merry, and then giggle my scorn as you quickly steer the talk to other subjects.


I want to watch you from across the small table as you decide my fate. I want to watch you weave your web of deceit and subterfuge as my mind spins round and round and round, trying to keep up, trying to discern the why, the how, the when. I don’t believe, no matter how you have talked, that you have the guts actually to do anything, but just in case I start to think of ways to thwart what I imagine to be your plans, but the wine is too fine, the music divine… I’ve crossed the line. You notice. But then, I _want_ you to, tee-hee.


It gets late and we get up to leave. I want you to notice, just outside the restaurant, how the brisk wind blows the beautiful long black waves of hair out of their ribbon and into my face. I want you to move the hairs aside and really see my face: the wide dark eyes gleaming so brightly with hope under arched unplucked brows, the mischievous and innocently dimpled smile on my full lips, the impossible spray of freckles that marches boldly from one olive cheek to another across the bridge of my nose. I want you to notice how I move, from one foot to the other, turning and gazing at the river, the buildings, the traffic, a natural dance of happy, near abandoned display. I want you to see the clothes I have so carefully chosen, that resemble no current nor past style but manage to interpret me perfectly, snap and ripple across my body’s surfaces in the brisk wind. I want you to smell the faint perfume which a stray sly breeze proffers to your nose as a peace offering, 273 on S! lut, and drink in, for one last time: your dream of who you thought I was, this ice-cream cone topping of a girl. Then I want to watch your increasingly urgent dream of what I shall soon be blend together with the tactile image in front of you until they are one.

And then I want to tell you, “Goodbye. It was _so_ nice to finally meet you. Give my regards to X,” grasp both your hands once as I gaze with wonder and curiosity in your eyes, then walk with brisk small steps down the near-empty street, in search of a cab, my unruly hair streaming before me. I can never resist overdoing it, though, comic exaggeration is the air I breath, so I give an invisible partner a high-five and an audible “Yes!” just before I turn the corner.

Sensation II

I want to hear your footsteps approaching behind me I want to hear your yell to “Wait!” I want to increase my pace, and imagine you watching me ignore you. I want to hear your steps quicken and get louder, at which point I will start to run. I want you to see the drunken joyfulness of my body as my stride stretches out, and catch the quick glance I throw behind me, before I’m moving too fast to turn, my pony tail and buttocks bouncing, my small leather purse slapping against my hip.

I want you to experience what it feels like to throw me to the ground, your arms around my soft hips, which are already squirming away from you, my body cushioning your fall. I want you to hear the half-scream I make as I jerk out of your grasp and stumble to my feet, grabbing a dumpster for support. I want you to hear the heavy heh-hew, heh-hew, heh-hew of my breathing, as I try to replace the breath that’s been crushed from my lungs and my little moan of dismay as I stare at the torn and bloody knees of what used to be my tights. I want you to drink in my look of dazzled shock at your rage as you rise with me, grabbing my shoulders and spinning me hard against a wall. I want you to feel the soft compliance of my body which signals to you that I won’t run or fight anymore–at least not now. I want you to hear the satisfying crack as you knock me unconscious, and feel the weight of my body in your arms as you call a cab. I want you to look down at my smeared lip gloss as you! hear yourself as you explain to the driver in lecherous and satisfied tones how I’d had a little too much to drink and that you needed to take me home. I want you to see his wink back at you, and feel smug that his smile of understanding doesn’t even begin to comprehend your actual plans for me this evening.


I want you to watch me emerge, dazzled and groggy, as my aching head is flung back and forth to the harsh rhythm of your slaps. I want you to see the expression of disbelief cross my face and hear the currents gurgling sluggishly through my mind as I struggle to comprehend what’s going on. First, denial: this can’t be happening, go back to sleep. Then, a random memory: of how I used to be, how different from now, lovingly bringing someone–a king, perhaps and I the royal concubine–breakfast in bed, giggling over the comics and drinking lots of strong coffee. Then, realization: it’s not going to go away…and it hurts, realbad. Then, briefly, fear: for a moment I don’t know where I am or what’s going on.

