The Peeper, part 2

What to do? The hell if I was going to let the creep across the street keep me hidden away in my dark rooms when not at work. I decided I’d move just as soon as my lease was up, but as that was still a good six months away, I needed a way to deal with him (or it – someone who could do what he did not meet the definition of human in my opinion). The best thing to do would be to forget him completely, to open my windows when I wanted to, but never look for him, never acknowledge his existence. (I wonder if that would drive him mad or if he’d simply laugh at me, the way he had so often before?) At any rate, I’d get my revenge on him by living well, living happily even, during the time that remained on my lease. He could watch THAT if he wanted to peep: watch me eating delicious meals with my friends, watch me kissing my lovers passionately (but never again would he get a free porno show from my bedroom), watching me laughing and enjoying myself at MY computer, etc. I decided I’d give myself a week to recuperate and then, beginning this weekend, start having some FUN. With that I pulled up my kitchen blinds while looking everywhere but at his windows. Hey, I can do this! I think.

But despite my best efforts to avoid having anything to do with the peeping asshole, guess who was waiting outside my apartment when I got home Wednesday. His tall frame was slouched casually against the wall as I walked up to my door. He wasn’t looking at me; he was acting like he just happened to be hanging out there. Game-playing freak! Well, two could play this game. I walked straight up to the vestibule door, not looking at him, and unlocked it to let myself in. As I pulled the door outward to step into the first floor hall he was suddenly right behind me, pushed up against my back, in fact, his foot in the doorway. Fuck! I stepped away from his close and smothering touch toward the wall where the mailboxes were, but he stayed in step right behind me, still touching me with his body from behind. This was intolerable. If he thought I was going to give him any portions after all the hell he’d put me through last week, he was insane. I took in a huge breath, preparing to get rid of him in the most expedient and (I hoped) humiliating way for him by applying the good old “Rape!” scream. But before I even finished my intake of breath, one large hand was around my throat, choking me and not letting any sound escape except a faint croak, the other was around my waist and his hips were grinding one of his famous erections directly into my ass. How in the WORLD did he unzip and pull it out so quickly?

Up and down he rubbed his cock along my asscrack, only lightly covered by my thin cotton skirt and thong string, as I struggled to let my breath out, take some more air in, just breathe! But not only could I not catch a breath but I couldn’t get out of the grip of the impossibly strong arms around me. My lungs began to ache and I wondered if he intended to kill me while jacking himself off against my bottom. What an ignominious way to go, I thought, then wondered why I would care, I’d be dead after all. Suddenly he let off the squeezing on my throat and I let out the old air and took in some new, but before I could use that new breath to scream, he had cut off my air supply AGAIN! He bent his head, nuzzling my ear and blowing on the side of my face in a manner so close and cloying that it was impossible to bear, but I had no choice. He began to whisper in my ear then, as my panic increased from the inability to breath: “We look like two lovers cuddling from the street, babe. They can’t see my hand on your throat. (malicious-sounding chuckle) I’m getting so hot from choking you, slut, I just might come all over the back of your pretty spring dress.” I was only half paying attention by this time. Air – I NEEDED air! The hand loosened again, I breathed out and greedily in, then it tightened immediately. “No screaming honey, or I’ll break that pretty neck of yours in an instant.” Jesus, he sounded serious. “Maybe I’ll come on your ass instead of your dress, cunt,” he whispered. “Would you like that better?” Air! Thank GOD! Then the chokehold was back, and my dress was quickly pulled up in back. Now all that stopped his cock from entering me was that thin strip of thong material. But with the dress out of the way he quickly rubbed himself deeply between my ass cheeks and despite my terror and panic, I blushed crimson with shame to feel his hot hard shaft in such intimate contact with my body.

He began whispering really filthy intimate things in my ear then, horrible things he wanted to subject me too, and naturally, naturally, my stupid body started to get aroused. I didn’t have much time to enjoy the feeling however, as the need for another breath was getting worse and worse and he still wasn’t letting my throat go. I struggled then, with all of my remaining strength to tear his hand from my throat, but it was useless. My vision began to turn red, and the pain in my lungs was agonizing, and still he whispered in my ear: terrible, foul, dark ideas. I was going to die, not reviewing my life, not seeing a bright light at the end of a long tunnel, but thinking solely about the nightmarish and incredibly perverted things he wanted to do to my body. Then, suddenly, in an instant his hand was off my throat, and he had taken a step back to let my dress drop back down over my hips. If he hadn’t still been supporting me by the waist I would have fallen to the floor. I took a few heavy gasps, not looking behind at him, as I heard the loud ziiiip of his fly. “I changed my mind,” he said very matter of factly, as if we were having a discussion about a project over the water cooler. “I don’t want the first time I use you to be like this.” Then I felt a gust of air, as the door to the street opened and closed. I finally turned around, trembling and supporting myself against the wall of mailboxes. He was gone.

I got my mail, sat on the stairs to get my breath and to calm down a little then slowly — and shaking all the way – climbed the stairs. Once safely behind my locked apartment door I ran to my bedroom, collapsed on the bed and cried and cried. I was crying from postponed terror (a trick I picked up somewhere – during a crisis I stay relatively calm, but as soon as the danger has passed, I pay a heavy price for pushing down my panic), from sexual frustration, and from rage, rage that for the SECOND time in a week that man had reduced me to tears! I knew I should call the police and report what he’d done, but what evidence did I have? No DNA left behind to incriminate him, and he could counter my accusation with the idea that I was a frustrated female stalker he had rejected. And of course the cops in this filthy city would believe him, as his beautiful girlfriend stepped up to his side asking what was wrong. Also, for a reason I didn’t want to admit to myself, I didn’t want to report him. Those words he had whispered, had I not been swooning from oxygen deprivation, would have made me swoon in an incredible heady mixture of lust and fear. As I replayed in my mind the things he’d told me, my hand automatically crept under the front of my thong. What would YOU do if someone whispered the following to you?

