Tess gets home from a long day at work to find a man in her apartment who proceeds to “rape” and abuse her

Turning the key in the lock, I think something feels
slightly off, like when you walk down the block but
can’t shake the feeling that someone is paying you way
too much attention. I look around, up and down the
hallway and see everything seemingly normal. Shaking my
head, I take the key out and give the door a shove with
my foot, quickly enter and lock up behind me. I am a
city girl after all.

My shoulder aches from carrying my laptop and handbag,
so I set them down on the kitchen counter and then I
shrug off my coat and drape it across one of the dining
room chairs. Returning to the counter top, I sigh, and
with one hand massaging my stiff neck, begin to sort
through the accumulated mail with the other.

What I notice right before he grabs my neck in the
crook of his arm, pushing me back against the kitchen
wall, is the way the air suddenly feels inexplicably
icy. Then all I can think about is being able to
breathe again.

With his arm still wrapped around my neck, he turns me
around so that I am facing the wall while easing his
grip slightly. My breath returns but my heart pounds
harder in my chest.

“Stay calm,” he says, “and quiet.”

As if I could think of doing anything else but just
that. I don’t think I could find my voice if I tried. I
force myself to concentrate on just breathing, in and
out, slowly, deeply, trying to still my heart.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says so composedly that
I almost believe him, “I want you to turn around slowly
when I let go, don’t say anything.”

Though he lets his arm drop and I can’t see him from my
position facing the wall, his proximity is undeniable.
My apartment feels as if it has shrunken to a space no
larger then the three square feet the two of us
inhabit. Slowly, as slowly as if I am moving with the
utmost caution through a completely darkened room, I
turn around.

He immediately presses me back against the wall, his
hands this time pushing against my shoulders, his hips
pressing against mine. I see him now for the first
time, so much larger then my five foot one frame, even
in my four-inch heels, he dwarfs me, but his eyes are
where mine are drawn. Dark and inky, they have a depth
I don’t expect. I can’t look away.

“Please, please take whatever you want and leave, just
leave,” I say as softly as I can, never taking my eyes
from his.

He replies in kind, eyes locked to mine, “I intend to
do just that, but you see, what I want, what I came for
is you.”

My knees get immediately weak and if it weren’t for his
hips pressed to mine, I think I would fall to the
floor.

“Now, I told you not to speak, didn’t I,” he says
shaking his head, “you need to learn how to listen. It
will be my privilege to teach you. First though I am
going to let go of you, but you don’t move, not an
inch, and this time you do not speak. Do you
understand?”

His eyes have become even more shadowed as he speaks to
me. Without meaning to, I find myself simply nodding.
He takes a step back, his arms fall to his sides and he
looks at me from this new vantage point.

“Stay,” he says and as he begins to open kitchen
drawers, my fear grows. I watch his back, taking in as
many details as I can, noting that his tight jeans and
grey zipped sweatshirt cover a taut and lean six-foot
plus frame, that his tousled hair is as dark as his
eyes. His casual, street type clothing seems
incongruous given his serene and articulate speech.

When he returns his attention to me, I see him
clutching a roll of duct tape that he absently tucks
into the pocket of his sweatshirt. The sight of him
reaching for the poultry shears makes me wonder if I
should be fearful or thankful that he didn’t chose one
of the knives. My breathing gets shallower and
shallower as panic causes adrenaline to course through
my body.

I know that I will cease to breathe at all in another
second. He seems to sense my building anxiety and
before I can pass out or run for the door, he is
grasping me again. This time he lets both his hands
first assault my breasts and then moves lower, feeling
my crotch through my skirt, as a moan escapes his full
pouted lips.

“Now we’re going to go into the bedroom. I’ll be right
behind you. Don’t make me hurt you, I’d prefer not to,”
he says so softly and seriously that my entire body
shivers in response, “Walk and not a word.”

He puts a hand gently on my back and guides me to where
he wants me to go. He follows me through the bedroom
door and closing it behind him, steps in front of me
and sits down in the corner wing chair.

“Tell me your name,” he states matter-of-factly.

“My name is Tess,” I manage to force out.

“Take off your blouse, Tess,” he says cementing his
intentions in my mind, “you’ll find it best to respond
quickly to what I ask of you.”