I want you to watch me open my eyes for the first time since you knocked me out and observe the intense sexual rush that overcomes me when I see its your hand administering the slaps. Just how strong an erogenous zone my face is I don’t want you to know, and you see my immediate attempt to hide that bald lust under a damp cloth of anger. I want you to notice and gloat over the fact that my doing this makes the slapping much more painful. Then I want you to hear my whining, annoyed manipulative voice with it’s faint ambrosic undertone of desperation, commanding you to “Stop it!” And when you don’t, I want you to feel my spit dripping down one side of your face and see my disgust transform to shock when I realize that even that didn’t distract you from your current entertainment.

I want you to feel my small, soft breasts heave and squirm under the rigid grip of your legs as I try, in vain, to free the arms that your thighs pin so tightly to my sides. I want you see my eyes sweep your crotch as my head travels back and forth under your hands and see clearly how I long to reach that vulnerable spot just under your jeans and give it such a hard, cruel twist.

I want you to know from my shuddering desperate breaths that it’s finally registered with me that you are doing nothing to stifle my screams, which have been rising in pitch and intensity over the last 30 seconds. You should also know that I’ve had time, despite the distracting agony in my cheeks and my constantly changing visual field, to notice the video cameras pointed at us, the mask covering your eyes and nose, and the blank stone walls of the cool, featureless room. I want you to be aware that I have, as you planned, quickly realized their portentous implications.

I now want you to see the water start to trickle from the corners of my expressive terrified eyes and hear those first dulcet tones of pleading and suffering seep into my voice: “Please… this is enough. I can’t take any more… Please? C’mon, you’re going to break my jaw! Look, it was all just a _joke_. Well, a sort of experimental joke. A really stupid experiment. I give up, Uncle, whatever… Oh, jeez! You WIN, OK? Is that OK? Please, stop it _now_. Please?… What do you _want_? Oh god, just stop _hitting_ _me_.” I want you to hear the helpless sobbing that begins on the last two words, as I notice that the only effect my begging has had on you is to make you smiling and hard.


I want you to see the changes I undergo when having to face, as it were, this incessant and extreme pain that does not end, no matter what I do. First, the end of my begging, when I realize after a few minutes that it has no effect. Then, the screams and cries, rising in pitch, interrupted by huge gasping sobs. Then, quiet, except for the sounds of your slaps and the occasional terrified whimper. I want you see how the affected areas on my face, turn blotchy white, then red, swell, and how certain spots begin to turn to purple, green, blue. I want you to see how my mouth now hangs openly slack, the formerly pale lips flushed with color, the blood flowing freely from one side. And do you feel how that body you still hold tightly under your legs has no tension left within it at all?

I want you to see me lying exhausted and sweating under you when you finally stop, my head lying where you left it. I want you to feel the muscles in your arms relaxing after their work, the sting receding from the palms. I want you to watch my eyes open warily and stare at the wall nearest my head. And when you move your face within my field of vision to get a better look at your handiwork, I’d like you to see the jolt of terror that enters my eyes and dilates the pupils so much that they now seem black, that raw emotion I cannot now hide. How they stare at you! Unable to break away, these huge eyes that others have called bottomless pits are transfixed by your gaze. I want you to notice yourself growing hard again as you drink in my terror.

I want you to see my immediate obedience when you tell me to spit, how I turn my head closer to the concrete. I want you to hear my shocked moan as I see the white flash of a molar within the river of blood that slides down my jaw to the floor. Once again, the seriousness of my situation, which I had managed to forget under the mind-bending pain of a few moments ago, is in the forefront of what remains of my consciousness. I want you to know my thoughts at that moment, my dawning awareness of my situation and my last hope dying: this just isn’t a game–is it? Or if it is, it’s so close to horrific reality that I can no longer discern a difference. I want you to see me spit again, less blood this time but also another tooth and sense the throbbing jabs in their vacated cavities that almost make me swoon.

I want you to hear my first whispered words to you in more than half an hour: “What’s next?” and then watch me shut my eyes when I get no answer.