“I imagine that I could really let myself go, around you. ON you. Really just let it all go. And I gotta tell you, I have VERY dark desires, no joke.”

“I would love to beat your ass like a rapist or armed robber might, really beat the living shit out of you and then fuck you like a rubber fuckdoll. I’d make it hurt.”

“Imagine me humping your face, snarling at you, feeling the come boiling out of my balls, feeling dark triumph over you, rageful sneer on my face. You are nothing but a mouth to get me off with. And as I nut in you, I’m gonna be thinking… I really got over on that cunt. I really beat her. I USED her.”

“I wanna fuck fuck fuck fuck you. Hump hump hump hump hump your face and ass. Make you all holes for my pleasure.”

“I wanna beat your fat bare ass with a strap or belt. I wouldn’t stop when your boyfriend did. I’d beat beat beat BEAT it red and black and blue. Then stick it in and GO GO GO GO!”

“I’d grab your hipbones brutally, thrusting really really fast, spasmodically: TAKE IT! TAKE IT! TAKE IT, YOU BITCH! I’M FUCKING YOUR ASS! I’M LOVING IT! TAKE THAT! AND THAT! You are MAKING ME CUM! MOVE your useless ass, BITCH! MAKE. ME. CUM!!!”

Thinking about those last snarled words, I found myself coming, more intensely than I had in several years. My body jerked and spasmed uncontrollably, as I imagined myself being hurt by him, used by him, with no concern on his end for my pleasure, we’d both be entirely focused on getting HIM off, no matter the cost to me. Mmmmmmm! Yes! That felt so right, so sexy, to me! For all of his horrid, disgusting qualities, I had to admit, that fucker was hot. If just thinking about his whispered words could give me the strongest orgasm I’d had in a number of years, what might the real thing with that arrogant S.O.B be like? I feared I might implode from the intensity. I don’t how I got through the rest of the week. I was a spaced-out mess at work. I’d start to write on my computer, then find myself staring off in space, imagining his large hands on me, squeezing or slapping my flesh; his cock rubbing up in my ass crack, his nasty fantasies, whispered in my ear with such vehemence, hate, and passion all at the same time. Every night I played with myself in order to fall asleep; every morning I’d wake up hornier than ever. And I still really, really disliked the guy! I’d never before been hot for some I also hated; the combination of emotions was very confusing.

Finally, it was Friday, the weekend at last, and I decided to put my original idea into practice – I was going to go out to a bar, get a little drunk, dance with guys, and bring some cute hunk home with me! I’d let Mr. Peeper see us kissing and groping each other in the living room, then I’d lead my man of that night into my bedroom, and out of his sight! I imagined his frustration and anger, and it made me feel very, very pleased.

I took special care dressing for my night out. I was going to an allegedly “kinky” bar that night, so I dug out one of my old fetish outfits from the back of the closet: navy blue tights that accented the shape of my ass, matching navy bra top, black lace-up leather boots, black lace up leather gauntlets whose overly long laces I did not just tie off at the elbows; instead I criss-crossed them tightly up my upper arms, not so they cut off circulation, but so that the brown skin bulged out a little between the diamond shapes made by the crossed lacings. I’d discovered this look by accident when I was playing around with the strings, and was pleasantly surprised at the way, when I causally shrugged off a jacket to expose my black bound arms, how it caused even conventionally sexed men to stare and stare, with these silly grins on their faces. I was quite proud of myself for having found a way to eroticize the upper arms, an area of the body that is often ignored. I finished the look with a black leather jacket over the bra top. This was no normal leather jacket. It’d cost me about a week’s salary and was made of the softest lambskin. While tightly fitted at the waist, the cunt-length jacket flared out at the hips and at the ends of the arms. Zippers in these places allowed you to control precisely the extent of the flare. I wasn’t exactly overweight, but I found I always had to leave the two back zippers unzipped to full flare position or the jacket looked too tight – good thing I liked the way it looked unzipped! The jacket zipped up the front, not in the center, but off to the side, and had beautiful folds of leather on the neckline that you could turn back to expose cleavage or fold closed for a Nehru jacket look.

When I wanted to impress someone with my appearance, I tended to dress “smart” as well as sexy. Usually, however, the visual message was too subtle for most people to pick up. I wondered if tonight anybody at all would notice that a girl dressed head to toe in “black and blue,” two colors the idiot fashion dictators claimed should never be worn together, might be sending a message about the kind of thing she liked? Probably not, no one had ever noticed one of my little visual jokes. I did my makeup the way I always did with this outfit: dark blues and purples around my eyes, so I looked a little like Daryl Hannah in Blade Runner (and thus underlining the message I was trying to convey with the clothes) barely any blush, and nude lip gloss over my pale lips. I grabbed a small round leather bag whose strangely twisted and knotted short strap did strange things to your eyes if you looked at it too closely, dabbed on some sandalwood mixed with vanilla, and I was ready to go.