His eyes stay fixed on mine, even as I open button
after button of my burgundy silk blouse. I idiotically
think of the moment I first saw it and tried it on and
of how soft and cool it felt against my skin. Seeing
it, so thoughtlessly dropped in a pool at my feet,
seems to somehow reinforce the gravity of my situation.

Even more startling to me is the fact that though my
blouse is off and my breasts exposed in my chemise, he
continues to look at my face. I feel him drinking in my
fear and being perversely encouraged by it. His face is
calm and unlined with a look as serious and as dark as
any I have ever seen. There is a heavy shadow on his
face, so very dark against his fair skin. I watch him
as intently as he watches me, trying to will him to
simply leave though I know with the core of being, that
this will not be the case.

“Now the skirt, unzip it, let it fall and step out of
it,” he continues.

I follow his instructions quickly and to the letter. I
now stand before him in only my sheer chemise, lacey
black panties, black thigh high stockings and burgundy
patent leather stiletto pumps.

This time he lets his eyes drop and take in my
entirety. Nodding absently, he seems pleased. Is this
good or bad, I wonder?

“Come here and stand in front of me. Turn around. Yes,
just like that. Put your hands behind your back and
lock your fingers together. Good girl.”

The sound of tape being ripped from the roll
immediately precedes him grabbing my wrists and
encircling them tightly with the thick silvery length.
The sound of his belt being unbuckled and his zipper
slowly opening follows. He seems to be in no rush, as
if he has all the time in the world.

When he turns me around to face him, he is completely
naked. Though his body is tight and lean, his
completely engorged cock is where my focus seems to
remain. I am too fearful to look into his eyes now,
seeing how the evidence of my submission excites him, I
find myself not having the faintest inkling of what I
can or should do.

He sits back in my chair, “Kneel in front of me. Suck
my cock.” I can’t help but hesitate and immediately
know I’ve made a mistake, as he rises and grabs my long
hair at the base of my neck, holding my head back, he
pushes me to my knees. “Don’t ever make me have to tell
you anything twice again. Now suck it.”

Tears well in the corners of my eyes, but I use the
considerable will that I still manage to possess and I
repeat over and over in my head I will not cry, I
will not. My hands bound behind my back have me
confused and off balance and I struggle to maneuver his
erection over my lips.

Once it is fully in my mouth, so warm and hard, I
decide to give him the best head I have ever given,
hoping that this will hasten his orgasm and end my
ordeal. I pool as much saliva into my mouth as I can
and soak his cock in it, allowing my mouth to flow
smoothly over his thick shaft.

I try to use all skills I’ve mastered over the years,
remembering to keep it wet, wet, wet, to repeat the
same movements over and over, and then switch, from
moving up and down his entire to length to sucking
greedily at the head and switch again to licking with
the flat of my tongue. When I take his balls, one at a
time, into my mouth and let them roll over my tongue,
he grunts loudly and grabs my head, guiding me back to
his shaft for a short time.

I think he is about to explode, when he suddenly
shouts, “Stop. Get up.” I do, I have already learned
not to disobey him. He rises as well, grabs me by my
neck, terrifying me, and shoves me onto the bed on my
belly. “I’m going to cut the tape off your wrists now.
But only so that I can have the pleasure of seeing you
bent over your bed, your legs spread wide and your
hands opening your ass to me.” As he cuts the tape and
rips it off my wrists, I cannot restrain my tears. They
are few but they burn my face as sharply as if they
were acid.

He rattles off his instructions – “Stand up. Go over to
your desk. Bend over it. Lift that thing you have on
over your waist. I want your ass in the air, so stand
on your toes and lay your cheek on the desk; I want to
see your face. Hold on to the edge of the desk.”

He takes a step or two back and objectively surveys the
scene. “Yes, perfect just like that,” he comments as he
walks over, leans his body over mine for a moment and
tenderly tucks the hair that has fallen in front of my
face behind my ear.

He straightens up and with his left hand gripping the
desk for extra support; he slaps my ass hard with his
right. I think to myself, that yes, I can handle this,
it stings, but it’s not so very bad. Don’t cry, just
stay as still as you can, it will be over soon. I am so
very wrong. He lands blow after blow, sometimes
alternating from one cheek to the other, sometimes
landing a seemingly endless series of strikes in the
same spot.