I want you to think I’m asleep as I plot, in-between the waves of pain, how to get away, or hurt you, or, ideally, both. I know when it needs to happen and how, and if you think I’m going to give it away by writing it down here, you’re nuts! I want my planning to be interrupted by the terror that a needle stinging my arm invokes: you’ve just shot me up with something! You asshole! Will it make me feel good or bad? Holy shit, could it be one of those drugs that prevent a person from passing out no matter how bad the pain?

Now you’re sssshooting up and I’m feeling pleasantly dizzy. It’s a good drug, not bad, but I have lost the ability to concentrate on my planssss. I see you go to a corner of the room and come back with some electrical cords–are you going to tie me with _those_ LOLOLOLOL! Wooo, this is nice, I still feel the pain from the recent beating but somehow it doesn’t matter. Now you’re holding a mirror in front of my face and making me face the mirror with your fist in my hair. I want you to know how shocked I am, even under the influence of the drug. That’s not me, I don’t look like that, I’m beautiful. I’ve always been beautiful. You must be showing me a masked me, not the real me. I want you to know that reality has sunk in when I touch my hand to my face and see the hand in the mirror–touching the black-and-blue, purple-and-green, red-streaked swollen thing I have become. This was supposed to be a game, it was never supposed to go this far, but there you are laughing at me, lik! e this is the funniest thing in the world…

First Attempt

I want you to know that even the drug can’t smooth out the horror I feel. Nor the hatred I experience toward you for doing this to me. I want you to see my sudden hard glance at the mirror, and know I intend to wrest it from you. I want you to feel instant concern as I do manage, despite your seeing it coming, to wrest the mirror out of your one hand and smash it to the floor. I want you to watch, with the disbelief this drug has imposed on your brain, as I grab up a large shard and lunge at your face. I miss your eyes by a mile–the stupid drug!–and although I hit something, I don’t have a chance to push it in deep because your wrists are twisting mine out of its socket. I want you to hear my scream of pain and frustration mingle with the sound of the shard dropping. And then, I want you to finally feel the sharp pain in the middle of your forehead and the liquid running down it as you lift me up by my wrist and fling me onto the old mattress.


I want you to hear my “oof!” as your weight falling on top of me knocks my breath out and watch my beaten face slowly lose it’s expression of triumph over the fact that you can be wounded as your large hands squeeze my soft neck for a minute or two, then let it go briefly, then squeeze hard and long again, then let it go, then squeeze again. When all I can finally do is just lie there concentrating on taking the the next breath, I want to be pushed over onto my stomach, your knee on my back and feel my wrists being bound roughly behind my back with duct tape, and then my ankles.

I then want to hear that sound every city-dweller dreads: the click of an auto stiletto and feel the blade being run lightly up and down my arms, my back, my legs. I then want to feel my clothes being cut off my body, quickly and efficiently, and then hear your chuckle as I comment sarcastically, “You know, I once read about the terror of getting your clothes cut off on the Internet and since that time I’ve always wanted to know what it feels like. Now that’s I’m experiencing it, I don’t get it. What’s the big fucking deal if the person doing it knows how to use a knife?” I want to hear and feel your reply: something harsh and lewd that cancels the effect of my joke and brings me back to the shameful awareness of my nakedness, which is quickly becoming exposed to your gaze. I don’t want to see that gaze.

I want to feel you roll me over onto my aching wrists, as you finish cutting my clothing away, my sole protection left against you, from my front side. I want to hear you laugh at my eyes being so tightly shut and my face so scrunched up, and then feel your strong hand as it pinches the top of my pussy very hard. “Shaved, huh? Who’d you shave it so well for, cunt?” I want you to be surprised by the look of contempt I flash your way as I say, “I was planning upon giving you a chance to worship there, on your knees, if you treated me well tonight in the restaurant…and later. I’m afraid that’s absolutely out of the question now, you puta with a prick!” I want to hear your insulted voice say something nasty and threatening back, but knowing you, I’ll probably have to settle for crazy incredulous laughter at someone in my bound condition mouthing off to a guy almost twice my size wielding a switchblade.


