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Lumus -> Claim, Part II (7/2/2008 6:03:29 PM)
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For those of you who missed Part I, please click here. On to the show.
*****
Some people think I'm a rapist. Rapists are punks who won't get it any other way. What I do is art; it takes planning, creativity, and guts. How many guys let themselves get shot down by a pretty piece of arrogant ass? You know a few. So do I. Here's the difference, then. I can take any piece of ass and make it mine, but not at the expense of landing in a cell beside a 'roid-popping muscle queen. The ass I take, wants it; I can spot them a mile away. They couldn't be more obvious if they ripped their own clothes off and spread their legs.
I've never been wrong. If I ever was, though - like I said, I plan; I'm creative. Does that bother you? Go look in the mirror, feel better about yourself. This particular "victim" still had her own juices drying on the insides of her thighs.
I slipped up beside her bed, reaching into my bag to pull out a knife before letting it fall to the floor. She didn't flinch at the sound, so I gave her a little more incentive; I reached over with my other hand, my fingers weaving in enough to give me a firm grip.
When her eyes snapped open at the sudden painful tug, eight inches of sharpened steel was hovering less than an inch away. She took in a quick gasp of air, and I moved the edge of the knife to her throat. Her mouth started to open, and she felt that edge press into her flesh; that caused her mouth to snap shut. Then she started to tremble.
It's always the same; as soon as they realize they don't dare move or speak, that same tremble runs through their bodies. The same big crocodile tears spill from their eyes, and they make this mewling, whimpering sound. It's the same thing, every time - and what they don't get is, that is why we do it.
That's the fun.
I pulled her hair again once more for effect, then my hand was free. I threw back the sheet and grabbed her breast roughly; the tears got bigger, the mewling, louder. What a good girl. I pressed the knife a little closer, then shifted so I could see her body. The tremor running through her body was noticeable. So much the better. My other hand moved down between her legs and she sobbed, oh, such a pretty sound; then spread, just as I knew she would. I could smell her again, and what I smelled was stronger than before. I knew she wanted it.
That's not enough, though. You have to make it clear that you are not to be fucked with, or a few of the more self-absorbed little cunts actually try something that usually ends up with them bleeding or screaming. It makes a mess, and I don't like mess. So when she spread her legs I raised my hand and brought it down, hard, and her sobbing got louder, I growled at her.
"Not wide enough."
There's a bit of instruction required with every slut; none of them are half as good as they want to be, and half of them only half as good as they think they are. There's a little part of every slut, deep down, that thinks they run the show because they have holes and honestly believe they have no inhibitions. That's the part you have to work down to. Gut the ego at the source. Every woman has holes, and alcohol goes a long way to erasing inhibitions - that doesn't make every drunk at the bar a talented whore, just a whore, and a temporary one in most cases. To make a woman into a real slut, she has to give up the stupid antics and games she was trained to play; she has to learn how to act, and when, without being told, in a way that's actually arousing. Brute force isn't enough, though; you have to tell most women what to do, first. The ones worth keeping, you should only have to tell once.
Needless to say, I was relieved to see her legs spread out as wide as they could go. If she wasted my time, I would have had to make her regret it.
I could smell her much stronger now. I had her lie perfectly still, legs open, knowing I was staring at her. Then I raised my hand and brought it down between her legs, hard. I kept it there, gripping her, and turned to watch her face. She had choked a cry back, and her shuddering grew; her legs had instinctively closed an inch or so. I kept my grip firm, tightening it. She did not make any other sound.
I growled again. "I do not need this." I pressed the knife a bit into her flesh again as my grip tightened more. "I can hurt you, or quiet you, in other ways. Are you going to give me a reason?"
She could have said anything; that didn't matter. What mattered was what her body told me. If she had tightened her legs, given me a sign of defiance in her eyes, the knife would have stayed out. She remained still and shook her head from side to side. Good. She knew her place. I let the knife drop onto my bag beside the bed. One more test to be sure, though. I put the hand that held the knife to her face and pressed my thumb against her lips. She opened her mouth, and when I put my thumb in her mouth, her lips closed around it, suckling it. I loosened my grip between her legs and she shuddered again; her tongue played with the tip of my thumb as my other hand grew damp. I rubbed her roughly, forcing a few fingers into her; her head pulled back and she shuddered momentarily, kissing my hand as her hips began to grind up against me.
I rewarded her with a backhand across the face. She was falling into her image of what she thought a slut was. What she needed to do was behave the way I wanted, do what I wanted; letting her play at being a slut would have given her a freedom she didn't deserve. The backhand clearly confused her, but when she realized my fingers were still inside her, she ground her hips harder against me. She spoke whispered, very softly, almost too quiet for me to hear:
"Please. Please, tell me what to do."
It was the uncertain girlish voice every woman gets when they realize they are out of their depth, especially with a man. Good. The ego-whore woman was put down; I wouldn't tolerate that. Here was something that wouldn't act from confidence; here was something I could work with, something I could build.
I decided to start simple with her. "Say, 'Thank you.'" She hesitated, and I jammed my fingers roughly into her, deep; she gasped, her eyes widened, and in the same girlish voice she squeaked, "Thank you!"
"Good. Repeat it, until I tell you to stop." I eased my fingers out a bit, began twitching them inside her as my thumbnail grazed her swelling clit.