All the while he watches my face intently; I try
desperately not to look at him. I want to hide my face,
bury it in the desk so he can’t see, but I am afraid to
move, to provoke even more of his wrath. Finally,
finally he stops and steps back again to inspect his
work. My knees are so weak, my body so spent, I start
to crumble to the floor but before I can, he’s over me.

“Don’t you dare move, I am far from done. You will stay
standing, you hear me.” He never shouts. His tone has
always been calm and devoid of emotion. It frightens me
enough to overcome my weakness and I grip the edge
harder, forcing myself to remain erect as he desires.

He walks away, and with my head tilted against the desk
I watch him pick his jeans up off the floor and remove
his belt from the loops. It is well-worn brown leather
about an inch and a half thick, ending in a simple gold
buckle. No, no, please no, I think. I am sure I could
not possibly stand it if he were to hit me with that
now. Though I can’t see it, I can feel how very red my
ass is and I can’t believe he would chose to inflict
more pain upon it.

Instead he gently lets the belt slide along my body. He
starts at my arm, following the curve where my elbow is
bent and letting it drag smoothly over the hair at nape
of my neck and then down along the other arm. My body
tingles at the unexpected gentleness and tenses at the
same time, waiting. The belt skims over my silk chemise
down my spine, the soft fabric flowing where the belt
guides it. I feel it cover my ass, calming the
tenderness with its soft, coolness. My legs are next,
first the left and then the right.

He pulls away from me. “Reach behind you and lift that
up. I want that ass again Yes that’s good. Now spread
your legs wider, no, wider. Fine.” His orders come out
in a staccato manner, fired crisply, as I comply with
one, the next follows directly.

As always, I feel his eyes taking in my abject
humiliation. I haven’t yet cried, I reassure myself, he
doesn’t know, he can’t know just how insignificant I
feel. When he walks closer and closer to me, I am
stunned to feel him kneeling between my legs, his
tongue begins to lap at my exposed ass and dip down
into my pussy. I moan at the unexpected pleasurable
sensation. “Hmmmm, you like that, don’t you, bitch,” he
pauses to say, “you’ll love it when my cock is in your
ass, won’t you.”

I shudder involuntarily at the thought of his manhood
inside me that way; no one has ever, ever done that to
me. But it seems he will have whatever it is he wants
of me. He goes back to the business of licking my ass
vigorously and I feel his tongue enter my tight hole
before he stands up again and places the tip of his
cock there and pushes. I see stars at the pain; nerve
endings scream and as he continues to push harder and
harder, he whispers in my ear, “Push yourself onto to
it.”

My knuckles have turned white from grasping the desk so
tightly. I resign myself to do it, just push back and
get it done with, despite the fear and the pain. As I
push back, I finally feel the head of his cock break
past my anus and the pain changes into something else.
His head totally inside me, he pushes the rest of his
cock in further and further until I feel his balls
against my ass and know he is fully inside me.

He moves the hair from my neck and kisses me there. I
have no time to register how stunned I am at this
unexpected tenderness because as soon as his lips leave
my neck, he proceeds to fuck my ass vigorously. I can’t
catch my breath; I am so shocked at the pain of his
erection impaling me over and over again. Finally he
pulls out of me and I feel the warmth of his orgasm as
his ejaculate spurts out onto my back and ass.

I sink to my knees, no longer caring if he sees me as
weak. I am weak at this point. I’ve never felt weaker.
My chin is tucked into my chest, my hands cover my face
and I sob as silently as I can. His hand seizes my
hair, so tightly that I realize he must have wrapped it
around his fist, and he pulls me up and tosses me onto
the bed. This time he doesn’t tell me what position to
take, he forces my body where and how he wants it. I am
on all fours on my bed, my face pushed into my pillow,
and my ass high, he lifts the chemise up and over my
head, so that I am now totally naked.

“I’m thirsty,” he says, “I’m going to get a drink. I’ll
trust you not to move, not because I trust you, but
because you know how much you’ll regret it if you do.
Tell me you’ll be a good girl. I want you to say it.”