After locking up in my usual careful fashion, I dashed down the stairs as fast as the boots would let me (while not the shoes from hell, they were as impractical as most nice-looking women’s shoes are). Outside my apartment, I started looking around for a free taxi. And who should step out of the next door down but Mr. Peeper and his lady! She was dressed and made up to the teeth and even he looked less grungy than usual. They were holding hands, looking happy together for a change, and I smiled: they made quite a cute couple. Unfortunately, I knew from my counter-spying days that an evening out that started so promising was likely to end in anger and arguments for them. There was a free cab – quite a miracle on a Friday night at this hour! I waved to flag it, and at that moment, Mr. Peeper saw me. There was that look again: a very intense, angry, condescending and also sexual stare that reduced me to an object – an object that he wanted smash against a wall!. What was his problem, anyway? You’d almost think the fact that I was dressed up and looked hot had really pissed him off. Men are so weird! I’ll never understand them, thank god! Then I was sliding into the cab, and simultaneously giving the Afghani driver directions to my club. But before he was able to pull out into traffic, the back door next to the sidewalk side opened and Mr. Peeper was asking me very politely if I would mind sharing my cab with them.

I think I said yes in a gracious voice because I was trying to prove something to myself: that I could sit beside this infuriating sexpot calmly without losing my cool. Well, he nearly made that impossible. NATURALLY, he slid in first so that he was between myself and his girlfriend. Right away he started to joke with the driver about how lucky he was to be the “meat” between two such lovely slices of bread (at least he didn’t say “buns!) but after that he was the perfectly gracious raconteur, asking me the respectful questions a stranger might ask a strange woman he’d just met while at the same time paying intimate attention to his girlfriend to make sure she knew she was his number one. I would have been impressed at his ease at handling social situations had he not, shortly after he entered the cab jammed his hand under my ass and started squeezing and poking it painfully. As it was, I had to concentrate with all my might at answering the conversation he addressed at me without choking or gasping (he pinched and grabbed especially hard when I was talking). It was dark in the cab, his large body hid his hand, and his girlfriend never noticed a thing, except perhaps that the woman they were sharing the cab with sounded a bit stilted and uptight.

The cabbie pulled up to the club I’d directed him to and as I was paying the fare, Mr. Peeper raised his eyebrows at me and had the fucking NERVE to say, in apparent sincerity, “I’ve heard about this place. I’ve heard it can get pretty rough in there! You be careful now and stay away from the weirdos.” Sure Mr. Peeper, I thought to myself. I’ll be nice and careful. In fact, from now on I’ll just hang out in my apartment vestibule, where the only bad thing that happens is getting choked to death by a violent pervert rubbing his cock between my cheeks. Oh yeah, it’s much safer back there! Sheesh! But I kept my cool, smiled a little sardonically at him and said, “Oh don’t worry, the boys in there tend to stay away from me rather than the other way around!” He began laughing very hard at my attempt to play dominatrix, and his girlfriend, bless her soul, hit him hard on the head and told him to stop! She began to apologize for him, but I said quickly, with a warm superior smile, “It’s OK, most men don’t have the slightest idea of how to treat a woman with genuine power.” This started Peeper laughing again, so hard I thought he was going to choke, and with that I left the cab, doing a Puerto Rican whore hip-swing up to the club door, in case he was still watching.

As I entered the club they were playing 80s retro music: Jenny 8675309. Appropriate pickup music, I thought. Then, listening to the song’s lyrics as I found a spot at the bar, I fell into a reverie about sex booths and glory holes. I missed that kind of fun so much, but I had no idea where to find such places in this enormous mess of a city. I obtained a beer then spun my stool around to check out the men. The usual Scene dorks decked out in their imitation-biker leathers were prominent, and a few of them, both doms and subs, were already giving me hopeful glances. I let my glance pass arrogantly over them all, if one of them was brave enough to approach me despite the fact that I seemed to be looking for someone else, well, he’d get some points for initiative and aggression. I looked more closely at the crowd, some dancing, some playing with the equipment, some, like me, watching.

I looked for men who weren’t dressed in some sort of BDSM costume or obviously gay (not that gay leathermen weren’t a lot of fun sometimes, but I was looking for a hetero experience tonight); there were a few, thank goodness. Several of these I dismissed immediately as “wankers,” as my friend from New Zealand would call them. They were there, clearly, to see some T&A, and hopefully to masturbate later to some girl getting whipped. Of the ones who were left, two or three seemed to have about them the kind of aura I was looking for: controlled power, semi-amused by the show around them, their glances about them intelligent and not yet clouded by booze or that look I called fantasy-lust, a look that indicated an unrealistic, overly-romantic immaturity that, when directed at me, made me want to climb the walls to escape.

I took a long sip from my Iron City beer, looking over the bottle at the most attractive of my targets. He wasn’t looking this way… yet. Neither were the other two I’d singled out. In about ten minutes, I’d casually remove my leather jacket, showing off the arm-bondage. That always got stares from the men in my immediate vicinity, and, if I were lucky, one of the interesting guys would glance my way because they’d want to see what the others were looking at. I hadn’t done this sort of “look at me” ego-display in a public place in a long time, and while it was kind of fun for that reason, I also began to remember all the reasons why I used to hate it. All the fucking game playing, the eye contacts that had to be done just right, the ignoring/rejecting of men who clearly weren’t my type, being ignored/rejected by men who I thought were my type, the jealous glances of women, my jealous glances at them, bleah! I probably should have just shown up in overalls and a bare face! – I’d be much more likely to attract the sort of men that appealed to me that way. But once again I’d been motivated by wanting to put on a show for that peeper-fuck: wanted to look my best like an irresistible sex doll and so make him intensely jealous of the man I’d be hanging on to.

