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| DeepDark |
on Mon 26 Dec 11, 12:14 AM to the The_Porn_Blog group.
Inspired by my friend DaemiaBurgundy. -----
She stands there by the bed, her eyes locked on the array of items in front of her. He heart pounds inside her chest, hands and fingers twitching and tingling in nervous energy and trepidation.
She extends one hand gently out to touch the pale pink panties laid out in front of her. He had been quite specific about the items she was to purchase for this night. He always was painstakingly detailed. The devil was always in the details, the type or cut, the colour, the size or style. Each time he expected different from her, each time he expected more, while offering her less.
She felt this ever deepening imbalance of power keenly, it unsettled her, it shook her deeply when she was able to claw herself from her mental haze and look at her situation in the cold light of day. By any standards she was in an abusive relationship with a man she knew cared little for her. He went out of his way to show her disrespect, to belittle her, and to use her. And every time, every damn time she found herself sinking deeper into a dark pit of obedience, subservience, and sexual perversion.
She pulled the panties up over her thighs – they were too small for her, made for a girl in her early to mid teens. She felt the material stretch and pull, clinging to every contour as she slid them slowly over her body. She turned to look at herself in the mirror, to see the obscenity she was submitting to, a grown woman wearing tight little girl panties. Shamefully her cheeks were flushed, her nipples hard, her tongue sliding across her lips. She thought of stopping now, of pulling out and never meeting him again. She could do it. But then the images came back, the ones he had conditioned into her in months of repetition and association.
At first she had innocently assumed his cold demeanor to be part of a game, a play mask. But now she felt only a bottomless darkness in his soul, one that she was tumbling into. Thoughts of resistance and disobedience brought memories and thoughts of his strong muscular forearm across her throat, her head pulled back harshly by his hand gripping her pony tail. He would tease her, offering her a little freedom, only to tighten his grip more in retaliation when she took what he offered. He would whisper sweetness in her ear, only to grip her neck when she dared smile, squeezing obedience into her. Her body shivered as she remembered his slaps across her rear, the sign for her to part her legs even further.
She felt used, treated as an animal, and yet deservingly so. It was she who responded to his crude Pavlovian methods, it was she who learned to perform her little tricks for him in the manner of a dog. His commands reached some needy, submissive part in her, a barked order would see her on her knees, or squeezing her breasts roughly. A trigger word would see her salivating uncontrollably, or her pussy lubricating, even while her conscious mind stood by in impotent horror.
She had heard about him for years, that strange man in the neighborhood, the rumored sex offender, an abuser they called him. He was a large intimidating man, and yet had been a pariah in the area since the word had spread. Nobody went near that house of his, nobody met his gaze when he left his house for his unknown job. Even when he bought groceries he was served in cold silence, eyes down, muttered insults and slurs behind his back, but not loud enough that he might hear.
She had heard about him, and she had dreamed about him, those terrible confusing dreams, those shameful humiliating images. And she had, god, she had lied to her husband the day she went to his house that first time. She had started to attend aerobics class a few weeks before with this in mind, a perfect cover. Her mind was blank as she walked to his front door, her body trembling in confusion – why was she here? – as she knocked. She had asked to come in to say hello, some flimsy pretence of neighbourly concern. But he had seen it in her eyes, and she had seen the glint in his eye, and the flash of teeth.
Now she was his plaything. She felt the tight humiliating underwear rubbing over her sensitive pussy and the training bra squeezing her tits under the trench coat as she walked through the rain. She felt the handcuffs dangling from one wrist, the weight of the plugs and clamps in her purse, the digital camera in her coat pocket. Even her habitual lies to her poor sweet husband were becoming part of the ritual. It made her wet and excited now, the lies. It made her nipples harden and her lips fill with blood. The more her husband showed her love and trust, the more she knew the man would get off on it, would insult him while they fucked, would call him a weakling and a cuckold, and a pussy, and the harder she would cum.
She knew he would use her tonight, she knew he would be displeased with her, insult her, spit in her mouth and penetrate her, and then finally cast her back out on the street again to crawl home to her loyal hubby. She knew that every visit contained the very real threat of violence, that he manipulated her through psychological abuse and intimidation. She knew now that all the things they said about that man, that terrible man, were true. All the rumours, all the talk.
And as she stood, small and trembling outside his door, hand raised to knock, she knew that she was his bitch.
Edited Mon 26 Dec 11, 12:35 AM by DeepDark
| 26 Dec 11, 1:21 AM DaemiaBurgundy UK(EC), 23 mths |
oh wow!!! that was brilliant! Thank you |