Then, I want to feel myself rolled over again, and, as the drug slowly wears off, to feel the incredible, and unexpected pain of electrical cords on flesh. All up and down one side, and then when that is nicely welted and striped, even oozing a bit, up and down the other side. I want you to hear what it sounds like when my already screamed-out throat has to scream some more.

Respite Two

I don’t want you to know how relieved I am when the pain stops. Because no matter what else happens, I don’t want you to start that savage beating again, a beating that has hurt so bad that after only the first five minutes I prayed for death to a god I know doesn’t exist. I just want to lay here and pant, as I try to collect the pieces of my self that your whipping has splattered across the room.

“How do you feel now, baby?” Your voice, which managed to sound desperately eager, smug, and slightly amused all at the same time shatters my contemplation, and I gather what reserves I had to form an appropriate response. Do you really think I want you to know how I feel? I would love to speak to that eagerness and try to crush it with some biting, well-chosen words, but I don’t think I could stand, right now, another beating like that I have just received. I groan a little, acutely aware of my bruised and welted nakedness under your gaze and how helpless that must make me look, but I do not move or respond in any other way. I don’t what you to know how defeated I feel at this low moment of my life, and how angry I am at myself for underestimating you. While I want to approach me, perhaps to gloat or scorn, perhaps to just stare at your handiwork, I do not, for my own special reasons, want you to consider raping me at this time. Perhaps if I lay still enough your drugged br! ain will forget I exist and wander off.

I want you know how, despite the pain, my battered body responds to your first caress: a fingertip softly following the line of one of the larger welts across my shoulders. My back arches, very slightly, under the powerful thrill that runs through me, and while I stop the movement almost instantly and become completely still again, your sarcastic “Uh huh!” tells me you’ve noticed. I want you to know that I hate your powers of observation, particularly at this moment, almost as much as I hate my inability to hide my response to you. I want to hear you ask, mockingly, “What’s up, baby? What’s on your mind?” and then feel your large hand diving roughly between my legs, as several of your long fingers are shoved up my cunt. I want to hear your laugh, which contains elements both of “I just knew it” about the findings and incredulousness about the degree, as your fingers are soaked. I want you to hear my gasp at the invasion, and feel my efforts to close my legs and expel you from there. I want you to know-and this is absolutely true, by the way–my shock and dismayed shame when I remember that this hand belongs to a person ten years younger than myself, an age difference I have always despised others for, particularly other men, as it is the age of my hated younger brother, who thanks to my resentment of the way he was pampered and treated so specially by the rest of my traditional family simply because of his sex, has caused me for years to assume that all men in his age group are hateful, nasty, gloating, arrogant smelly, undeserving slobs, who will try to rub in their unearned cultural superiority over women every chance they get.


Here I am, a decade older, probably smarter, certainly more experienced in many areas than this urban rube, but instead of lying in my comfortable hotel room and thinking happily of how I put him in his place, and remembering his look of shock as I laughed my ass off in the restaurant, I am lying on a filthy mattress in a dirty, cold room somewhere in a city I do not know, humiliatingly naked, beaten, and defeated, and being videotaped as he shoves his hand painfully up my cunt. And he is the one that is laughing and successful, this little brat in a huge body, a kid who could have been a friend of my despised brother’s, this young, ignorant, pretentious, crowing punk, whose ugly smirk uncannily resembles the one I used to see on my brother’s face each time my mom would take his side in an argument or do favors for him that I and the rest of my sisters couldn’t dream of getting. I do not want you to have the slightest idea of how much all of this scrapes my nerves RAW, but I am afraid that my stiffness may be giving it away.

Yes it is! God DAMN it! “Awwww! What’s the matter, pumpkin?” you say in your most condescending and oily tone, as you cut away the duct tape. If you only knew, you filthy, undeserving piece of shit, if you only knew. I want you to know that my hatred for you, as I hear you unzip your pants, is building at a tremendous rate, as I am at this moment having a very hard time distinguishing you from my despised brother, and from all the other men: the successful rapist and the attempted rapists that I have hated all of my life. I want you know that, despite my exhaustion, it is incredibly hard to lay still and just…impotently…take…with grinding teeth, the torment and debasement you are putting me through and which is about to get much worse. I want you to know how I long to jerk away from your grasp and lash out at you, blinding those horrid observant piggy eyes forever with my short but quite effective fingernails. One accurate jab is all I need. But I know I am too exhaust! ed to make much use of this rush of rage, so I want you to know as you force me to kneel up and arch my back obscenely, my poor swollen face pillowed on my arms, that I am thinking only of my future revenge.