I was knocked out of my dreams of revenge by a British accent directly in my ear: “Is that American swill that you’re drinking actually any good?” I looked over to my right to see sitting next to me at the bar a tall dark-haired Englishman with a few gray streaks in his longish brown hair, one of those mischievous Christopher Robin faces that belied his age: all apple cheeked and freckled, but with an intensely perverted stare in the eyes. He was wearing rumpled ordinary clothes, well, ordinary for where he was from, a bit too professor-formal for here. And I knew him. I’d seen his face before. Where, where…fuck! My stupid memory! Why oh why had I done so much acid in college? Stalling for time, I laughed and nodded in answer to his question. “Want to try?” I asked, holding the bottle out to him.

Although he’d gotten my attention, he continued to talk into one of my ears, confidential and chummy, as if he didn’t want anyone near us to hear the perfectly ordinary things he was saying. “I wouldn’t touch that liquid offal if you paid me 10,000 pounds. We British are allergic to all beer that originates in this land.” Oh no, not another America-basher! What is wrong with those people on that silly island? Their snobbery is worse than the French. I said out loud, “OK, your loss! This is some of the best beer made in the world.” then smiled my mysterious smile and took big swallow. He narrowed his eyes skeptically, then smiled, back leaning forward to speak into my ear “Well, ordinarily I’d laugh my head off at that remark, but given the fact that it’s being made by such an exquisitely beautiful woman, perhaps it has some credence. It’s hard to resist your pitch.” I rolled my eyes at the extreme flattery, but gave him points for having the guts to use it. “So…you going to try it?” I asked. “Give it here.” Something in the hard, abrupt way he spoke those three words made me imagine a fisted hand in a black leather gauntlet pounding it once, very hard into the gloved open palm of the other hand. Nice…and he’d found me, not the other way around.

But who was he? I knew him, even though I don’t think I’d ever met him before: I would have remembered that voice. Oh well, nothing gained by not asking, “Do I know you?” I said as he took a drag off my beer. “Mmmm. Wait.” He took another long swallow, then looked at the label: “Iron City, I’ll remember that. Not as good as the average British house beer in any pub, but it’s actually drinkable. I’m astonished. Note to self: in a strange country, always watch what the most gorgeous girls drink.” There he goes again, laying on the flattery thicker than I spread the makeup on that fated Spanish whore day. Good lord, this last comment of his was actually making me blush! Damn! He was cocking his head at me curiously now, having handed back the beer (a little reluctantly, I thought). “You probably should know me, my dear in the sense that every beautiful woman should, but yes, I think there may be more of an acquaintance between us than just our mutual attraction.” Fuck, he knew! And he was teasing me, both about my inability to remember and about the fact that he’d noticed I was interested in him. Think…think, Nikki. Thank god, I had it! “What’s a nice normal man like you doing in a place like this, Petrus?” I asked, smiling broadly.

Petrus was one my many close online acquaintances, one of those people who, through years of correspondence and chat you felt you knew really well from the inside out but, of course, due to the limitations of text communications, you really didn’t. He had sent me a photo once, of himself and his girl at the time, a petite redhaired vixen with eyes that wore an even more perverted stare than his own. At the time he sent me the photo, I had such an intense crush on him that I wanted to poke that woman’s eyes out. I was green with envy, especially since he had spared no detail in telling me the things he liked to do to her: all the cruel, rough, and nasty stuff I loved. Petrus responded to my question by leaning over and giving me a very hard hug, one of those that make you feel as if your ribs are breaking. “It’s so good to see you in person, Nikki, dear.” After about five minutes of really wonderful hurtful hugging, he let go.

“Well, to answer your question,” he answered, leaning close and managing with his young-boy’s face to look both abashed and intimately confidential at the same time, “quite frankly, I came here to find myself some nice, attractive, submissive piece of ass to screw silly. Uh, fancy a fuck?” Directness always works wonders with me. It’s a good thing most men don’t know enough to try it. “Sure! I’d love to!” I say enthusiastically. “But first, can we go kill a few hours somewhere more quiet than this place? I’ll tell you why, of course, it’s a pretty interesting story.” “I’d love to, Nikki. It’ll be much more fun to FUCK YOU after I’ve caught up with your latest exploits,” he replied cocking his eyebrow at me.” Another blush! You’d almost think I was fifteen instead of 42! But the way he emphasized “fuck you” sent an incredible thrill through my body. We worked our way through the crowded bar to the exit. “Leaving so soon?” the brawny biker-bouncer asked me at the door. ! “Sure!” I replied, feeling elated and sassy. “I found what I was looking for!” “Lucky guy,” he mumbled.

Once out in the relative quiet of the city street, Petrus asked me “Do you always get that sort of reaction when you go out?” “What?” I asked. “Oh, you mean those men staring at me in the club?” “Yes, and the fellow that came up to me as you were paying the bartender, who told me you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and would I be willing to take a few hundred dollars to leave you alone?” “Oh jeez!” was all I could think to reply. I couldn’t tell if this was more flattery or if he was telling me the truth. That sort of thing did tend to happen to me on a regular basis if I paid much attention to my appearance, but I was usually too lazy to take that much trouble. Anyway, I was saved from having to answer more by Petrus taking my hand and leading me down the street. “Do you know where you’re going?” I asked. “No.” “Oh.” We walked in silence for awhile, he seemed lost in thought and I was enjoying the touch of his hand. This was almost too good to be true: I was going to go to bed with someone I’d lusted after for years, and I’d only had to spend about a half hour in that stupid bar to make this all happen. What had I done to deserve such good luck, I wondered as thoughts of what we might do together sent shivers through me.