She started quietly. "Thank you." She bit her lip, waiting for me to jam myself into her or give some other sign. When she didn't receive one, she said it again, with a hint of a question in her voice - "Thank you...?" She was paying attention to what I wanted, and that was good; I pressed my thumb harder as I massaged her clit, and another immediate, "Thank you!" slipped from her mouth, mumbled and a bit guttural. Better still; she was paying attention to what I did. It was time to push her a little further.
I pulled my hand away from her; she trembled and her cheeks flushed. I waited to see if she could follow instructions. Would she do what most women would do, and fall back on the whining beg of 'Please!' or -
"Thank you." It was quiet, but definite. Her legs stayed open. My hand came down hard, again.
"Thank you!" The words burst from her mouth, louder than before, but not too loud. A quick learner. I like that. My hand rose and fell to slap her between the legs again.
"Thank you!" It was harder for her to keep quiet, and the big crocodile tears spilled from her eyes again; what caught my attention was that she actually opened her legs wider. She was trying to anticipate without the normal whining or begging that accompanied it. Either I was better than I thought, or she was a better slut than I had anticipated. I forced my fingers into her, and the guttural, "Thank you..." came from her like a hiss. Her hips moved upwards slightly, then paused as she looked directly at me. I nodded, and her hips ground against me once more.
"Thank you. Thank you." The phrase kept spilling from her, even as her trembling grew to match her rocking hips. She was crying, her voice choking up as she mindlessly thrust up against me. "Thank you." When I could tell she was close to orgasm, I pulled my hand from her again. She froze, looking at me; and her voice, not so thick with the arrogant anticipation of cumming, mumbled a broken, "Thank you." I brought my fingers, thick with her juices, to her mouth; she knew what was expected and did not hesitate, sucking each one clean. She paused to whisper, "Thank you." as she moved from one finger to the next.
I remember thinking, this one could go far. When she was done, I let my hand fall to my side, and I growled at her again. "Do you know why I stopped?"
Her eyes held my own; she did not waver, did not cry when she responded. "Because it was what you wanted." Far, indeed! Any other common slut would have used the opportunity to complain. She knew exactly what was expected of her - to do as she was told, and nothing more. It was the perfect response. Perhaps too perfect.
My hand found her throat, and began to squeeze - not tightly enough to cut off her air. Her breathing grew strained, but she did not resist. My fingers dug harder into her throat, and she gasped, "You came...to use me...rape me...fuck me...and I..." Her breath was cut off, and her words turned into muffled choking sounds. It was then I realized how angry I was at her compliance, how hard I was gripping her. I let go, stumbling back a step. Never, never in all the times I'd done this, had I ever lost control. Here was a slut doing exactly what I wanted...and I'd almost killed her.
She sat up, gasping loudly for air, her hands reaching to her throat where I'd crushed the black leather around her neck into the skin, rubbing it an ugly, raw red. Her shoulders shook, then her entire body trembled, but she did not cry. A moment passed before she turned her gaze to me, still rubbing her neck, sitting upright on her bed, naked, uncovered and otherwise unmoving.
"You came to use me." The words were quiet; there was no trace of accusation - only fact. "Rape me. Fuck me. And I..."
The tears started to spill. A small part of me was screaming to get the hell out while I could, that there was something very wrong, but I kept my ground. I'd fucked up, but I wasn't going to run. Not now. Not ever.
She shuddered, letting out a sob as her head bowed; when she raised it again, she continued in her quiet whisper, her voice much clearer than it had been before. "And I wanted it. I wanted everything you were prepared to do. I wanted you to have exactly what you wanted from me.
"I still want it." She bit her lip. "And the moment I wanted it, you lost the ability to take what you wanted from me...because I was ready to give it. And I couldn't stop. I couldn't stop...wanting..." Her voice broke as another sob forced itself from her throat. Her body tensed, and that little voice got louder as she slipped from the bed, reaching down for my bag, her hand closing over the handle of my knife... Run, stupid! RUN!
She fell to her knees in front of me, holding the knife up by its blade, the handle towards me. "I failed." She looked up at me, and there was a light shining through those tears.
"All my life I have wanted to be used by a man who knew how he wanted me." The hand not holding the knife strayed to the leather band around her neck, and a small, broken laugh came out of her mouth. "I even wore this, fancying myself the owned property of the perfect man who would take me, use me - rape me...and when I finally meet that man? I fail him!" The laugh came out again - the only word for it was haunted. The light went out in her eyes, empty, shimmering pits that narrowed as she pushed the handle of the knife towards me.
"I do not deserve to live."
I stood there, stunned. It took what felt like forever for the shock to slowly stop making my skin crawl. I came here to use her, all right, to teach her a lesson she would never forget, leave my mark in her head. Instead, she was schooling me. When that shock wore off, something clicked in my head. I took the knife from her; I grabbed her by the hair with my other hand, forcing her head back, exposing her throat. She didn't struggle. The words I said next, they came from the lesson she gave me -
"What you deserve isn't what you decide." I let the knife fall from my hand. Her eyes widened.
"Back on the bed, cunt." When she didn't move, I backhanded her, twice. She scrambled to the bed, climbing up, turning to face me, confused...with the light back in her eyes. A light that made me rock hard, instantly.
"You will do..." I shoved at her, forcing her on her back. "What I say..." I climbed on top of her and brought my face to hers; that light in her eyes grew brighter. I hissed at her. "Exactly how I tell you to."
She could barely nod.
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