Contemplative Humiliation

Is there anything that I want you to know anymore? You already know far too much, I think. Here I am, on my knees, my naked, welted ass arched obscenely in the air, my mind teeming with a potent rage-and-humiliation compound that you’re at least somewhat aware of, probably quite aware of, about to be physically invaded in the most degrading fashion by a young self-satisfied misogynistic punk who, at the moment, I despise utterly both because of the way he reminds me of my brother, and because he has been so obscenely joyful over besting me in the most humiliating of ways. Could it get worse? Oh yes, you could make it very painful for me also. I have to try to avoid this final humiliation. “Don’t, please,” I implore. “Just think about it first.”

You respond with sarcastic, incredulous laughter, then add, rubbing and pinching my bottom as you speak, “Get used to the idea, bitch, your stuck-up, too-good-for-anyone ass is all mine. It’s going to be used very hard now. By me. And by my buddies, if I choose to invite them down here. For my pleasure, exclusively. And my greatest pleasure will come from watching the humiliation, pain, and despair cross your face, as I take you like a little squealing, squirming animal.” You hear my slight intake of breath at the word “pain,” and continues, “Yes, lots of pain for you, sweet lover. You don’t think I’d disappoint you, did you?” I don’t want you to see me tremble as you get up from behind my bottom and I hear you rummaging in another portion of the room.

You return with another mirror (where are you getting all of these?), this one larger, and prop it against a box so that my face, lying on my arms is clearly visible in its reflection. “Don’t touch it this time, don’t turn away, and don’t shut your eyes for longer than a blink. Understand?” I nod, but you’re not finished. “If you do any of these things, you’ll find yourself begging and screaming for my dick when you feel what I’ve replaced it with.” Something sharp runs itself along one of my buttocks and I shudder. “Now say the magic words, my little slutinski: `please viciously and mercilessly rape me…'” I repeat the words. “In the most degrading and depraved ways that you can dream up” I repeat them. “And make it hurt really, really bad, so I’ll never forget you.” I stumble over this last phrase and have to repeat it. “Well, OK honey, I was really thinking there about showing you mercy and not going through with it , but you sure have a way with words, you know, and I’m! afraid you’ve talked me into it,” you say, and let out a maniacal snort of laughter.


You take your penis in hand and start to rub it against my buttocks and then very slowly up and down the crack between them, not going in very far. Were you someone I desired to have sex with, such actions would seem tantalizing, but as things are they are both menacing and degrading. I grimace, in spite of myself, and you chuckle when you see that. I realize I am not going to get a chance to put my most of my plans into action, and that if anything is to stop this, it has to happen now, despite my exhaustion and the debilitating pain. I take care not to change my expression or body tension in any way, as I don’t want you to have a clue about what I’m going to do. I can see you, partially, in the mirror. As I’d hoped, you have not removed your pants, just pulled them down to your knees. I don’t want you to know that I’ve carefully calculated the advantage this should give me.