Petrus seemed equally lost in his own thoughts: I hoped they included me. I paid no attention to where we were walking, and although Petrus seemed to be selecting streets purposefully, I assumed he was just randomly exploring. Before I knew it, he was leading me into a brightly-lit 24-hour café, where we took a booth in the back. It was one of those old, grungy places that I loved with plenty of character and, at this late hour, plenty of characters. After I slid into the booth, I was surprised to find him sliding in beside me, instead of across. Brits are weird, that’s all there is to it. We decided to share a “super” serving of French fries and with it, ordered two more beers, though we both had to accept “swill” at this place, given the limited drinks menu. It didn’t seem to matter, to either of us, at this point. I started first, telling Petrus all about the Peeping Tom and my changing relationship with him. He listened carefully, asking his usual insightful questions (which, strangely, I found hard to answer at times, because his close presence made critical thinking a bit hard). He laughed hard several times at places that I didn’t think were particularly funny (like when my pathetic ex-boyfriend was pulling down my panties in that ridiculous scuffle we’d engaged in a few weeks ago) but I shrugged it off and plowed ahead.

When I reached this evening and my plans for driving the peeper nuts, Petrus was very enthusiastic and had several suggestions to add that improved the little show I was planning for him considerably. Then Petrus told me what had happened to him in the last five years, with his girlfriend, wife, and other friends, associates, and lovers. His story, like mine, was part tragic, part humor, and quite unexpected. Life sure throws some curve balls at people. Unfortunately, what Petrus was trying to gently explain to me with his story was that the specific horrors he’d gone through had given him a change of sexual heart: he (incredibly) no longer considered himself kinky. ‘But..but…but..” I sputtered like a motorboat. “Why then, did you tell me in the bar you were looking for a submissive woman?” “Oh,” he said offhandedly, “that’s just because they tend to be easier than other types of women, and more willing to accept whatever I want to do to them.” “Wouldn’t a perfectly normal woman accept what you wanted?” I countered. “Not without a lot of fuss and trouble and sucking up to her. I just wanted an easy fuck tonight.” Hmmm. O. K. Well, he’s certainly found that in me.

We managed to kill three hours just talking, and I think we could have talked all night, if both of us hadn’t been horny as hell. I finally told him that I thought the Peeper would be home by now. So we both quickly finished our third beers, then went out to catch a cab home. I hoped and prayed all the way there that my peeper would be there to see us arrive. My luck held out. After opening the door and loudly inviting Petrus in, I scanned the Peeping Tom’s hiding spots. He was there! At his computer desk. All. Fucking. Right. Take this, you asshole!! I turned around to look at Petrus, he was standing a distance away, as we’d planned, and crooked a finger at me. I walked slowly toward him faking a fearful look, and as soon as I was within grabbing distance, he pulled me to him and started kissing me passionately, his hands wandering down to my ass and squeezing it hard. He then, all according to our script, slowly unzipped my jacket, pulling it off my shoulders, then letting it fall to the floor. He looked deeply into my eyes and then stared at my upper arms, squeezing them rhythmically, then working his way to my breasts. He pulled my tits out of their navy bra top, more savagely than I expected, it hurt some, but hey that was icing on the cake, and began squeezing them hard then letting go, then squeezing again. It felt incredibly good. I wondered, rather smugly, what the peeper was thinking.

At this point the script called for us both to sink to the floor, out of sight of the peeper, but as I started to fall, Petrus held me up – by my breasts! I stood back up quickly, to relieve the painful pressure and gave him an inquiring glance, and he stared back, hard and cold. “Turn around,” he said coldly in that beautiful, sexy, British accent. I obeyed, wondering what new twist to our show he’d thought of. I’d soon find out. After a minute or two of just standing there, my back to him, he grabbed me around the waist and began nuzzling my neck, face and ear. “Go to the table and bend over, cunt!” he whispered. Déjà vu! I was certainly becoming very, very familiar with that kitchen table. As soon I had laid myself across it, my head toward the windows in the hopes of seeing the peeper, Petrus was upon me, viciously dragging my tights to my knees. As soon as my bottom was bare, he slapped it hard. “Spread your legs, slut!” I did. “Now whatever else happens, no matter what, you are to hold that position, do you understand?” “Yeah, OK” I said, a little dubiously. What had happened to Mr. Pervert-turned-Vanilla? Whatever it was, I didn’t want it to end.