The hoarse sound of my voice startles me as I reply,
“I’ll be good.”

“Yes, you will, ” he says and he opens the door, looks
around, goes back to my desk and lifts the portable
phone from it’s cradle, “I wouldn’t want you tempted to
do something stupid.” He walks out. After a moment, I
hear the refrigerator door open and close and his
footsteps getting nearer and nearer to me, until he
again appears in the doorway calmly sipping a bottle of
Poland Spring water. He sits on the bed, brings the
bottle to my mouth, “Drink,” he says. I gratefully take
a sip feeling the wet coolness against my dry raspy
throat.

He rises off the bed and looks around my room as if
searching for something specific. His eye falls on a
calendar and he takes it off desk and places it on the
bed in front of me. “Close your eyes, point to a day,”
he says, “now open them, what day is it.” Looking at
the calendar in front of me I see my finger on January
27 and tell him so. “Good,” he says, “the more the
better. You will be getting 27 lashes with the belt.
Did you think I’d forgotten?”

I want to beg and plead with him, but I don’t have the
strength for words. I stay as still as I possibly can;
eyes pressed tightly closed and let acceptance wash
over me. The first strike of the belt shocks me
nonetheless. It feels so much more raw and brutal then
his hand had on my already tender ass. He counts each
blow out loud and sometimes stops to readjust my
position if my inability to remain still has changed it
substantially.

After having to stop for the third time he informs me
that from now on, for each time he has to stop, I will
receive two additional slaps. This has the desired
effect of making me try my best to remain stoic,
knowing it will more quickly bring this torment to an
end. My extra movements seem now to be replaced by
tears, flowing freely down my cheeks, and a seemingly
continuous moan.

I can feel how he likes this display; my sobs, my
moans, seem to provoke him to hit me harder and faster
and finally, finally I hear him say twenty-seven. I
sink to the bed, my knees shaking so badly, my whole
body trembling, and my face tearstained. I feel the bed
shift as he sits down on its edge. He leans over me,
gently pushes the hair off my face, and kisses my
tears, which continue despite the cessation of the
belt.

“Tess, Tess, you’re fine, baby,” he whispers in my ear.
“I love you, Tess, you know that.”

I nod my head, still unable to form or utter a word.

“It was what you said wanted, Tess. Something we’d both
fantasized about. I wanted to surprise you. You know
you only had to say our word and I would have stopped.
You didn’t, baby. Did I go too far?” he softly
whispers. “Please answer me, Tess.”

I stop sobbing, gather myself, force myself to rise
onto my knees and face him. I look into those deep,
dark eyes that I love so much and see his beautiful
face, that only moments ago had conveyed real anger,
and see only calm and concern and love.

“I know you would have stopped, I know .I couldn’t say
it, I just couldn’t make myself say the word, I don’t
know why. Maybe I thought that we’d never do this ever
again and if I wanted to live out this fantasy there
was only now. This one time. I honestly don’t know.”

“I do know that I was afraid of you, Andrej. Not
pretend fear, real fear. You changed in front of my
eyes. You enjoyed my pain and my fear and that scared
me even more. I didn’t know that you would.”

“Baby, you’re right. I did like it, maybe too much. We
never have to do that again. You know me well, Tess.
Too well, if that’s possible.”

I take his handsome face into my hands, feeling the
roughness of his chin, his skin so white against his
dark hair, his eyes, as always, drown me and almost rob
me of my breath and senses. “Andrej,” I begin to say
but he stops me by placing two fingers on my lips.

“Shhhhhh, baby. You are such a good girl. My good girl.
Enough talk for now, let me hold you,” he says as he
encircles me, his chest pressed to my back, one arm
around my waist, the other stroking my hair that only
moments before he had pulled so roughly.

I feel his lips against the back of my neck, and then
he whispers, “Sleep now, angel. I want you to sleep.”

Fresh tears edge their way through my closed eyelids
and I open my eyes for a moment to blink them away.
They are different then the tears before, the polar
opposite, I am overwhelmed by my love for this man; he
is as much mine, as I am his. As I hear his breathing
slow and deepen, I too allow myself the luxury of
sleep, knowing that when I awaken, I will still be
surrounded in him.

And that is really all I want at this moment.

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