Suddenly, I roll forwards, fast, being careful not to bump the mirror with my hips. In two quick rolls I am onto the concrete and starting to rise. You’re going to have to fumble to get your pants up before you can come after me, and I am counting on the few seconds advantage this will give me. I’m on my knees, with my hands pushing me up, when I feel your arms around my calves, yanking me backwards hard. I fall down on the concrete with a crash, and look behind me. You’re right there, pants still around your knees, arms holding my legs in an unbreakable vicegrip, and Fucking A! You’re laughing your hateful head off! How did you get here so fast? I wonder, then instantly grasp the answer: you rolled too, right after me. I struggle madly then, fighting with all of my remaining strength to get free. This makes you giggle even more, which, in turn, scares me even more, but I am losing strength rapidly. I actually manage, in my desperation, to drag myself by my arms across the floor a few feet, dragging you with me, and trying to kick you. In the meantime, you are laughing hysterically (you creep!), and climbing up my body the way a boy climbs a tree. You’re hurting me as you climb, grabbing and squeezing my flesh, hitting me when I manage to wiggle away from your next grasp, but finally you make my still-raised shoulders, which you slam down hard into the concrete, taking my poor head along with them. You reach down and bite me hard on the ear. While this is going on, my hips are still wiggling frantically, trying to get out from under you and oh god, no, please, you’re slamming into my anus DRY! I… don’t… want… you… to… AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! I scream and scream and scream, where I found the vocal cords to do so I know not where. As many have described it, this is the worst possible pain in the world, worse than the most throbbing toothache, worse than breaking a bone or getting a limb cut off. I feel as though that sharp stick is up me, tearing me apart on the inside. It’s wet in there now and you haven’t come, so this has to be blood. You’re impaling me and there is nothing I can do about it. My desperate and excruciating pain only fans your lust and your thrusts get harder, rougher, deeper. I try and try to knock you off me, bucking my hips in the air, attempting to roll over and knock you out, but it is all to no avail. What’s worse, I am once again equating you in my head with my hated brother and his generation of spoiled young men whom I so despise. Totally beside myself, I turn my head, stare at you in outrage and scream at the top of my lungs, “You have NO RIGHT to this!” That was a big mistake: your face becomes transported with pleasure at my expression and words and as I feel you start to shoot your cum in my bruised asshole, now slick with blood, you lean close to my ear and whisper gleefully, in the perfect Simpson’s cartoon next-door-neighbor-boy’s voice, “Ha…ha!”

An Explanation

I want you to know where my head is when I start to sob and sob and sob. I’ve been with you all the way through this entire mind-breaking experience: I don’t have the type of brain that can escape to parts unknown when the going gets rough. Instead, the stupid gray lump sticks around and tries to analyze what’s going on. Right now, my idiot head just said to me, “you’ve been anal-yzed all right.” It said it in your voice, which means it thinks it’s the kind of joking thing that you might actually say. Or have said. While my brain does its goofy stuff, my body trembles with trauma. I feel cold all over and kind of high, too–I’m probably shocky as hell. And the pain, the awful pain, everywhere but especially in my bottom–I can’t think about that. So instead I think about how I provoked you in the restaurant, how fun–in a vengeful sort of way–that was, and how utterly certain I was that nothing would happen to me because of it. You know why I was so certain, too.

After talking to me for long months, getting me so excited with who and what you were (you knew I was excited, I told you so enough times), with your terribly attractive threat-and-promise personality, with your clear interest in experimenting with me and taking me to the other side of a profoundly intense experience, you one day told me, out of the blue, that you had decided after long thought that your violent sexual desires were wrong. (Those two jarring words: “were wrong,” floored me. You have to be joking, I thought then, but you weren’t.) You said that, thanks to the help of a very good doctor recommended by your parents, you were now taking medication which was changing your life around. I made light of the matter, joked it away, as the tears welled up in my eyes. Another dream, another need smashed to pieces. I thought about arguing the point with you, then thought better of it. You just can’t fight a drug-based conversion.

I thought you’d let me be after that, I’d thought you were both intelligent and caring enough to let me lick off my disappointment by myself. But you wanted to remain my “friend,” you wanted to meet me in person, and, incredibly enough, knowing everything you do about me, you wanted us to have “normal healthy man-woman fucking sex” together. As “equals!” Again, I hid my shock and hurt at this latest betrayal (you apparently wanted to forget who I was so that it could make what you’d become more comfortable) and I pretended to be OK with it. At first I did this only because I wanted to understand your conversion better. Later, I kept up the act of friendship because I wanted an opportunity to exact my revenge. So I sweetly kept up the teasing banter, now completely and banally vanilla, then got some hot, creative (but not too kinky!) pics taken of me and rationed them to you, one tantalizing image at a time, each outdoing the other, and switched my fantasy-writing talents to conventional-sex mode. It worked. You lapped this homogenized crap up!