Suddenly there was a loud knock on door. “Stay right there!” said Petrus, and walked away from me. Good lord, it seemed he was going to answer the fucking door! “Are you sure you want to do that?” I yelled to him. He didn’t answer, but I heard the door opening and good, god, he was greeting someone and introducing himself! What the fuck? He’d better know what he’s doing here, or he’d really suffer for it later, I decided. But I remained put, quite willing to give my very intelligent old net-buddy the benefit of the doubt. Intensely curious, I strained hard to hear what was being said. “Thank you for inviting me over,” a familiar voice said. I’d heard that voice only a few short hours ago, in a FUCKING CAB!! “This is too much!” I said loudly. Petrus laughed a hard laugh, then told me that if I knew what was good for me I wouldn’t move a muscle. Fucking AMEN! What is it about perverted men that always makes them BOND instantly to each other, and against we poor women? It’s almost as if they enjoy having an audience more than doing it decently, all alone, with a sexy receptive woman willing to do everything for them. Or maybe they just like having someone like-minded to talk to. Whatever the reason for this bizarre behavior, I cursed myself for not thinking of the possibility, it’s not like I hadn’t seen this behavior before. “Well, well, well,” said the voice of my enemy, who had wandered into the kitchen. “What a nice spread you have on this table, Petrus. How do you plan to…consume it?” “Well, my good man, she was feeling awfully full of herself in the club where I picked her up. I thought I’d start by whipping some of the arrogance out of her.” I heard the sound of a belt being unbuckled. Oh shit! SHIT! This was NOT what I was expecting tonight! “Look man, if your arm gets tired, I’ll be glad to spell you,” said the asshole from hell. “Why thank you, that’s very kind of you,” Petrus replied. “Your neighbor is a kind and considerate man, isn’t he bitch?” I gritted my teeth and said nothing. “I said, ISN’T HE?” said Petrus, accenting the last two words with two vicious slaps with the belt. No fucking way, I would never, ever admit to such a blatant lie! He’d have to whip my ass completely off before I’d agree! I shut my eyes, steadied my legs, and prepared my mind for the worst. “Get her in the cunt,” the peeper said helpfully. “Good idea,” Petrus agreed. They weren’t going to make this easy for me. But my anger at Mr. Peeper was so intense that I thought, at that moment, that I could handle any pain they could dish out… and not give in to those bastards. How foolishly wrong I was.

I held out without making a sound for the first ten minutes of the whipping. But Petrus was incredibly vicious with that belt, hitting me between the legs, on the thighs, on the shoulders (where I have a little neuralgia which made hits to them particularly painful), and on the crupper about as often as he got me square on the ass. If you’ve never felt something like this before and a whipping with a leather belt sounds light to you, imagine a sharp (yes, the edges are sharp when they’re moving at 70 mph) piece of leather slapping you, even cutting you on your cunt – over, and over, and over, till your tormentor chooses to pick on some other vulnerable body part. The pain, after the first few strokes, is incredible. A compassionate whipper or an inexperienced whipper will often vary the strokes: one on the middle of the ass, one a little lower, one at the base of your spine, and so on so no one piece of flesh gets too much punishment. A cruel, experienced whipper knows the value of hitting the same piece of skin, over and over and over. It’s already scraped and sensitive from the last blow, so each consecutive blow in the same spot without relief hurts worse and worse.

Like I said, I lasted ten minutes. That’s not much of an accomplishment for the average masochist, but for me, a person who really doesn’t like pain (I just like being forced to endure it) it was some sort of record. I started screaming after that. Short screams then longer. Petrus, unfortunately, was one of those sadists for whom screams and writhing were a turn-on. The more you responded in pain, the more viciously he hit. My screams, which I couldn’t contain, apparently inflamed his sadistic lust as he got very animated: he laughed, mocked me, and hit harder and faster. It reached a point where each stroke felt like I was being hit with a hot brand from a fire. That happens when your skin begins to flay, and the leather is starting to contact raw and oozing flesh underneath. Although the belting seemed to go on forever, he stopped just before I reached the point where I thought I couldn’t take it anymore and I had to admire that. It takes a lot of experience to be able to spot that moment. If he had continued on, I would have either rebelled or broken, but at that moment he decided he’d hand the tool of my torment over to the peeping tom. Here you are Sir, I’ve warmed her up nicely for you but I need a break to rest my arm. Why don’t you finish her off?” “Why certainly my man, that’s very ki – ”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!” I screamed and the top of my lungs, pushed myself off the table, then spun around and lunging for the belt. “YOU aren’t going to TOUCH me! Get out of here you freak!” I grabbed hold of the end of the belt and hung on tight. The peeper refused to let go of his end, however, and laughing at my rage, he started flinging me about by the belt. He’d twitch the belt one way and I stagger there, then he’d jerk it another way and because I wouldn’t let go I’d stumble to the new spot. “Need a hand, old boy?” Petrus volunteered helpfully. “Naw, I can deal with the bitch,” answered the peeping tom confidently (how I hated that confident sneer in his voice!) and he jerked the belt hard toward him. I saw what he was doing but refused to let go of my end of the belt: if I did, he’d have the leather slapping across my skin in a second, and I sensed that, as vicious as Petrus had been, the peeper was capable of a much more intense level of cruelty. So I bumped into the peeper’s chest, holding onto the end of the belt with all my might and to my surprise, he instantly let go of his end!

My surprise didn’t last long. He grabbed me around the waist pinning my arms to my sides and squishing my tits up against his body. He then slowly and exaggeratedly began walking me forward (well, to me it was backwards) toward the hated kitchen table. I struggled desperately to pull away from him, to get the arm that held the belt free, to kick or otherwise hurt him but I was too close to his body to get any leverage and it was all done so quickly. The peeper forced me backwards onto the table, his body pressing mine into the wood, and then started licking, long sloppy licks all over my face and laughing as I turned my head one way and then the other to avoid them. “What are you doing? Stop that! It’s gross!” I yelled at him, which made him giggle and lick all the more, soaking my face and nose in his saliva. Then he forced his lips on mine and gave me one of the biggest sloppiest wettest kisses I’d ever received. Under other circumstances I might have been pleasantly surprised, never having been kissed that way before, but given the current situation I found that kiss the most repulsive and horrible thing I had ever undergone. He giggled at my obvious disgust. But I couldn’t get my mouth away from his lips, they held mine in a vice grip while his tongue slopped gooey saliva all over me. Just before he let up, he spit a big gob of saliva into mouth. “You’ll swallow that cunt, if you know what’s good for you” he said, he eyes staring challengingly into mine.

Right there I had a clear moment of choice. I could do as he said and swallow his filthy goo, I could turn my head and spit it out on the table, or… I could spit it right in his big smug face! Oh, that last option was so tempting! “Uh-uh. You don’t want to do that, babe,” he said, seeing the thought on my face. “That would put you in really… big… trouble, whereas right now you are only in a little bit of trouble.” The fucker actually managed to look concerned for my welfare, and that scared me more than anything else had that night. I swallowed my pride and swallowed his spit. “Awww. Such a good, SMART girl!” he said in the most gratingly condescending of tones and kissed me lightly on the forehead. I have never wanted to murder anyone as badly as I wanted to murder him in that moment.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t going to be given the opportunity. Lifting off me, seemingly slowly, he suddenly, so quick that I didn’t even see his arms reach forward, jerked the belt out of my hands. “Petrus, I think I do need you, he said, quickly coiling a couple loops of belt around his wrist. “Hold her wrists down above her head, would you? I want to play with her front, and I don’t think she’s going to want to hold still for it. Petrus, the helpful old sick fuck (boy was I going to have a talk with him later, when our unwelcome guest left – assuming he ever left!), was on me in an instant, stretching my arms painfully above my head and toward him, sitting on the other side of the table. My back was arched painfully from the stretching, and it exposed my bare torso humiliatingly to the bastards’ views. “Spread your legs, cunt,” the Peeping Tom ordered. “And if I catch you even once trying to close them, I’ll stuff ice cubes up your cunt till they start to fall out. If you close them a second time, I’ll fill your ass with ice. Understand?” I nodded, staring at him in horror. I understood perfectly. What was going to happen next would be horrible enough (once again for those of you who have never been whipped, the pain from a front whipping is much, much worse than from the back) but if I did the most natural and instinctive thing in the world and pushed my thighs together to protect my poor battered pussy, the torment would get at least ten times worse. Take my word for it, ice is NOT nice. It’s one of the most incredibly painful things you can experience against or inside ones genitals for a long period of time. It starts to ache after only a minute or two of contact. Then the feeling intensifies into a burning sensation (yeah, burning) and it takes forever for that to fade into numb. Then, only a short time later, things start to slowly thaw out and the terrible burning comes back. It’s a simple, effective, and truly horrible torture to submit someone too, and I was determined not to let it happen to me. Let me put it this way: next to the ice, the whipping, even on my cunt, would seem like a picnic. “Let the festivities proceed,” announced the peeper in a jolly, semi-formal tone. Fuck!

SLAP! The first hard caress of the belt fell across my right breast, right on the sensitive nipple. This time, I didn’t bother trying to hold in my screams. From the very first blow, I just responded. SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! Three sharp ones across my belly. SLAP! MY left nipple. SLAP! SLAP! On my face! SLAP! Oh god, not my pussy already! He remained at my cunt for about twenty very hard strokes and by the end of it, I was crying. Through my tears I thought I began to see little tiny sprays of blood fly upward with each stroke. It’s scary to see your own blood, especially when the sight is accompanied by extreme pain, and I hadn’t seen mine in quite a long time. I began to scream hysterically “No! NO!” and wiggle my torso around on the table, but my fear of the ice treatment was so strong that I never once tried to close my legs. His technique was the same cruel one as Petrus’s: he worked one area over very thoroughly before moving on to the next. There was a little respite between each move; before the belt had a chance to scrape away my top layer of skin the strokes were comparatively easy to take. But after five or six hard slaps, I’d start to feel the painful burning of leather hitting ever-rawer flesh, and by the eleventh or twelfth, I’d be pleading with the peeper, all pride gone, to “Please stop, please! I’ll do anything if you stop hitting there.”

He didn’t stop though, until he felt “finished” with the area, my pleading just made him laugh and insult me, and the overall beating went neverendingly on, the peeper having a much stronger arm than Petrus. I finally fell silent, I was hoarse and screamed out, and I had no energy left for crying. My focus was on two things: getting through the next stroke and remembering not to shut my legs. I couldn’t see Petrus’s face but the peeping tom’s took on an intensely excited glow (I thought of it as infernal at the time) as I grew weak and stopped struggling and vocalizing. His cock, which had gotten erect when he first jerked me to his body with the belt , remained rock hard and upright in his pants. And still the beating went on. So painful was each stroke now, the whole front of my body was red and scraped raw in spots from his terrible blows. I beseeched him with my eyes to stop, but gave that up when I saw my begging only seemed to make him more excited and hit harder. He wouldn’t even let me shut my eyes and turn my gaze away from his terrible expression of smug pleasure.