And finally, the appointed day came, and we met. The first part of the evening was delicious: I almost felt as though the “old” you was back, in fact, with the way you spoke and looked at me at times. Then I decided enough of that: it was time to get down to business. I told you in the restaurant all about the case study I’d done about you, your formerly sick interests, and your conversion to a sweet boring, stupid little puppy of a man, and all about how this was to be published in a respected journal within the month, and how I’d used you, expressly, for that purpose, and, secondarily of course, because the machinations of your confused little soul had entertained me so well. I told you how I had no interest anymore in having _any_ sort of sex with you, twisted or straight, that you repulsed me totally, and that, in fact, what turned me on right now was thinking of you going home, frustrated and alone. Watching your shock and rage was so delicious. I never believed for a moment that it might be feigned, that this vanilla conversion had all been an extensive and elaborate put-on on your part to make me unsuspecting. My little vengeful twist to the plot you’d been outlining for so long must have given you no end of amusement! How did you manage to hide it from me, barely three feet away with my gloating eyes studying and milking every ounce of shock and hurt on your features?

And so, taken totally unawares, I found myself, so confident of my after-dinner victory, shortly thereafter running madly for my life in a strange, threatening city, hiding, resting, running again, feeling all the terror and exhaustion and desperation that an outmatched, hunted animal feels, and you always, always–no matter how many times I thought I had lost you–tracking me down. Someday I will have to tell the full story of that incredible chase, but for now, I simply want you to know that it had the desired effect: it scared me beyond anything I’d ever felt in my life. This whole setup, in fact, was perfect in a way that nothing else would have been because not only did I not expect any sort of violent treatment from you anymore, but I did not _want_ it. And throughout this horrific ordeal, I have continued not to want any of it, except for that little bit at the beginning when the slaps to my face were turning me on so much and when I fully expected you (I was still thinking in terms of kind, “vanilla” you) to ease off when you saw I was nearing my emotional limits.

You see, by now, I had forgotten what you really were. But, oh horror of horrors, I was beginning to remember. You once told me, I now remember, way back at the beginning, when casually discussing how you regarded your victims and their response to your treatment, good or bad, “you see, the way I look at it, it’s sort of her problem.” And it was also my problem, I realized now, that it was way, way too late. And my undoing had come because I hadn’t paid nearly enough attention to the words that had quickly followed it: “I am an improviser.” Those four words were now burning a hole into my brain, as was a considerable amount of shame at my own stupidity! This evening or morning or whatever it was, I had been far too occupied with pain and fear before to think about the implications of what you were doing to me, and now, the instant realization of what these actions of yours meant, astounded me. How you must have planned! How carefully you kept up the act of a converted ex-per! vert! You were so convincing, and I bought the whole story. If I should ever get out of this nightmare, I will kill you! With something deadly and, yes, something VANILLA!!

After the Revelation

I want to know why you are still lying on me, 15 minutes later, crushing me with your weight, your cock still fully embedded up my torn-up ass. Why don’t you get off me? I wiggle my hips a little: if you’re soft you might slip out and relieve a little of that awful stuffed-full sensation in my ass, that even without any pain would be distressing. Instead of sliding away, however, you start to harden and swell, and ohgod, you’re chuckling! Laughter in you is a very bad portent, I’ve learned. “I just got it,” I say in wonder, raising my head. “I finally got it!”

“You certainly have got it, sugar, and you’re about to get it again,” you say, your laughter getting louder as you roughly shove my head back down and start those horrifically painful thrusts again. I’m not going to be able to live through this. And I do not _want_ to live through this!

But I try one more time to explain. “No! I mean I…” Oh, fuck! You knew _very well_ what I mean. I had managed to forget, during your recent fake “vanilla dodo-bird phase,” just how smart you actually were (or rather, are) and how you love to play with people’s heads. “Just tell me one thing, OK? When is this going to end?” I ask, through gritted teeth trying to hold in the next scream. “Never, bitch,” you reply.

The End

copyright 2003 Unda. Crucia. Eximius.

About the Author