When I tried to do that, he hit me particularly hard on the face with his free hand and ordered me to look at him. I looked, and at that moment I both hated and was immensely turned on by what I saw: his lust and triumph at the despair and pain and surrender in my eyes, the clear cruelty: his pleasure at watching my agony. It was truly horrible and I hated him for getting such enjoyment out of my pain, but my own arousal was also right there, and seem to feed on his own lust. My traitor pussy, now a bloody pulp, I imagined, was turned on by this man’s cruel enjoyment of torturing me. Unlike Petrus, who seemed a saint next to this monster, the peeping tom had taken me far beyond the “this is too much point,” and still he beat me and beat me and beat me. I must have finally lost consciousness (o why can’t I faint easily the way some of my girlfriends can?) because I woke to a terrible slashing pain between my legs. The peeping tom was fucking me, his groin grinding into my pussy, his salty sweat running into the raw pulpy skin there. My face beaded up with sweat at this torture, and I let out a bloodcurling scream. The peeping tom laughed at that and fucked me harder. “Glad to see you could make it to the party, cunt. Petrus and I were beginning to think you wouldn’t show.” I struggled to get away from the searing pain his fucking was causing my flayed and bleeding flesh but his arms held mine pinned to the table and his weight was far too much for me to do anything except wiggle a little. “Please hurry, please just get it over with,” I whimpered, feeling extremely sorry for myself. Wrong move: he fucked me harder and faster, causing even more pain.

But after several minutes he pulled out to my relief and walked over to my head. “Look at my crotch, cunt,” he said laughing, and I was horrified to see his hair and genitals painted dark red from my blood. “Suck off your blood and your filthy bitch juices, slut,” he ordered and I obediently took the red cock into my mouth, cleaning him off. “Are you grateful to me for stopping so soon?” he asked playfully as I sucked him deep into my mouth. I nodded and sucked harder, trying to please him. I did not want him back between my legs again. He was still rock hard and clearly hadn’t come, but after a short cleaning on my part, he zipped up, slapped me hard once on the face, said a fond goodbye to Petrus, and left. If I hadn’t been so enervated from the pain I would have found his departure amazing. As it was, I was simply relieved. “Come on, love, I’m taking you to bed,” said Petrus gently and he pushed me from behind into a sitting position on the table. Then slowly he navigated me into the bedroom and laid me down upon my inviting, turned down bed.

“Petrus, thank you…” I began to say but he interrupted me. “Stuff it. I came here for a fuck and that’s what I’m going to get.” “No!” I began to sob. I couldn’t believe this. But then I remembered the way Petrus had belted me earlier in the evening. Yes, he was clearly capable of this. At any rate, I was too weak to resist. He untied my booties and pulled them off my feet, then pulled off my tights, leaving me completely naked. “Legs up!” he said briskly, and I put my legs obediently over my head, exposing every inch of my bloody pussy to him. “Ahh…that’s beautiful. Mind if I take a shot, to remind me of this visit to America?” “You callous ass,” I mumbled through my tears, but I was secretly pleased. He pulled a Polaroid out of his bag (a Polaroid? I thought. I didn’t know anyone used those anymore) and took one shot, saying “one for me,” and then a second, saying “and one for the chap across the way.” “Fuck him,” I replied. “You did, ” Petrus answered, “and now you’re going to fuck me. I want you to know dear Nikki, that taking you in this sorry condition is one of the most exciting things I’ve ever done. I know how much this is going to hurt you.” Oh no he didn’t! How could he?

Once again I found the energy to scream when his extremely large dick plunged into me to the hilt, and he purposefully began grinding his groin against my raw pussy. “Look at me, dear,” Petrus ordered and I did, showing him with my eyes how much it hurt me and how the pain led me to the brink of despair. His lust fed on that, just like the peeping tom’s had, and once again, I felt to my great surprise, my own lust awakening amidst all the horrific pain. It’s nice to finally get to know you, Nikki,” Petrus chuckled, as his cock ravaged me. I was an experienced woman who had had sex with many men before, but I found myself blushing like a maiden at my old friend’s words. I knew exactly what he meant by that. It’s the most incredible thing in the world when two old kinky friends, who have been forced by the limits of online communications to conduct their relationship in strictly “equals” terms for years, finally meet up in person, and the more dominant individual takes control. All the nuances of the old friendship, all the memories of camaraderie, shared ideas, long nights spent philosophizing with each other, sharing fantasies, goals, and laughter, are all still there, but instead of sitting safely behind a computer screen you’re naked and spread, your legs above your head, and he’s driving his dick into your bloody crotch, trying to make it hurt you as much as he possibly can, and you know you can’t get him off you and nothing you could possibly say will make him stop. What is most incredible about such a moment is finally, FINALLY looking into his eyes in desperation and pain, knowing how much more torment you suffer lies entirely in his hands, realizing how much you are at his mercy and realizing, finally, that you two are no longer the equals that you, despite all of your online kinky sharing, had quietly assumed you were. Your fate, your suffering, even your life at that moment is entirely in your old friend’s hands, and you no longer have any control or power before him. This is a stunning and intoxicating moment for those who enjoy experiencing perverse extremes of power, and as much as I hated the pain, I relished my humiliating awareness and his triumphant awareness of our inequality, of my total subservience to his capricious will.

Staring into my eyes, perhaps thinking similar thoughts, he came. He lay on me, my legs still pushed achingly above my head, after that, and stayed inside for as long as he could, floating. When he finally slipped out, he gently bit my lower lip and wished me a good night. I was both sorry and not sorry he didn’t spend the night. I was in such horrible pain that I wouldn’t have made a good bedmate. Just before I to turned off the bedside lamp I opened my night table drawer and pulled out a large tub of prescription burn cream that I always kept handy. I slavered huge amounts of this wonderful healing substance all over my cunt. As I was placing the tub back in the drawer, already half asleep from exhaustion I looked up toward my window, only to find the curtains drawn wide and the peeper clearly at his post. That asshole Petrus! I thought, then collapsed onto my belly. I couldn’t have stayed awake if there was a fire in the building.


© 2003 Unda. Crucia. Eximius.

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